by Ginna Gray
After the silent meal Abigail did the dishes while David showered. She was just finishing when he stepped from the cubicle.
"It's all yours," he announced.
She glanced over her shoulder, and almost dropped the dish she was returning to the cabinet.
There he stood, as bold as brass, wearing only a skimpy towel knotted low on his hips and using another to dry his hair, which hung in wet ringlets over his forehead.
Abigail sucked in her breath, and at once her senses were assaulted by the heady smell of soap and clean male. He still hadn't bothered to shave. The shadowy stubble should have been revolting; instead it added to his strange, disreputable allure.
Like a magnet, Abigail's gaze was drawn to the brawny chest she'd been trying so hard to avoid staring at all evening. Droplets of water still dung to the reddish-brown hair that ran in a wedge from just below his collarbone to his diaphragm. From there it arrowed downward in a thin line that swirled around his navel before dropping lower and disappearing beneath the edge of the towel. Below the swatch of terry cloth his thighs were long and lean and ridged with muscles.
He raised both arms and rubbed the crown of his head with the towel. The stretching action rippled muscles and drew his abdomen in until it was concave, causing the cloth draped across his hipbones to slip perilously lower.
Abigail swallowed hard and shifted her gaze. It homed in on the dark tufts of hair beneath his arms, and her stomach went woozy. Never in her life had she encountered such a blatantly masculine man. Or one with so little modesty.
"There should be enough hot water left for you to shower, if you don't dawdle."
Abigail whirled around, shoved the plate into the cabinet and slammed the door. "Th-thank you," she croaked.
Tossing aside the dish towel, she dashed into the forward cabin, snatched up the yellow T-shirt and hurried out again. Keeping her eyes averted, she sidestepped David. She was careful not to touch him, but the cabin was small, and as she squeezed past she felt his heat through every pore in her body.
Long after the supply of hot water had been exhausted, Abigail stood under the shower spray and let the cool liquid sluice down her overheated skin. When she emerged, her composure once more intact, she found David stretched out in the bed.
Abigail stopped dead in the doorway. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm trying to get some sleep." He tossed back one corner of the sheet. "C'mon, climb in, will ya. I want to get an early start on those repairs in the morning."
"You.. .you surely don't expect me to sleep in that bed?"
"Sure I do. In case you didn't notice, it's the only one on board."
"But... you're in it."
"Yeah. So?"
Abigail stared at him, not sure if he was really that obtuse or if he was taunting her. Either way, she found his attitude exasperating. "So I will not sleep with you. That's what's so," she snapped. "Furthermore, if you were any kind of gentleman you wouldn't expect me to."
"Oh, yeah? And I suppose a gentleman would let you have the bed all to yourself and sleep up on deck. Right?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, he would."
"Well forget it, Legs. I'm not sleeping on any hard deck. Not when there's a comfortable bed right here that's plenty big enough for two. And if you're worried that I'm lusting after your bod, forget it. Believe me, you're not my type. Skinny librarians just don't turn me on."
"I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear it," she said in her most supercilious voice. "But I still won't sleep in that bed with you in it."
"Fine. Then .vow sleep up on deck."
"Very well, I will."
"Great!"
"Fine!"
Her chin shot up at a haughty angle, but she didn't move.
David sat up in the bed and glared at her. "So, what are you waiting for?"
"I need a pillow. And a blanket." Her icy tone implied that if he had the manners of a slug she wouldn't have had to ask.
"Oh, for crying out—!" David snatched up the extra pillow and flung it at her. Abigail caught it reflexively as he tossed back the covering sheet and shot from the bed.
Her eyes grew wide. She clutched the pillow to her chest. "Oh... my... stars!"
At the shocked exclamation David straightened from pawing through the storage drawer beneath the bed and whirled around, his body braced, as though expecting to face an enemy attack. "What is it? What's the matter?" he demanded, his gaze darting around the cabin.
"You're wearing purple underwear," Abigail exclaimed. She goggled at the strip of cotton knit that hugged his hips. "Purple bikini underwear.'' ,
"That's it? That's what you're carrying on about?" His shoulders slumped, and he let but a gusty sigh, rolling his eyes. "Jeez, woman. What the hell are you getting so bent out of shape about? You're thirty years old. Surely you've seen a man in his underwear before?" He propped his fists on his hipbones and narrowed his eyes. "Or have you?"
Blinking, Abigail strove to clear her head and imbue her words with brisk worldliness, but they came out sounding breathy and a bit dazed. "O-of course I have. I.. .1 just haven't seen purple ones before. That's all."
"Well, don't get your panties in a wad over it. Lots of men wear colored skivvies these days."
Abigail blinked again. Panties in a wad? She opened her mouth to give him a set down, but David bent over the storage drawer again and the scathing words flitted right out of her mind as her gaze followed the bowed line of his spine down to the purple scrap of cloth.
"Anyway it's not as though they're indecent or anything. They cover as much as a bathing suit."
Some bathing suits. Maybe. In the south of France, perhaps. But none that Abigail had ever seen. And she doubted that many men looked quite the way David did in them. The garment was little more than two small triangles, joined front to back at the hips with narrow bands of elastic. The bright material skimmed over tight buttocks and cupped his sex like a lover's hand. And, heaven help her, the snug fit of the stretchy knit left no doubt whatever of his maleness.
Abigail's gaze slid along his thigh up to his hip, bare but for the narrow band of elastic. Her heartbeat accelerated as she realized that his skin was that deep bronze color all over. Oh, God. When he was alone out at sea he must walk around stark naked.
Her mouth went dry at the mental image that formed in her mind, and a quivering began deep in her belly. Her heart beat with a slow heaviness that made her chest ache.
The foolish reactions so unsettled Abigail, when David straightened and held out a blanket, she snatched it from his grasp and scurried topside without so much as a thank-you.
Flustered, she stood in the middle of the deck for several minutes before she realized there wasn't a single lounger on board. The helm seat and narrow bench up on the bridge and the cockpit chair bolted to the deck at the stern, which she assumed he used when fishing, where the only concessions to comfort, and none would do for sleeping.
Disgusted, Abigail flung the pillow into a corner, wrapped the blanket around herself and flopped down on the hard deck. Just her luck—to get stuck on a fishing boat with a mannerless oaf. Panties in a wad, indeed!
For the next half hour she twisted and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position, but the task proved impossible. No matter which way she turned, some part of her frame ground painfully against the teak decking—hipbone, shoulder, knee, ankle, even a few bones she hadn't known she had. She tried bunching the blanket up under her, but that didn't help. The darned deck was as hard as a marble slab—and just about as warm.
It was so dark, Abigail could barely see her hand in front of her face. From the island came strange rustling noises and animal sounds. To top it off, the wind had kicked up and the breeze off the ocean held a definite chill.
Pulling the blanket tighter around her, Abigail wiggled and flopped and called David names that would have caused Aunt Harriet to have an apoplectic fit. At last she fell into a fitful doze out of sheer exhaustion.
T
en minutes later she came wide-awake when the sky opened up.
The deluge hit her full force without warning. At first she thought someone had doused her with a bucket of water. She jackknifed to a sitting position, coughing and sputtering, her arms clamped at her sides beneath the blanket that was wrapped, mummy fashion, around her body. By the time she untangled herself and scrambled to her feet, she was drenched.
David came awake to the sound of rain striking the bulkhead. An instant later he heard Abigail clamber down the steps. Sighing, he turned on the bedside light and rolled out of bed. The woman was nothing but trouble.
She stood in the middle of the cabin, drenched, bedraggled and dripping, Strings of wet hair clung to her face like seaweed, and that damned T-shirt plastered to her body. She stared at him with mute appeal, her big aquamarine eyes wide and confused, those ridiculously long lashes spiked with rainwater.
She looked pathetic. And defenseless. And, to his sorrow, sexy as hell.
Stretching, Chelsea sat up and yawned and regarded her mistress with sleepy adoration.
"It's raining," Abigail said unnecessarily hi an unsteady voice.
David saw her chin quiver and knew that tears threatened, but she fought against them, folding her lips into a tight line.
"No shi— Uh, no kidding," he quipped with deliberate nastiness. He was fighting battles of his own. If she started crying, he wasn't sure he could keep his distance; a woman's tears turned him to mush every time.
The insult worked; Abigail swallowed a sniff and tilted her chin, her eyes narrowing on him with dislike.
Without thinking, David dropped his gaze to the wet T-shirt. It was a mistake. Soaked, the garment was semi-transparent and molded every dip and curve of her body. Her small, perfect breasts thrust out impudently, the rose nipples visible through the wet fabric, the tips hardened into tight nubs by the chill rain.
David jerked his gaze lower, only to encounter the shadowy indentation that marked her navel and the darker triangle below. The delectable sight brought an immediate, unwanted tightening to his loins.
Angry with himself, he perversely took his bad temper out on Abigail. "Well, don't just stand there! You're dripping water all over the floor. Get in the shower, for Pete's sake,"
Abigail jumped and scurried into the cubicle.
Chelsea lifted her lip at David and gave a low growl.
"Oh, shut up, mutt!"
He grumbled then, stepping back into the bedroom. "Darned skittish old maid acts like I'm gonna jump her bones any second. Ha! Lotsa luck, lady," he snarled at the closed shower door. "You should be so lucky."
That his body didn't agree did nothing to improve his mood. "Damnation, Blaine," he muttered, pawing through the drawers for another T-shirt like a dog digging for a bone. "You've either been celibate too damned long or you're slipping your grip if you get hot and bothered over a persnickety spinster like Abigail Stewart."
A look of grim satisfaction entered his eyes when his search turned up a black T-shirt. He stomped back into the main cabin and hung it on the door handle with a terse, "Here's another shirt. See if you can keep this one dry."
The only answer was the sound of water running, and the erotic image that created sent him searching through the cabinets for another pack of cigarettes, his muttered curses turning the air blue.
By the time the shower door opened, David had his wayward thoughts and body under control. He sat at the table across from the sleeping dog, smoking, his hard face impassive.
Abigail stepped from the cubicle amid a roiling cloud of moist air, warm and redolent with the smells of feminine soap, lotion and talc, and he realized that she'd dipped into the stash of toiletries in her purse. Except for the few curling wisps that straggled around her face, her wet hair hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. Her face was scrubbed free of makeup, rosy and shining.
David took one look at her in the too-large, thigh-skimming T-shirt and felt lust slam into him with the force of a Mack truck.
Oh, yeah. He was definitely losing it.
"I'll, uh...I'll just hang these wet things in the shower," Abigail stammered, avoiding his gaze. She bent over and scooped up the soggy pillow and blanket, and the back of the T-shirt hiked up several tantalizing inches. David's gaze zeroed in on her gorgeous legs with the quickness and accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
Aw, hell.
His heart began to pump double time, and to his disgust, all the blood seemed to flow straight to his groin.
Grinding his teeth, he watched her step back into the shower. Through the open door he saw the hem of the shirt shoot upward to an even more dangerous level as she stood on tiptoe and pinned the pillow and the blanket to the retractable line she'd already stretched across the stall. Beside the bedding hung a pair of practical white cotton panties and a bra.
David shot out of the booth as if it were on fire and stalked into the bedroom. "Hurry it up, will ya," he snapped. "I'd like to get at least a little sleep before this night's over."
Several seconds of taut silence followed. He looked back to see Abigail standing beside the table, watching him warily. "Well? What're you waiting for? C'mon."
"Mr. Blaine—"
"For crying out loud, will you knock off the Mr. Blaine nonsense. My name is David."
"Very well....David. We've been through this already. I'm not going to—"
"Don't say it," he warned, jabbing the air with his forefinger.
"But—"
"All right! That's it!" he bellowed, and Abigail jumped. "I've had all of this damned foolishness I'm going to take!"
Stalking toward her like a rampaging bull, he covered the distance between them in three long steps. Abigail's eyes widened and she let out a squawk of alarm, but before she could unstick her feet from the floor, he scooped her up in his arms and swung back toward the forward cabin.
"Oh! Stop this! You can't— Oh!"
Chelsea awoke with a start and scrabbled to the edge of the vinyl seat, snarling.
"Aw, shut up, you little fur ball."
Stomping past the agitated animal, David marched into the bedroom, shoved the folding door shut with his foot and tossed Abigail onto the bed.
She bounced twice. By the time her backside struck the mattress the second time, he had stretched out beside her and whipped the cover up over them both.
"Why, you—"
Abigail popped up like a jack-in-the-box, but he shoved her back down and rolled half on top of her. Grabbing her wrists, he pinned them to the mattress on either side of her head. She tried to knee him, but David grunted and jumped back, evading the blow.
"Hey! Watch it!" He clamped his muscular leg over both of hers, holding her immobile. "Dammit. For a woman who claims to hate violence, you got a vicious streak in you, Legs."
The folding door rattled and shook as Chelsea launched herself against it time and time again, her shrill barks running together, choppy and ear piercing. The sounds barely registered on the pair locked together in a silent struggle on the bed. Nose to nose they glared at each other.
"Good! It's no more than you deserve! Just because I asked for your help doesn't give you any rights to my body. I told you I wouldn't sleep with you and I meant it! Now let me go!"
"Aw, hell. We're back to that, are we?" She bucked and pitched beneath him, but he held her easily, his hard eyes narrowing on her mutinous face. "I told you, you're not my type. But since you've obviously been waiting for this to happen, why don't we just get it out of the way," he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.
Deliberately he kept the kiss hard, a rough ravishment, devoid of emotion or tenderness. He pushed her deeper into the mattress, his lips rocking over hers with a bored detachment that was insulting. Desire streaked through him, but he held himself rigid. He fought to ignore the wonderful sensations ignited by her taste, her smell, the delicious rub of her breasts against his chest. Not by the slightest softening of his lips or touch of his hands did he reveal the quivering need that h
ammered through him, the heat, the hunger.
At first Abigail struggled fiercely, but after a moment she went still, her body taut beneath his. He could feel the tremors rippling through her. For a brief moment he let himself believe the reaction stemmed from desire, but he knew that it was more likely disgust. Maybe even fear.
The thought overrode his base instincts, giving him the strength to pull away, though his body clamored for more.
He raised his head and looked down at her. Somehow he managed to keep his expression impassive, almost bored. "You see. We both feel nothing. Right?"
He watched her throat work as she swallowed. Her lips were puffy and wet from his kiss, the area around them red where his whiskers had abraded her skin. She stared at him, her pale eyes round and unblinking, and gave a hesitant nod.
"Good. Now that you know the chemistry just isn't there, you can quit worrying about it and we can both get some rest. Okay?"
"O-okay," Abigail whispered.
Releasing her, David flopped over onto his back. "Now, how about making that damned dog shut up. That mutt makes more racket than a horde of crazed teenagers at a rock concert."
As David switched out the light, Abigail issued a firm one-word command. At once Chelsea's barking ceased. The darkened cabin pulsed with thick silence.
Several inches separated them, but David could feel Abigail lying rigid beside him. He rolled onto his side, facing away from her. The bed rocked. He punched his pillow. "Go to sleep. You need to get some rest. Tomorrow's gonna be one helluva day.''
The silence stretched out. After a while Abigail murmured a subdued good-night and turned over, too, taking care not to touch him. She scrunched up against the bulkhead, putting as much space between them as she could.
David pretended to snore. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he felt her relax and heard her breathing grow slow and deep.
He stared into the darkness and gritted his teeth.
Oh, yeah. You're in trouble all right, Blaine. Deep, deep trouble.
Chapter Five
As they did every morning, Abigail's eyes popped open at precisely five minutes before five.