by Ginna Gray
"Puppy? Huh! Neurotic tittle wad of fluff." He dismissed the dog with a disparaging glance and turned his attention to the items covering the table.
A look of astonishment came over his face as he sifted through the pile. In addition to wallet, passport, keys, brush, comb and the usual assortment of feminine cosmetics, there was a miniature first-aid kit, a tiny stapler, scissors, a collapsible toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste the size of his little finger, a compact sewing kit, a plastic bag filled with some sort of pellets, which, from the smell, he assumed to be dry dog food, and a small compartmentalized case containing an assortment of vitamins. David shook his head and picked up a plastic box the size of a cigarette pack. It held a set of miniature screwdrivers.
Even empty the purse still felt weighty. He spread the top wide and peered inside, and his jaw dropped. "Good God! I don't believe this!" Stitched to the lining of the voluminous canvas bag were at least twenty small overlapping flap pockets with zipper closures.
Muttering to himself, David went through them one by one. From the first he pulled a sample of laundry detergent, from another a pack of seasick tablets. Still another pocket yielded a sack of raisins, another a penlight and spare batteries and another a full size rain poncho folded into a two-inch square.
Abigail gasped and turned tomato red when he extracted an unadorned pair of ladies' cotton panties. He held them up for inspection, and those whiskey eyes slid over her. "Very... practical," he said, his mouth twitching.
"Give me those!" Abigail snapped and snatched them out of his hand. She stuffed the undies into the pocket of her shorts and glared at him, but her ire was wasted. David was digging in her purse again and didn't even notice.
He pulled out a hotel-size bar of soap, a tiny bottle of shampoo, Scotch tape, hand lotion, a Boy Scout knife and numerous sealed packets of snack food. The stunning variety of items, many of them sample packages, piled higher and higher on the table as he systematically emptied every pocket and compartment.
When at last finished, he stared at the conglomeration. He pinned Abigail with a perplexed frown. "What in the name of hell are you doing carrying around all this junk? This stuff must weigh a ton!"
Abigail snatched the purse from his hand. "It never hurts to be prepared," she replied tartly, shooting him a withering glare. "Now, if you're through pawing through my things, I'll put them back. That is, if that's all right with you, of course."
He ignored her sarcasm and picked up a tin of throat lozenges from the top of the pile. "Not until I have a look at everything."
One by one, he subjected each item to a minute inspection before handing it back to her. Prom the corner of his eye he watched Abigail return everything to its precise location within her bag and felt a mixture of pity and irritation.
God, he thought. The woman wasn't only a pack rat, she was one of those compulsively neat types. A place for everything and everything in its place, he silently recited in a nasty singsong. Hell, he could almost hear her saying it in that snooty tone she used.
Why me? What the hell have I done to get stuck with a repressed, prissy old maid?
The search proved fruitless. "Nothing. Not a damned thing," he muttered when he had finished.
He snatched up another smoke. With quick, angry movements he lit up and flung the spent match into the sink. Leaning back against the counter, he puffed on the cigarette and regarded Abigail moodily as she returned the last item to its proper place.
"You say you arrived here today?"
"Yes. Around noon," she replied shortly. "As soon as I arrived, I unpacked. Then I went sight-seeing."
"Did you change clothes?"
"No."
"Okay, take them off."
She spun around. "What?" Abigail clutched the collar of her shirt, holding the edges together.
"Strip off those clothes," he repeated impatiently. Pushing away from the counter, he flicked the cigarette butt into the sink where it sizzled in a puddle of water.
She backed up. "I'll do no such thing! Now... now, you stay away from me you...you masher! Pervert!" She clutched the collar of her shirt tighter and held the other hand up, palm out, but he kept coming. "Do-don't you touch me!"
"Oh, for crying out... Look, I just want to see if she planted anything on you."
"Well, I'm not taking my clothes off, and that's final, so just stay away from me."
David sighed. "All right, Legs, if that's the way you're gonna be, we'll do this the hard way."
Abigail's pounding heart jumped right up into her throat when he made a lunge for her. She let out a squawk and made a break for the steps, but he snagged her arm, spun her around and shoved her face-first against the door to the shower stall. With two quick thrusts of his foot he had her legs spread wide.
"OhI Wha—! Stop that! How dare—! Oh! Oh!" she gasped when his hand cupped her breast.
With his forearm braced across her shoulder blades, he held her pinned spread-eagle to the door and subjected her to a thorough and shockingly intimate frisk. Beneath the loose folds of her shirt his free hand roamed her body, circling each breast, probing the cleavage between, sliding over her rib cage and abdomen. He patted her bottom, her back and sides and explored each armpit.
From head to toe, Abigail's body pulsed with embarrassed heat. She bucked and squirmed and squawked, but to no avail. "Stop it, you beast! Stop that I said—! Oh! Oh! No! Don't you da—!"
She sucked in her breath, her gasp of outrage becoming a strangled moan as his fingers insinuated themselves between her legs.
With maddening indifference he ignored her indignant yelps and the snarling warning from behind and ran his hands down the inside of her thighs.
Chelsea growled again. When he paid her no mind, the tiny animal launched herself at him with all the ferocity of an attack Doberman.
Three pounds of furry, snarling fury slammed into the back of David's legs, buckling his knees.
"What the hell!"
He toppled forward and crashed into Abigail, flattening her against the wall. For an instant she was squeezed between the door and David's body like the cream center of an Oreo cookie.
David scrabbled for balance as he clung to the wall, but before he could steady himself he felt a stinging nip on the back of one foot.
"Ow! Ow! Dammit to hell!" he raged, glancing over his shoulder. He kicked out at the little dog. "Get away from me, you bloodthirsty mutt! Get!"
At first, regarding the animal as merely a nuisance, David tried to shove her aside, but Chelsea proved quick and agile and easily avoided his flailing foot. When she zeroed in on his unprotected ankles, he realized that he was under serious attack.
Relentless, the little terrier kept up the furious assault, keeping him off balance and on the defensive, charging his unprotected ankles, darting in and out, barking and snapping.
As David scrambled to fend her off, a sharp mental image flashed through his mind of the dog flopping at the end of the shovel-faced thug's leg, hanging on tenaciously, her needle teeth sunk into the back of his ankle.
Holy hell! She was going for his Achilles tendon!
He kicked out with more force. "Stop it! Get away! Heel, you miserable little dust mop! Heel!"
Chelsea scampered out of range, then zipped back. David felt another sting and yelped. Cursing, he twisted around until his back was to the wall, and jerked Abigail against his chest. "Get back! Back! Shoo!"
With his elbows he levered himself upright. Chelsea charged again. Holding Abigail in front of him like a shield, David hopped around the cabin as though the deck were covered with hot coals, trying desperately to keep the woman between him and those snapping teeth. But the ferocious little dog was too quick.
"Ow! Ow! Dammit! Can't you do something?" he yelled in Abigail's ear. "That little beast is worse than a Tasmanian Devil."
Abigail shot a triumphant glance over her shoulder. "Good girl, Chels!" she praised, egging the dog on. "Get him! Get him, girl!"
"Ah, hell."
David backed to the steps. Bending to maintain his hold on Abigail, he eased up onto the first, then the second, keeping his eye on Chelsea. As his foot reached for the third step he had to release his hostage.
David leaped up onto the deck and made for the bridge. The dog was after him in a flash.
By the time Abigail made it topside, Chelsea had David backed up the bridge ladder.
He stood on the fourth rung, holding on to the side rails, and glared down at his tiny attacker. Almost hysterical with victory, Chelsea jumped and leaped around the base, yapping her head off. Only the perpendicular angle of the ladder prevented her from continuing the pursuit.
"Call her off," David yelled, scowling down at Abigail.
In the light spilling from the cabin she could see that he was furious. Under normal circumstances Abigail would have quailed under that dark glare, but at the moment she was impervious; she had been pushed too far.
She folded her arms across her midriff and regarded him with a smug lift of her eyebrows. "Not until you apologize."
"What! Lady, are you nuts! Don't forget, you need me! Besides, what have I got to apologize for?"
"For being a rude, boorish oaf and for using your superior strength against a woman, that's what. As for the other—you need me, too. I would advise you to forget your bruised male pride and say you're sorry, because I assure you Chelsea won't budge from here until I command it."
Even in the dim light she could see his jaws clench. His chest rose and fell with each harsh breath as the ominous silence stretched out. "Oh, all right! I'm sorry I manhandled you," he snapped with decided bad grace. "Now will you call off the damned dog!"
"You call that an apology?"
"It's the best I can do. Take it or leave it."
Abigail rolled her eyes, but she ordered Chelsea to desist. Reluctantly the dog obeyed, lifting her lip at David as he edged down the ladder. When he reached the deck, she gave one last little "ruff" and trotted off, disappearing below, returning to her "puppy." Chelsea was never parted from the toy for long if she could help it.
The two humans eyed each other in wary silence. Under his steady appraisal Abigail's prickly defenses crumbled to dust.
Horrified, she met that piercing stare and wondered where she'd gotten the nerve to oppose a tough customer like David Blaine. She wanted to run. If they hadn't been on a boat, she would have. Left with no choice, she hugged her arms around her and tried not to fidget.
"You surprise me, Legs," he finally said. "Somehow I didn't think you had that kind of gumption."
She didn't. But as always, Abigail's first instinct was to try to hide her discomfort. "For heaven's sake!" she snapped. "Why do you keep calling me that? My name, as you perfectly well know, is Abigail, not Legs."
David shrugged. "It fits. You may not be a raving beauty, but you've got the most fantastic pair of legs I've ever clapped eyes on."
Chapter Four
The matter-of-fact statement robbed Abigail of the powers of speech and movement. She stood with her face comically slack and watched him lope down the steps and disappear below deck.
She didn't know whether to be outraged or flattered. As compliments went, it was hardly grand. Certainly nothing to get excited about. Even so... a fiery tingle rippled over her skin, just as though he had caressed her with his fingertips.
Shivering, Abigail rubbed her arms. Stop it, she scolded, shaking off the delicious feeling. So you received a left-handed compliment from a vulgar ruffian? So what? That's certainly no reason to get all weak and wobbly. The man's a barbarian.
No raving beauty, indeed! She deliberately whipped up her wrath by focusing on the negative part of his comment. As if she needed him to tell her that.
Abigail had no illusions about her looks. No, she wasn't gorgeous. Her mouth was too wide and her nose was a tad too short for any claim to true beauty. Her only outstanding feature was her eyes. They were pale blue—aquamarine, some said—and surrounded by long dark lashes. She supposed that at best, she was passably attractive in a wholesome sort of way, but she'd learned years ago that wasn't enough to interest most men.
Not that she cared. Certainly she didn't want to attract a hard case like David Blaine. Anyway, just because the man thought she had nice legs didn't mean he was interested.
He'd just said that to rattle her, to get even for Chelsea's attack and restore his colossal male ego. So don't make a big deal of it. You've got more important things to worry about than David Blaine's opinion of your legs.
Below, Abigail found Chelsea asleep on the banquette seat, curled around her toy puppy. David was in the tiny forward cabin, rummaging through the built-in dresser.
She paused in the doorway. In the quiet she could hear the soft buzz of Chelsea's snores and the creak of the boat, feel it rock beneath her feet. She waited for David to say something, but he just continued to paw through the drawers, making a mess of the contents and offending Abigail's sense of order and neatness.
"Uh... what are we going to do now?"
He glanced her way and resumed digging. "Eat dinner and get some shut-eye. That's all we can do for now."
"You mean...spend the night here? On this boat?" Abigail's voice rose with each word and ended on a squeak.
"What did you expect? That we would go back to San Cristobal and check into a hotel?"
"Well...yes. I did, actually. Not the same hotel I was in, of course. Or maybe... maybe Pepe and Constanza could—"
"Forget it. We can't risk being spotted. And haven't you forgotten something? We've got engine problems."
"But it was still running when we entered the cove."
"Barely. I'm not going to take the chance of doing more damage. Your friends did enough when they fired on us. Until I can check things out, this boat isn't budging from this spot."
He straightened, holding a yellow T-shirt. "Here, you can use this to sleep in. Unless, of course, you've got a nightie stashed in that grab bag of yours.''
Battling panic, Abigail barely registered his sarcasm. "Look, I... I can't stay here. It's out of the question."
"Fine. You can swim ashore and either sleep on the beach or bike back to town. Suit yourself. But I'm not moving my boat." He tossed the T-shirt onto the dresser and pushed past her into the galley.
Shaken, Abigail sank onto the edge of the bed that nearly filled the cabin, her heart pounding. Darn him. He knew perfectly well that was no choice at all. She doubted she could swim well enough to make it to shore. Even if she could; she certainly couldn't spend the night on the beach— with crabs and turtles and no telling what other creatures. She shuddered and rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms. As for hiking back to town in the dark—why, that was out of the question. Hie coastline on this side of the island was mostly rugged cliffs with very few beaches, and a good six or seven miles of wooded, mountainous terrain lay between them and San Cristobal.
She couldn't believe it. All of her life Aunt Harriet had drilled into her the importance of being prepared and approaching life cautiously.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, my dear. Always remember—live circumspectly, don't take risks and be ready for any eventuality. That way you won't get hurt.
Growing up, Abigail had heard those words and others like them thousands of times. She had tried hard to heed her aunt's advice, especially since that debacle with Ted, but nothing could have prepared her for this.
Of course, if she hadn't given in to that niggling restlessness and come here, if she had suppressed those vague stirrings as she'd always done in the past, none of this would have happened.
With a shaking hand she tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and looked around the cabin. This was supposed to be her dream vacation, and here she was, spending her first night stranded miles from nowhere on a disabled boat with a disagreeable man she barely knew.
Under different circumstances—with the right man—the situation might even be romantic. But she was stuck with a big, t
ough, ill-tempered, ill-mannered hooligan!
Oh, she supposed he was attractive—if you liked the dangerous type. Which, of course, she didn't, Abigail as sured herself. The quivery sensation in the pit of her stomach was caused by apprehension.
Gathering her courage, Abigail rose. She stepped into the galley to the hum of the microwave and found David hunkered down before the stove, lighting the broiler. When done, he stood and cupped the match to the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Unable to help herself, Abigail made a face. "You really should quit, you know."
Shaking out the flame, David squinted at her through the smoke. "You staying?"
Beast. He knew perfectly well she was.
"It appears I have little choice." Nervously she glanced around. "Uh...can I help with dinner?"
"No, everything is already done. I had a different evening in mind when I planned this dinner, but what the hell. No point in letting good steaks go to waste."
Noting the wine chilling in a bucket in the sink and the two salads on the table, Abigail realized that he had prepared the meal for Maxine. No doubt it had been intended as a prelude to seduction, she thought, flushing.
The microwave beeped as David pronounced the steaks done. He forked up the meat, added the potatoes and slapped both plates onto the table. "Might as well drink the wine, too," he said with an insulting lack of enthusiasm, and popped the cork from the bottle. He splashed the wine into two squat jelly glasses and thumped them down on the table beside the plates.
Abigail gritted her teeth. No doubt Maxine would have been served the wine up on deck. By candlelight. At sunset. In real wineglasses.
The silence that accompanied the meal would have made Abigail uncomfortable if she hadn't been so irked. It was hardly her fault his plans had gone awry.
Well... all right. Maybe it was.
But he didn't have to be such a sorehead about it. The way he was acting, you'd think she had set out to spoil his evening of debauchery with the blond hussy. Lord, was there anything crankier than a sexually frustrated male?