by Ginna Gray
He rose and rummaged through his garment bag. In seconds he returned with water and two tablets.
"Don't worry, they won't hurt you," he said when she eyed them suspiciously. "They're just over-the-counter pain medication. I take them for headaches."
Rhys had helped her sit up partway while she'd tossed back the tablets. Afterward, he had stayed by her side and held her hand until the medication had taken effect and she'd fallen asleep again. Even more surprising, the next morning he'd had the good grace to act as though the incident had never happened.
Meghan shook her head at the memory. How in the world was a woman supposed to resist a man who did things like that?
Gradually, her fingers stilled on the unfinished mat and she stared down the beach. The trouble was... she was no longer sure she wanted to resist.
When you got right down to it, why should she? Rhys was just as drop-dead gorgeous as he ever had been and he aroused in her all the old feelings she had thought were dead and buried. She moaned and gnawed at her lower lip. Oh, what was the point in hedging? Heaven help her, the plain truth was she was falling in love with the man all over again.
But at feast this time he wanted her.
All right, so maybe the reason was because she was the only woman available. So what? For that matter, Rhys was the only game in town as far as she was concerned, as well. Realistically, the chances were slim that they would ever get off this island anyway, so it wasn't as though he would dump her for another woman when he grew tired of her. So why shouldn't she take whatever happiness she could get?
But can you be happy with a man who wants you simply because he has no other choice? a nagging little voice questioned. And what if you are rescued someday? Do you really think that Rhys will still want you then? Could you bear it if he didn't? Don't be a fool, Meghan. Think about what loving this man cost you once before. Do you want to go through that pain again?
Groaning, Meghan closed her eyes. It was hopeless. Every time she came close to making a decision, all the old doubts and fears came back to plague her.
Something dropped into her lap. Meghan jumped like she'd been shot and let out a shriek, her eyes popping open wide.
"Happy birthday, Slugger."
Mouth agape, she looked up, straight into Rhys's eyes. He stood only about a foot in front of her, and his sudden nearness made her heart pound. She could smell the sun on his skin, and sweat and sea water, all mixed with his own wonderful masculine smell. "B-birthday?"
"Mmm. According to my calculations it's July 29."
'But... how did you know it was my birthday?"
Rhys grinned. "I saw it on your driver's license when we laid out all our things. Anyway, I made you a present."
"Present?"
Her seated position on the log put her eyes on a level with his navel. As she looked down at the object in her lap, her gaze trailed helplessly over the swirling pattern of hair that surrounded the indentation, then followed its narrowing path to where it disappeared beneath the waist of his low-slung cutoffs. A few grains of sand clung to the silky hairs and her fingers itched to reach out and flick them away, to touch his warm skin.
The bulge beneath the button placket on the cutoffs proved even more of a distraction, and by the time her gaze encountered the strange object in her lap her wits were so scattered she stared at it dumbly for several seconds before recalling her manners.
"Why, thank you, Rhys. I... I don't know what to say." Smiling tentatively, she pick up his gift. It was round and made out of some kind of animal skin, and as she turned it over her jaw dropped. "Why...it's a baseball." She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "You made me a baseball."
"Yep. And a bat, too," he said, bringing a stout stick from behind his back. The thick piece of wood had been whittled into a long tapered cylinder and somehow smoothed. It looked amazingly like a real bat. As she ran her fingers down the slick surface, moisture welled in Meghan's eyes.
"Like it?"
"Like it!" She looked up at him, battling tears, so touched she felt as though she had an iron wedge stuck in her throat. "I love it. Oh, Rhys, I can't believe you actually carved this for me." Of all the birthday presents she had ever received in her life, this was the most wonderful.
He smiled. A curly strand of hair, which had escaped the clip at her nape, waved wildly in the breeze, and he reached out and tucked it behind her ear. "I remembered how much you used to love baseball. The way, whenever you were upset or had a problem, you would always go whack a few at the nearest batting cage."
"I still do," she admitted with a wry grimace, tracing the leather thong stitching on the ball.
"Good. Then how about we go hit a few?"
"Really? You mean it?"
"Sure. Better yet, we can set up a one-base field and have a game. No balls, and one out retires the side. And since it's your birthday, I'll even pitch first. You game?"
"You bet." Meghan dumped the unfinished mat, crammed her sun hat on her head and shot off the log. "I hope your pitching arm is strong, Morgan, because you may not get up to bat before sunset," she taunted impudently over her shoulder as she trotted out onto the beach.
Rhys grinned and sauntered after her. "Oh, yeah? I wouldn't get too cocky if I were you, Slugger. I've got a wicked pitch, you know."
Rhys had had the foresight to build a backstop out of bamboo poles to halt any missed pitches. He had packed the ball as hard as he could, but it still lacked the density of a regulation baseball, and therefore did not go as far when hit. Meghan argued that to compensate, the distance between home plate and the base should be shortened, but Rhys would not hear of it, saying that the lack of fielders more than offset the limitation.
"You're just saying that because you know I'm a power hitter," Meghan jeered, sticking out her tongue at him when he refused to budge on the issue.
"Is that right? Well then, you shouldn't have any trouble hitting the sucker out of play."
"It's still not fair. You're taller than me and have longer legs. You can run faster. And why should you be the one who decides, anyway," she challenged, glaring at him with her fists on her hips.
Rhys grinned. "Because I'm bigger than you, that's why."
"Ohh! You're as bad as my brothers! Might does not make right, I'll have you know."
"So sue me."
The good-natured squabbling continued throughout the game. They taunted one another unmercifully, but always with laughter in their voices. Over the next several hours they played like demons, smacking the ball with all their strength and racing each other up and down the field of play. Meghan crowed shamelessly whenever she scored, or those times she managed to snag one of Rhys's high fly balls or tag him out. The beach rang with shouts and laughter and Meghan's squeals of delight, intermingled with the dull thunk of the bat against the too-soft ball.
After three hours, Meghan was so exhausted she could barely slog through the ankle-deep sand, but it was the top of the ninth, in their third and deciding game, and being down by one, she refused to concede defeat.
She swung at Rhys's first pitch so hard she nearly spun herself to the ground, but the ball whizzed right past her and bounced off the backstop.
"Sure you don't want to quit?'' Rhys inquired with a goading grin, as Meghan tossed the ball back to him.
"In your dreams, Morgan," she sassed back. Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet and raised the bat. "C'mon, gimme your best pitch. I dare you."
Rhys wound up and let fly, but this time Meghan caught a piece of the ball and popped a high one. Rhys ran back to get under it, but he was a little short, and when he leaped into the air to snag the ball it tipped his fingers and bounced into the sand behind him.
Meghan pounded for the pile of seaweed that served as base. Digging her heels, she put on the brakes, tagged up and headed back to home plate just as Rhys scooped up the baseball and came after her.
Arms and legs pumping, she strained with all her might, but her lungs burned and her legs felt
like they each weighed a ton. She could feel Rhys closing in, and a glance over her shoulder confirmed she was right.
She strained to pour on more speed, but she had nothing in reserve so she tried evasive action instead. She dodged right, feinted left, then dodged back right. Rhys stayed on her tail like a heat-seeking missile, his reaching arm just inches from tagging her out.
Gasping and laughing all at the same time, Meghan tried a more intricate maneuver, but fatigue slowed her reactions and she tripped and went down. Unable to stop, Rhys fell on top of her, and they rolled across the sand in a tangle, amid laughter and groans and shouts.
They came to a halt with Meghan on her back and Rhys sprawled over her. Exhausted, they lay there for several seconds, faces flushed, wheezing, their chests heaving. After a few seconds Rhys raised his head, and though still gasping, he grinned wickedly. As if in slow motion, he gently touched her chin with the baseball, and croaked, "You're out... Slugger. Looks like I.. .wi.. .win."
Meghan tried for a scowl, but her twitching lips wouldn't cooperate, so she doubled up her fist and socked him in the ribs. Rhys grunted.
"Jerk. No... nobody likes a poor w-winner.''
Rhys opened his mouth to deliver a rejoinder, but he was so winded he just lay there, braced up on his forearms, and sucked in one deep draft of air after another.
Sand coated the right side of his face, clinging to his beard and eyebrow and sticking to the sweaty skin along his cheekbone and temple. Unthinking, Meghan reached up and brushed at it with her fingertips.
Rhys went utterly still. So did Meghan.
He looked down into her wide eyes, his own slumberous beneath half-closed lids. Something flared deep in the silvery depths—something hot and primal. A shiver rippled through Meghan, and his nostrils flared slightly at the revealing reaction. Neither moved, neither made a sound.
In an endless rhythm, the surf tumbled onto the sand a few yards away. Seagulls squawked and tattered palm leaves stirred. A gentle breeze lifted Rhys's hair and feathered over their damp skin, bringing with it the smells of sea and sand and salt air. The sun beat down on their sweaty bodies while all around them the air crackled and hummed like a high-voltage wire.
Every nerve ending in Meghan's body seemed to have gone on full alert. She was conscious of every tactile sensation—grit against her back and along the backs of her arms and legs, Rhys's heat and hardness and the slickness of sweat that melded their skin together wherever it touched, the hairy roughness of his legs against hers and the tickle of chest hair against the tops of her breasts, his breath striking her face in warm puffs.
Most of all, she was acutely aware of Rhys lying between her legs, and of the hard evidence of his desire pressed so intimately against her.
Rhys's gaze dropped to Meghan's lips. Her heart gave a little bump and began to beat against her ribs like a wild thing. In unconscious anticipation, she swirled the tip of her tongue around the inner edge of her lips. Rhys sucked in an audible breath and his face darkened with a raw lust that took her breath away.
A fierce yearning shot through Meghan, a sizzling, liquid heat that zinged along her veins and settled in a burning knot at the core of her femininity. She gazed up into his silver eyes, too weak with longing and need to even try to hide what she was feeling.
He framed her face between his hands and she quivered beneath his intense gaze. She waited for his kiss, so excited she felt as though she might shatter into a million pieces at any moment.
"I want you, Meghan." The harshness edging Rhys's voice testified to both the desperate need behind the words and the iron-willed control he was exercising. "I want you more than I've ever wanted any woman in my life. But before we go on, I have to know that this is what you want, too. This time I don't want any regrets or recriminations later."
"Rhys, I..."
Meghan pressed her lips together, unable to go on. She wanted to say yes. Oh, how she wanted to say yes. Her heart pounded and her body trembled with the need to reach out with both hands and take what he was offering, but she couldn't do it—not with that persistent little voice whispering Be careful, Meghan. Remember what happened last time.
Rhys must have seen the doubt in her eyes. For an instant his jaw clenched, then a look of regret entered his eyes and he sighed. Meghan barely stifled a whimper as he rolled off her and sat up.
"Rhys..." She reached out and touched his back, but he flinched as though she had jabbed him with a hot poker.
"Don't..." His fists clenched in the sand beside his hips and he hung his head. "Just... don't touch me. Not now," he ground out between clenched teeth. He sat rigid, trembling, and Meghan felt a stab of guilt as she realized what it cost him to rein in his desire.
Aching for him, she caught her lower Up between her teeth and stared at his bowed back, her chest tight with warring emotions. She longed to somehow make things right. She wanted to reach out to him with all the love in her heart, but she simply could not bear to make herself that vulnerable. Not again.
"I'm sorry, Rhys. I shouldn't ha—"
"Hey, don't apologize. It's all right. You've got a perfect right to say no. I said it was up to you." He cast her a rueful look over his shoulder. "You've said all along that you weren't interested. It's not your fault that I'm such an arrogant bastard I thought you would change your mind after you'd been around me a white."
"Oh, Rhys, it isn't that I don't wa—"
"Let's just forget it, okay?" He rolled to his feet and dusted off the seat of his shorts. "I think I'll go check my traps before dinner."
Meghan sat up and watched him stride away. She wanted to cry. Why couldn't he just have taken her into his arms and kissed her senseless and taken the matter out of her hands? Why did he have to put the onus on her? It wasn't fair.
No. No, that was wrong. Even as the petulant thought went through her mind, Meghan knew that. She was the one with reservations; the decision had to be hers. After what happened eight years ago, he had every right to demand that they go into an affair with openness and honesty.
Forlorn, she got to her feet and gathered up her baseball and bat. Holding them against her chest, she stared at the spot where Rhys had disappeared into the woods.
* * *
Over the next few days, Meghan saw almost nothing of Rhys. He was gone when she awoke in the mornings and did not return until dark, when he brought fish or game from his traps for their evening meal. She suspected he would not bother to return at all, if he weren't worried about her going hungry.
After the meal he always disappeared down the beach. They had been on the island for a month and during that time there had been two more storms like the one that had struck the first night, but in the four days since her birthday the weather had been fair, and Rhys had not bothered to return to the hut even to sleep. Meghan found herself praying for a tropical storm, just so he would be forced to seek shelter.
She missed him dreadfully and spent most of the time agonizing over their relationship. She loved Rhys now even more than she had at eighteen—it was useless to deny that— but she wasn't fool enough to believe that he felt anything more for her than desire. She couldn't even be sure he would feel that if they weren't stuck there alone together.
The very idea that she might be making a fool of herself again and setting herself up for more heartache made Meghan ill. Yet, heaven help her, she was beginning to think Rhys was right; they could not live together on this island forever without becoming lovers.
The dilemma tormented her constantly. Meghan tried to banish the thoughts and her loneliness by staying busy. She washed their clothes at the waterfall, she wove mats and baskets, she gathered fruit and vegetables, venturing farther afield than she ever had before without Rhys. She even experimented with making a sort of poi from a root that Rhys had told her could be used for that purpose.
After spending an entire afternoon chopping and grinding and stirring the mushy substance over a fire in a giant shell, it turned out to be the most gh
astly tasting glop she had ever put in her mouth. Hot, tired and sweaty, and thoroughly disgusted, Meghan threw the stuff onto the refuse pile and headed for the waterfall.
Wasting no time, she stripped off her denim shorts and halter top and dived into the crystal waters. Naked, Meghan swam across the width of the pool, executed a somersaulting underwater dive and swam back. In the center she stopped long enough to shake her hair out of her eyes before striking out for the falls.
She climbed up on the rock ledge, walked through the cascade and picked up a handful of the soapwort plants she had deposited there. Stepping back onto the outer rim of the rock, she stood slightly in front of the sheeting water and rubbed the plants over her hair, then her body. When she had worked up a lather, she tossed the soapwort aside and abandoned herself to the hedonistic pleasure of bathing, spreading the foam over every inch of her skin and working it into the mass of curly hair that now hung past her shoulder blades. When done, she stepped back under the waterfall.