by Ginna Gray
"I'll bet you looked adorable." Meghan smiled. She could imagine Rhys as a sweaty, freckle-faced boy reluctantly dressed up in his Sunday-go-to-meeting best, squirming on the pew beside his elderly grandmother and tugging at the collar of his shirt.
"Are you kidding? I looked like that skinny kid in the old Our Gang movies. It was humiliating."
"Poor baby," Meghan teased, which brought on a bout of tickling and in the end earned her a hard kiss.
Despite his grousing, she'd heard the love in his voice, and Rhys confirmed it when he admitted that his grandmother had been his inspiration, the driving force behind his struggle to get an education and make something of himself.
"She always believed in me, always encouraged me. What I've always wanted most was to make her life a little easier and to make her proud of me."
Touched, Meghan's eyes misted over. Lying in his arms, she tipped her head back and looked up at his pensive face. She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. "Oh Rhys, I'm sure she is."
"Mmm. I don't know. I'm not sure she considers singing for your supper all that respectabJe."
Meghan laughed and told him how, though she loved them all to distraction, she'd fought for years to break free of the image the family had of her as the "baby," how she had taken a job in Dallas after graduating from college in an effort to establish herself as an independent adult.
"I'm still not sure I ever succeeded," she admitted, rolling her eyes. "Especially with the males in my family. Dad and my brothers and David and Uncle Joe treat me as if I were still sixteen and never been kissed. Even Erin and Elise can't seem to accept that I don't need them to look after me anymore."
"They must love you a lot," Rhys said, with a trace of envy, twining a fiery tendril of her hair around his fingers.
Meghan sighed and snuggled her face against his shoulder. "I know. I love them, too."
And she would probably never see any of them again. Sadness and loss washed over her like a tidal wave, as it always did when she allowed her thoughts to stray to that unhappy prospect. She wondered what they were doing, how they were coping with her disappearance, and her heart squeezed at the thought of all they must be suffering.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat and stared out at the ocean, but Rhys did not miss the desolation in her eyes. His arm tightened around her.
"Don't, sweetheart," he whispered, pressing his cheek against her crown. "Don't think about it. I can't stand to see you hurting."
"Oh, Rhys." She turned more fully into his arms and clung to him as he rocked her gently.
They were silent for several moments, then Rhys cleared his throat and said diffidently, "I take it you've been able to keep your private life from your family."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you are twenty-six. You must have had a few... uh...serious relationships. If your family had known about them, I doubt they could cling to their image of you as an innocent maiden."
Rhys was doing his best to appear casual, and failing miserably. Meghan fought back a grin. "Why, Rhys, I think you're jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous. I was just making conversation."
"You are! You're jealous." She laughed, delighted, and when he scowled she gave his cheek a pat. "Darling, if you're curious about my past love life why don't just come right out and ask?"
"All right, I will. In the past eight years have there been many... that is... have you been in love with anyone el— Oh hell, forget it. It's none of my business." He clamped his mouth shut and looked away, but Meghan saw a tiny muscle working in his jaw.
Smiling to herself, she toyed with his chest hair, twining a crisp curl around her forefinger. She let him stew for a minute before finally taking pity on him. "Rhys, you don't have any reason to be jealous," she said softly. Feeling his gaze shift to her, she raised her eyes and looked deep into his. "There has never been anyone else for me.''
He stared at her hard. "What are you saying?"
"That you are my one and only lover. I've dated a few men, but I just never found anyone else who made me feel the way you did."
A sharp inhalation swelled his chest and she watched his pupils expand. "Oh, God, Meghan." His voice came out husky and raw. He raised a trembling hand and cupped her cheek. "Do you have any idea how happy you've made me?"
The look of wonder and joy in his eyes made her heart turn over and filled her chest with a sweet ache, so intense she could barely breathe. Meghan gave him a wobbly smile, afraid if she tried to speak she would burst into tears.
"It's selfish, I know, but I love it that you belong to only me. I must be the luckiest man walking the earth, to have a woman like you. God knows, I don't deserve you."
"Oh, Rhys." She wound her arms around his neck and pressed closer, strewing kisses along his jaw, his shoulder, his collarbone. "Make love to me, Rhys. Please. Make love to me now."
The plea grabbed at his heart, and he responded instantly. Rolling her to her back, he captured her mouth, and with hot kisses and stroking hands he played that delicate body he had come to know so well as though it were a priceless instrument and he a virtuoso.
Soon hearts pounded in unison, breathing became labored and raspy, and the delicious ache of desire rose to engulf them, sweeping them away to that mindless place where the world and its pains cease to be. With eager abandon, their skimpy clothing was flung aside and they came together in a rush of emotion that wrung a cry from their hearts.
In perfect harmony they moved together, their sleek, trim bodies undulating as one. It was a rhythm as old as time, the rhythm of love, the rhythm of life itself.
There was no need for words. Occasional moans and gasps and pleasured sighs were the only sounds from the couple entwined on the grass mat. In silence, they each gave comfort and solace and pleasure so sweet it was almost pain. And the end, when it came, was shattering.
How long they lay there, Meghan had no idea. It could have been minutes or hours. She only knew that when Rhys stirred she could not bear to let him go, and she held on tight. "No," she mumbled sleepily. "Stay."
Rhys chuckled against the side of her neck. "Sweetheart, I know I'm not fat but I must outweigh you by a good ninety pounds. I don't want to crush you."
"I don't care." She locked her hands together at the back of his neck and rubbed the soles of her feet up and down his calves.
Bracing up on his forearms, Rhys gazed at her tenderly. He caressed her cheeks with his fingertips, the sides of her neck, the velvety rims of her ears. Moving her head from side to side in a sinuous roll, Meghan closed her eyes and smiled.
The thick mane of molten curls billowed around her head and shoulders. He picked up a handful and tiny sparks of fire seemed to jump from highlight to highlight as he turned it in the sunshine. Rubbing the silky tresses between his fingers he watched, fascinated, as an errant curl twined around his thumb and clung as though it had a life of its own.
"I love your hair," he murmured! He pulled out a curl and released it, and smiled as it sprang back into a spiral.
Meghan wrinkled her nose. "Huh! It's too red. And too curly."
"It's gorgeous." He rubbed the fiery mass against his cheek, then buried his nose in it, inhaling a deep breath. "And it smells heavenly."
"That's the soapwort."
Rhys gave her an amused look. "Have a problem with compliments, do you?"
Her cheeks pinkened. She did. Growing up a tomboy with three rough-and-tumble older brothers, she hadn't received many compliments as a young girl. Now, though she had learned to make the most of what she had, Meghan had no illusions about her looks. The most that could be said for her was she was mildly attractive. In a girl-next-door kind of way.
She answered Rhys with a grimace and shrugged one shoulder, not quite able to meet his twinkling eyes.
"Well, brace yourself, sweetheart. I love your blue eyes, too. And these long lashes," he added, brushing the pad of his thumb over their ends. As though enthralled, he trailed his fingers ove
r her high cheekbones and the hollows beneath them, along her jaw and down her nose. "And I love your skin. It looks like whipped cream."
"Rhys!" She knocked his hand away and scowled. "How can you say that? I've got freckles. Since I ran out of sunblock they're popping out everywhere."
He grinned. "Yeah, I know. I think they're kinda cute." Leaning down, he quickly touched the tip of his tongue to each of the five golden brown dots scattered across the bridge of her nose. "Umm, they taste good, too."
"Rhys Morgan, you're being silly," she grumped, pushing at his shoulders, but deep down she felt a warm glow. "I look a fright. If it weren't for the aloe vera plants I'd look like a prune. I ran out of makeup weeks ago, my hair is a wild mess, my nails look like the very devil and my cursed fair skin just burns and freckles."
"So what? I'm crazy about the way you look. Why wouldn't I be?" He framed her face between his palms and stared deep into her eyes. "I love you, Meghan."
He said it softly and simply, with no fanfare, dropping the words like tiny incendiary bombs.
Shock waves rolled over Meghan, and her heart expanded in her chest. All she could do was stare at him. "Rhys." She whispered his name, a mere zephyr of sound she was barely conscious of uttering. "Oh, Rhys."
"Is that all you can say? Oh, Rhys?"
"Oh! I..." Joy and doubt buffeted her from every direction, and her forehead puckered with anxiety. "Rhys, are you sure? Please don't say it unless you are. I couldn't stand it if you changed your mi—"
He bent and silenced her with a hard kiss. "Of course I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything in my life." His gaze roamed her face, and his expression grew infinitely soft and loving. She stared back, mesmerized. "I love you so much sometimes it hurts." He took her hand and placed her palm against his heart. Meghan felt the heavy thudding in his chest, the tickle of crisp hairs against her skin. "I love you so much, I wouldn't want to live if I ever lost you."
Emotions clogged her throat and filled her eyes with tears. Her own heart was so full and achy she thought it would burst. "Rhys. Oh, Rhys, my darling, I love you, too."
* * *
They fought, of course. Given Meghan's temper and Rhys's intensity it was inevitable. However, their arguments were always over relative minor things and quickly forgotten—Meghan's penchant for organization and efficiency versus Rhys's more laid-back style. He thought she was too cautious; she thought he was too adventurous.
On the mainland he had been conservative, but the longer they were on the island the more casual and uninhibited Rhys became. He would have been perfectly content to wear nothing at all, since they were the only people on the island. Meghan was scandalized by the suggestion and struggled to keep their meager wardrobe repaired.
Rhys had not shaved since the night they had been abducted, and after almost four months on the island he was beginning to look like a wild man. "I'll eventually run out of razor blades anyway, so what's the point," he said, dismissing Meghan's suggestion that he do so.
She did not give up that easily. Organization and efficiency was a basic part of her nature, and that required neatness. "Just because we're castaways, doesn't mean we have to live— or look—like animals," she informed him, and for good measure she punctuated the statement with a sharp poke to his chest with her index finger. That immediately set off another of their toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose arguments, which ended as most of their bouts did—in passionate lovemaking.
In the end, they compromised. Rhys promised he would shave the beard if they ever got off the island, and in the meantime, he would allow Meghan to keep both it and his hair trimmed short.
It was a tedious job, since all she had to work with was a tiny pair of manicure scissors, but Rhys sat patiently without complaint. He quickly discovered that there were some distinctly pleasurable aspects to the procedure.
She started with his hair. As she stood behind him snipping and combing, he could feel her heat across his back and could smell that sweet feminine fragrance that clung to her skin. When she ran her fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes and moaned. It got even better when she moved around in front of him.
She stood between his spread knees, and it was the most natural thing in the world for him to clasp her hips with both hands. Sitting on the log as he was, his eyes were on a level with her breasts. She wore a pair of the skimpy shorts and a halter top she'd made from the pant legs of one of his tuxedos. The abbreviated shorts hugged low on her hips, an inch or so below her navel, providing him with an enticing close up view of her bare midriff and belly. The position of her raised arms exposed their tender undersides for his perusal and the slightest movement caused her breasts to jiggle.
Rhys glanced up at her face, and grinned. Her expression was comically intent as she snipped and combed. The tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth and her blue eyes were almost crossed, she was concentrating so hard. God, she was adorable. And sweet. And sexy as hell.
Unable to help himself, Rhys leaned forward and buried his face against her.
"Rhys, behave," she admonished, pushing at his shoulders.
"Why?" he mumbled, mouthing the tender skin of her midriff.
"Because I'm trying to cut your hair, and this isn't helping."
"But this is much more fun."
"Maybe so, but—" She sucked in her breath and her hands fisted on his shoulders as his tongue delved into her navel. "Oh... I... ahh, Rhys."
His hands slipped around to clasp her bottom and pull her closer as Ms tongue darted and swirled. Her neck arched and she grimaced in ecstasy. "Rhys... don't. Stop..."
"Don't worry, I won't," he murmured wickedly against her quivering flesh.
Head back, trembling, Meghan clung to his shoulders and gazed out at the undulating surf through slitted eyes. She was so enthralled, she stared at the object bobbing on the waves for several seconds before it registered.
Slowly, her eyes widened and she caught her breath. Her fingers dug into Rhys's shoulders. "Rhys! Oh, my Lord, Rhys! Look! It's a boat!"
Chapter Eleven
"Mmm, that's ni—" Rhys's head snapped up. "What?"
"It's a boat! Someone's coming for us!"
He set her aside and shot to his feet. Walking a few feet out onto the beach, he squinted out at the rougher waters beyond the reef, shading his eyes with his cupped palm. Suddenly he went rigid. "Ah, bloody hell! It's the Six Pac. Virgil and his crew have come back," he spat.
"What! Oh, no! They're going to kill us. Why else would they come back now, after all this time?" Wringing her hands, Meghan hopped from one foot to the other, her panicked gaze darting all around. "What're we going to do?"
They saw Harley's bulky shape emerge from the cabin and waddle to the rear of the boat and drop anchor.
"Calm down, honey." Never taking his gaze from the boat, Rhys grasped her arm and pulled her back into the shadows of the palm trees. "We're not completely helpless, remember. We've got our traps set. All we have to do is stay calm and use our heads.''
"You're right. Of course. Stay cool and collected. That's it," she said in a jerky voice. She sucked in several deep breaths and tried to calm her thundering heart. "We'll be fine. Just fine."
On the boat, a lanky male joined Harley on deck. He moved as slow as molasses in January, and when he paused to attend to an itch on a private part of his anatomy, Rhys and Meghan exchanged a look. "Scratch," they said in unison.
They watched the pair lower the dinghy over the side and climb down. The small craft nearly capsized when Harley jumped from the ladder. Scratch stood up and shook his fist at him, then had to windmill his arms to keep from toppling overboard as the dinghy pitched and rolled.
"All right, here's the plan," Rhys said as they watched the bumbling duo row the dinghy in two complete circles before finally getting it headed in the right direction. "We'll sit here and pretend we didn't see them coming. When they land, we'll act surprised and take off running.
Wide-eyed, Meghan nodde
d.
"The best thing to do is split up. Most likely, since he's the slower one, Harley will go after you, thinking you'd be the easier to catch. He's so heavy I'm not sure any of the trap ropes are strong enough to lift him, so I want you to lead him to the pit."
"Okay," she gulped. "But what if he catches me?"
"Hey, take it easy, sweetheart." Rhys squeezed her arm and gave her a reassuring kiss. "Don't worry, you'll do fine. You're in great shape. You can outrun that walrus any day of the week. Just be careful not to get so far ahead he loses you before he reaches the pit."
Scared spitless, Meghan could only nod.
"In the meantime, I'll try to lead our friend Scratch to a trap. Thank God Virgil didn't come ashore with them."