The Castaway Bride

by Kandy Shepherd

  And then she’d hauled up her skirts and let him feast his hungry eyes on those long, long legs. Her thighs were as creamy and smooth as her breasts. Was the rest of her body the same? Did her—?

  Enough! He swung the wheel down hard—so hard he wrenched his shoulder. He cursed at the sudden pain.

  Some old sailors still thought it was bad luck to have a woman on board their craft. The more beautiful the woman, the worse the luck. The sooner he could get this bride off Wayfarer the better.

  He slowed the engine and went forward to hoist the sails.

  Cristy tucked away her heel-less shoes behind a coil of rope and clambered up the narrow stairway to the cockpit. She halted just before she reached the top.

  Her rescuer had his back to her as he stood at the helm. He was framed by a magnificent view of glistening aquamarine waters and clouds scudding across impossibly blue skies.

  She should be looking out for frolicking dolphins or scanning the horizon for a glimpse of a whale. But all she could do was stare in fascinated appreciation at the rippling play of the muscles in this man’s powerful arms and back as he steered the boat.

  This was how a male body was meant to look. When God had created Adam this was the blueprint.

  She swallowed hard and shook her head to rid herself of the too-disturbing thought. She still felt unnerved by the shivers of pleasure that had coursed through her body in reaction to his examination of her foot. And mortified by the positively wanton way she’d stripped off her stocking.

  Stress. That was it. Stress is what had caused her extraordinary reaction. She pushed the other errant thought away—fought it, pummeled it, tried to banish it from her mind. It wasn’t—it couldn’t be—because she was attracted to him.

  This man, with his untamed pirate good looks, was the same wildly appealing type as the man who had not just broken but pulverized her heart when she’d been a trusting nineteen-year-old.

  In the nine years since, she’d lived her life according to her own personal motto you can’t trust lust. Lust—that thrilling, aching need for a man that overrode good sense and caution like a fever—was not in her game plan.

  Lust had gotten her pregnant to her first-ever lover. Lust had seen her abandoned when she’d refused a termination. Lust had lead to her empty and aching and alone after she had miscarried. Through her tears she’d vowed that she would never endure that kind of anguish again.

  For nine years she’d tamped down her sensuality. Had run from men who physically thrilled her and dated only the safe and suitable. Her strategy had culminated in her decision to marry a man who was just a good friend. She now believed herself truly immune to the appeal of men like this hot Australian buccaneer.

  All the same, as she thought about how his hands had felt on her foot—her foot for heaven’s sake!—she was glad she wouldn’t be on his boat for long.

  She lifted her full skirts and awkwardly completed her climb up the narrow stairs. The cockpit seemed large and luxurious. Below deck, behind her, a panel of instruments blinked, flashed and quietly beeped.

  As her skirts rustled near, her rescuer stepped back from the wheel. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her. When they did they hardened and narrowed. His mouth set in a cynical line as if his thoughts had not been pleasant.

  At the sight of his expression, Cristy felt a sudden lurch of fear deep down in her stomach. She knew absolutely nothing about this man she had so rashly entrusted with her safety. Had so foolishly provoked. For all she knew, he could be a serial killer. Running away with him could have been a deadly mistake.

  The silence that fell between them was tense and awkward. She swallowed hard against the fear she was finding impossible to ignore. How did you ask a possible serial killer where he was taking her and how long would it take, please?

  She cleared her throat and tried to speak but only a squeak came out.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I’m C… Cristy Walters,” she finally managed stutter. “We… uh… haven’t gotten around to introductions.”

  “Matt Slade.”

  Matt. The name suited him. But then axe-murderers often did bear normal, attractive-sounding names.

  She decided to placate him, just in case. She forced herself to stretch her mouth into a polite semblance of a smile. “Matt, I… I appreciate your help. Thank you.”

  He nodded curtly, watching her.

  She continued, still not sure of what she should say. Whether she should start backing down the stairs. Or start calculating her chances of swimming back to shore.

  In spite of herself her voice rose, betraying her uncertainty. “Where… uh… where are you taking me?”

  To her surprise, Matt Slade smiled at her. A smile that brought humor and warmth to his sea-green eyes and completely wiped out any hint of menace.

  She sagged at the relief from her wild imaginings that his genuine smile brought to her. It showed that, whatever else he might be, it was highly unlikely Matt Slade was an axe murderer or serial killer. She was sure she could trust her instinct on that.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked, as if taking her anywhere she wanted was an option.

  His smile gave her confidence and she didn’t hesitate. In her relief, the words rushed out. “To the nearest airport. Please. I have to get back to Sydney.”

  That was as far ahead as she’d been able to think since she’d caught Howard and Miriam together. Her rented apartment in Sydney was the closest thing she had to a home. Once she got there she’d figure out how to get back to the States. What she’d do when she got back to New York was something too scary to even contemplate. She’d burned a lot of bridges when she’d agreed to marry Howard. Even more when she’d run away from the wedding.

  “The airport on Hibiscus Island is the only airport in these parts,” he said.

  “Is it?” She felt she should explain her ignorance. “I’ve only been in your country for a few months.”

  And until yesterday all she’d seen was the city of Sydney, thousands of miles away to the south. She’d jumped at the opportunity to work at the Australian office of Templetton & Templetton when Howard had asked her. Welcomed the chance to get to know another part of the world. But work had followed the same grueling schedule as in New York. It had left little time for sight-seeing. And in recent weeks all her spare time had been taken up with wedding preparations.

  Matt Slade raised a dark eyebrow. “And you were getting married? That was quick work.”

  It would seem like quick work if you didn’t know the story behind it. “We’ve known each other a long time. He’s American too. We work together.” She and Howard and Miriam and Miriam’s husband Phil had all come over at the same time.

  She faltered to a halt as she remembered Howard’s startling proposal, the hasty arrangements, all those frantic phone calls to organize the impossible.

  And now it was all going on without her.

  Or was it? What could happen at a wedding reception without a bride? Would they party on so as not to waste the catering? It would be a shame for all that food not to be eaten.

  What a crazy thought. She swallowed hard as the reality of what she’d done finally hit her.

  She had run away from her wedding. Fled without a word to anyone. People who hadn’t seen Howard with Miriam would wonder what had possessed her. Sensible, corporate, accountant-type people like herself didn’t do insane things like that.

  But she had.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself and realized that Matt Slade was talking to her.

  His deep, husky voice was very calm—as if he were soothing an emotional cot case. “It’s not too late to turn around. I can take you back to shore. You can fix things up.”

  She looked uncomprehendingly back at him. “Fix things up?”

  Forgive Howard and Miriam? Go on with the ceremony?

  Never.

  She looked down at the enormous diamond glittering on the third finger of her left hand. Sh
e’d reacted with awe when Howard had slid his family heirloom onto her finger. Now she wanted to fling it overboard and watch it sink to the depths of the ocean. Everything it represented seemed tarnished.

  At this very moment she should be exchanging the vows that would make her Mrs. Howard Randolph Templetton III and give her a lifetime of security and comfort. And the social acceptance she’d craved since she’d left behind her life in a hippie commune and taken charge of her own destiny.

  She should be devastated at how her golden future as Mrs. Templetton Junior had been wrenched away from her by the double betrayal of her nearest and dearest.

  But—fight it as she might—her distress at finding Howard in Miriam’s arms was being overtaken by a feeling she could scarcely admit to herself was relief. Deep, heartfelt relief at a lucky escape.

  “No. I don’t want to fix things up,” she said, twisting the ring on her finger so it hurt. Her thrifty accountant’s mind would not let her throw overboard such a valuable piece of jewelry. She’d mail it—well insured—back to Howard when she got back to Sydney.

  She’d had misgivings about the marriage but Howard had over-ridden her every objection. Then she’d gotten too caught up in the frenzy of wedding preparations to give proper heed to her doubts. While she didn’t trust lust, she’d worried as the weeks of their engagement went on if she would ever want to make love with Howard. Or that friendship was enough to sustain a marriage.

  But at the same time she felt relief, she still smarted at the betrayal. She and Howard had talked about the importance of fidelity and loyalty. How could she have misjudged him so badly? And Miriam. Her bridesmaid’s treachery hurt nearly as much as Howard’s did.

  Years ago she’d learned not to trust lust. But now she’d discovered you couldn’t trust friendship and shared interests and all those feel-good things either.

  Maybe what it really meant was you couldn’t trust men. Not just the dangerous, good-looking ones, but also the safe, not-so-handsome ones.

  She looked up with wary eyes at Matt Slade. He definitely fell into the dangerously handsome category. But what a mess she’d dragged her reluctant rescuer in to. He must be questioning the sanity of this ditzy bride who’d flung herself so shamelessly at him with her plea for help.

  But the situation was difficult to explain—and she wasn’t sure that she should even try.

  He spoke again. “I said I’d take you wherever you want to go and I will. But don’t you have friends back at Starlight Island who can help you?”

  Friends? The wedding guests were mainly Howard’s friends and colleagues. Her sister and brothers lived too far away. Only Miriam she’d counted as a real friend. And even Miriam had been Howard’s friend before Cristy had met her—a few years back when she’d joined Templetton & Templetton. Her dream employer. The kind of firm that could ride out even the biggest blips in the economy without a dent in its status or earnings. Or the scandal of a runaway bride.

  “What about your parents? Surely your parents are at your wedding?”

  Her parents! Why did he have to bring them up?

  But Matt Slade seemed genuinely concerned about her—which only made Cristy feel worse about her wild, serial killer imaginings of just minutes before.

  “No. They’re not.”

  She winced inwardly at the memory of her mother’s harsh words when she’d told her she was marrying Howard. She’d never be able to forget them.

  “Right now my parents are on an ashram in India studying advanced yoga techniques.”

  The incredulous look on Matt Slade’s face would have made her laugh again— if she hadn’t seen it on so many other people’s faces when she’d told them about her parents. She’d worked so hard to build her image as a corporate go-getter that people found it difficult to make the connection between her lifestyle and that of her family. Which is exactly how she wanted it.

  “Your parents are on an ashram in India?”

  “They’re seeking higher levels of enlightenment. Spiritual rebirth, that kind of stuff. It’s what they do.”

  He grinned. His wholehearted grin was a million times more devastating than his regular smile. It made Cristy’s heart do a curious little flip as it seemed to miss a beat.

  No!

  He was attractive—no woman could deny that. But she was not—repeat not—attracted to him.

  Even if she did find it almost impossible not to gaze at the way his eyes creased so deliciously when he smiled.

  “Your parents sound cool,” he said.

  “They do their thing, I do mine.”

  “Meaning?”

  She braced herself for his reaction. “I left the commune behind me years ago.”

  His eyebrows rose. Just like all their eyebrows rose.

  “You lived on a commune? Where?”

  People reacted with varying degrees of fascination when they heard she’d grown up on a hippie commune. She’d learned to fend them off with jokes and throwaway stories. What she didn’t tell them was how hard she’d worked to leave the alternate lifestyle behind her. And that the wedding to Howard was meant to eradicate every final trace of it.

  “California, of course. I was a real hippie child. Flowers in my hair. The whole thing.” She kept her voice flippant.

  “So your parents didn’t approve of your wedding?”

  “They did not.”

  That was the understatement of all time. Matt Slade was perceptive. And she’d said too much already.

  “Your parents sound like my kind of people.”

  His words surprised her. Howard had found it difficult to mask his discomfort around her unconventional parents. For that reason alone she shouldn’t have even contemplated marrying him.

  But then she looked at Matt Slade again—at his long hair, worn jeans, his battered leather boat shoes. Why should she be surprised at his reaction? He hardly seemed Wall Street material. Not that that was a bad thing. A made-to-measure-suit was no guarantee of a decent person. Howard had proved that today.

  Now her rescuer’s smile was replaced by an expression so serious it was verging on grim.

  “I approve of people who take a different look at the society we live in. And I’m right behind them when it comes to weddings. A wedding is a no-win contract for all concerned.”

  “Pardon me?” Where did that come from?

  “You just said your parents don’t believe in marriage?”

  She stared at him. “I… hey, you’ve got it wrong. Their commune isn’t the free-love kind of set-up. They’ve been happily married for thirty years and faithful to each other the whole time. They do believe in marriage. That’s why they were so upset about—”

  She stopped mid-word, aghast. She’d said way too much. And had no intention of saying anything more.

  But Matt Slade’s eyes gleamed with interest. “About what?”

  “About nothing,” she mumbled.

  No way in the world was she going to admit to this man the real reason why her parents had boycotted her marriage to Howard.

  Somehow she sensed that Matt Slade would not approve either. And for some powerful, unreasoning impulse, she wanted him to be on her side. Why it mattered she couldn’t fathom. But she didn’t want to see disapproval cloud this man’s eyes when he looked at her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Matt knew he was staring, but he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from Cristy’s face.

  In his experience, many beautiful women’s faces were virtually expressionless—cold, lovely masks. But that wasn’t the case with this beautiful woman.

  No matter how hard she might try to suppress them, Cristy’s emotions danced across her features—revealing themselves in the warm sparkle of her cornflower blue eyes, in the lilt of her mouth, in the anxious crease of her creamy brow.

  Right now she looked like a little girl with a guilty secret.

  “What did you do that was so terrible your parents went to an ashram instead of your wedding?”

&nbs
p; The bride answered with a defiant tilt of her chin. “It wasn’t so terrible, my mom was just over-reacting.”

  Matt suppressed a smile. She was strong-minded, not easily swayed. He liked that. He itched to know what had so upset her laid-back parents that they’d boycotted her wedding.

  From vowing to get her off his boat pronto, Matt now found himself intrigued by this runaway bride. Cristy Walters looked like she was born and bred to be a rich man’s trophy wife—not someone who’d grown up on a hippie commune.

  On the surface she seemed to be every thing he distrusted and disliked in a woman. But could someone with such an open face be as mercenary and calculating as Julia and her ilk?

  Maybe, just maybe, he had misjudged Cristy Walters. She appeared to be a high-maintenance Miss Perfect who single-handedly supported a small army of hairdressers, beauty therapists and manicurists.

  But now Miss Perfect was beginning to look less deserving of the nickname. The bride’s frantic race to the jetty, the humidity and the wind were wreaking havoc on her beauty parlor polish.

  Her hair was escaping from its bridal coronet in wavy tendrils around her face, her mascara was smudging like soot under her eyes and her luscious mouth was being gradually rubbed freed of lipstick.

  To Matt, staring in unabashed appreciation, the natural, moist pink of her lips was more alluring than any cosmetic could ever be.

  He found himself wondering once more if her mouth tasted as delicious as it looked, and how far her hair would tumble down her slender, pale shoulders if he freed it from its gauzy veil.

  Cristy didn’t know why, but she began to feel uncomfortable under Matt Slade’s intense gaze. It was as if he were summing her up and she wasn’t too sure what verdict he’d reached.

  She put her hand tentatively up to her face. Maybe she had a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Is there something wrong?” she asked, unable to keep a slight tremor from her voice.

  Matt smiled. That warm, devastating smile that transformed his face from piratical to princely and had such a disconcerting effect on her senses.