“It wasn’t your fault,” she said gently.
“I should have been there.” His voice was thick with grief and guilt.
“If you’d been there, you might have been killed, too.”
“I should have been there,” he said again. “It was my responsibility to watch his back—as he always watched mine. Instead I was with Lisa. And then Lisa was gone, too.”
“Gone?” she asked cautiously, silently praying that the woman he loved hadn’t been killed, too.
“She heard about Brent’s death and came to see me at the base. But I didn’t want to see her, not then. She left Righaria with her brother the next day.”
“Tell me about Brent,” she said, hoping the suggestion would help him focus on his friend’s life rather than his death and forget about the woman who’d hurt him so deeply when she walked out on him.
“He was twenty-six years old, the youngest of three brothers, and engaged to be married when he was killed. Tara, his fiancée, was four months pregnant.”
She heard the anguish in his tone, felt her own throat tighten as she thought of the young woman, widowed before she was even married, carrying the child of the man she’d loved. She could guess how Michael had responded to that situation. “What did Tara say when you asked her to marry you?”
He turned his head, surprise momentarily replacing the grim despair she’d glimpsed in his eyes. “How’d you know I proposed?”
She smiled. Yeah, she was starting to get a very clear picture. “It’s the kind of thing I suspect you’d do—try to right a wrong, accept responsibility for something that couldn’t possibly have been your fault.”
“That’s what Tara said when she refused my offer.”
“Do you still keep in touch with her?”
He nodded. “She finally got married two years ago.”
“And the baby?” she asked gently.
“Brent, Jr. He’s five now.”
She smiled again. “You’re a good man, Michael.”
He shook his head, almost vehemently. “A good man would have made sure Brent made it home to become a husband and a father.”
“Are you going to punish yourself for the rest of your life because you couldn’t? Is that why you put yourself between me and Jazz—do you think you have to sacrifice yourself to be forgiven for what happened to Brent?”
“They gave me a citation for bravery,” he admitted, his voice choking on the words. “Because I walked through gunfire to bring him out. And I accepted it, because I didn’t—couldn’t—admit to anyone that it was my fault he was dead.”
Her heart ached for him, for the way he’d suffered, the pain he still endured.
“Tara forgave you,” she said gently. “The only thing left is for you to forgive yourself.”
“I thought you were a chemist—not a psychologist.”
“As it happens, I have a minor in psychology,” she said. “And what you have is textbook survivor’s guilt.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis, Ginger.”
“Now you’re lashing out at me because you want to keep me at a distance.”
His smile was slow, seductive. “I’d prefer to keep you close—real close.”
“Another textbook trait—using physical intimacy as a substitute for emotional closeness.”
“I don’t need a textbook to know that I want you naked and under me.”
“Do you think a few crude words and heated looks are going to scare me?”
His eyes glittered in the firelight. “You should be scared. I’m not the nice guy you want me to be.”
It was a warning, and a not-so-subtle one at that. But Shannon was tired of running, tired of being afraid. “Maybe I don’t want you to be nice.”
He moved closer, his knee brushing against hers as he deliberately invaded her space. “What do you want?”
Sparks zinged through her, incinerating her bravado.
What was she thinking, engaging in this kind of suggestive banter? Not only was it inappropriate under the circumstances, but Michael was clearly out of her league. He was a man with a world of experience she couldn’t begin to comprehend, whose simplest touch tempted her with the promise of something more. And she was a woman who’d spent so much time convincing herself she was content, she was scared to reach for something more.
“I just want us to get along.”
He trailed a finger down her arm, barely skimming her flesh and yet somehow branding her with his touch. “I want us to get along, too.”
Her skin burned from the brief contact—and got hotter with wanting more. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“I don’t think I’m misunderstanding anything.” His finger skimmed upward this time. “I think you’re afraid to admit what you want.”
She batted his hand away. “That is such a typical male response. Everything’s about sex, and if a woman doesn’t want to have sex with you, she has some kind of problem.”
“Except that you do want to have sex with me.”
She opened her mouth to deny it.
“You do,” he insisted. “I see it in your eyes, in the way you respond to my touch, the way your pulse races and your breath quickens.”
“I will admit to a certain physiological response,” she said, unable to refute his observations.
“You want me.”
She hated the smugness of his tone. Hated even more that it was true. “Maybe I just want a distraction from the situation.”
He shrugged. “And since we’ve already established that I want you, why are we talking about sex instead of having it?”
“Does that sort of blunt approach usually result in women tumbling into your bed?”
His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Is that a hypothetical question or are you asking for permission to tumble?”
“Purely hypothetical.” Still torn between the conflicting urges of advance and retreat that were warring inside her, she nevertheless felt guilty for misleading him. “Despite the impression I may have given you, I’m not really into sex.”
His eyes lifted to meet hers, narrowing speculatively. “What do you mean, you’re not into it?”
She shrugged and looked away, struggling to find the right words to ensure she wasn’t sending the wrong kind of signals. Because despite what had almost happened in her hotel room the night before, she wasn’t a promiscuous woman. In fact, in all of her thirty-three years, she’d been intimate with only two men.
The first was Doug, and after she’d left him, she’d been full of recriminations and self-doubts. Following the divorce, she’d focused her attention exclusively on her career and repairing the damage her ex-husband had done to it.
Three years ago she’d met Ron. He wasn’t the first man she’d dated since her divorce, but he was the first one she’d slept with. The first one she’d felt a strong enough attraction to that she’d wanted to prove to herself she wasn’t the inept, inexperienced lover Doug had accused her of being. Except that a few nights with Ron had only confirmed her ex-husband’s opinion.
Shannon had resigned herself to the knowledge that she just wasn’t a passionate woman. Until she’d met Michael and he’d made her feel passion she’d never even imagined.
“When you invited me back to your hotel room last night, it wasn’t for coffee,” he said.
As if she needed to be reminded. “Last night was an aberration.”
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what she was telling him. “Do you even remember last night?”
She looked away, her cheeks infusing with heat. Of course she remembered it. Every second of it. Every kiss, every caress. In torturously vivid detail. The problem wasn’t remembering, it was trying to forget—trying to focus on their circumstances here and now, on the inherent dangers of being trapped on this island, on battling the elements and trying to prepare for Rico and Jazz to return.
“That wasn’t me,” she finally responded.
His smile was slow, seductive. �
�Oh, baby, that was so you. It was you and me and the chemistry between us without any hang-ups to get in the way.”
Her face burned hotter. “I obviously wasn’t thinking very clearly. I had a lot on my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that my mother was getting married for the fifth time and my sister had almost been killed and I’m supposed to be moving to another continent in a few weeks.”
He considered her explanation for a moment, then shook his head. “You weren’t thinking of any of those things. You weren’t thinking about anything but mindless, sweaty sex.”
“You’re confusing your fantasies with reality,” she said.
He smiled again. “My fantasy was about to become reality,” he told her. “You were half-naked and writhing beneath me, practically screaming my name.”
“I don’t writhe,” she said coolly. “And I definitely don’t scream.”
He quirked a brow. “Never?”
“I’m a Type-A personality,” she said. “I don’t like to relinquish control.”
“Maybe you just haven’t been with anyone who made you want to give up control.” He leaned forward so that his mouth hovered mere inches above hers. “Or maybe you need to be with someone who’s willing to take it.”
Chapter 9
A few inches.
Mike was tempted to breach the distance, lower his head and cover her lips in a long, slow kiss that would obliterate all of her misconceptions.
She wouldn’t resist.
Despite her verbal protests, her body language was telling a whole different story.
Her eyes were wide and dark—not wary but curious. Her lips were softly parted and angled slightly toward him. Her breathing was shallow and just a little bit fast. Oh, yeah, she was interested.
“You’re thinking about it,” he said. “Wondering.”
She swallowed, but didn’t deny his assessment.
He brushed his thumb over the curve of her bottom lip, felt the tremble in response to his touch.
Her tongue swept over her bottom lip, tracing the path of his finger in an erotically enticing motion.
If he kissed her, here and now, he had no doubt they’d finish what they’d started last night. But while there was a part of him that desperately wanted to move them in that direction, he couldn’t do it. Not now.
Even if he could forget about Peart and Rico and Jazz for a while—and he had no doubt that he could if he was naked with Shannon—there were other considerations.
Most notably the fact that she wasn’t ready. Her body might quiver from his touch, but her heart and mind were still holding back, and he didn’t want to push her into anything.
Or maybe it was guilt that held him back.
Because while he was trying to break through her barriers, he was carefully maintaining his own. He’d told Shannon more about his past than he’d ever shared with another woman, but there were still certain facts she didn’t know—revelations about his life that he wasn’t ready to make.
He didn’t enjoy the deception, but he enjoyed having the opportunity to explore the attraction between them and know it was real. He’d dated too many women over the years who had been interested in him solely because of his family’s connections and wealth. Shannon didn’t know he was anyone other than Michael Courtland, Private Investigator. She wasn’t using him to get ahead or advance any kind of personal agenda. In fact, she didn’t seem to have any expectations at all.
The realization intrigued him as much as it mystified him, and he took a mental step back, needing some time and space to think about it.
“It’s starting to get dark,” he said.
She exhaled slowly.
He saw the swirl of emotion in her eyes—the mixture of relief and regret.
“I guess the coast guard isn’t coming today.”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” he agreed.
“Which means the beacon probably wasn’t working,” she said, speaking the words he hadn’t wanted to say aloud.
“Even if it wasn’t, Detective Garcia will be expecting to hear from me soon. When he doesn’t, I’m sure he’ll investigate.”
She frowned. “Who’s Detective Garcia?”
“A friend of Dylan’s with the Miami P.D.”
“Oh.” She fell silent again, no doubt contemplating the same questions that occupied his mind.
How long would Garcia wait to hear from him before suspecting that something had gone wrong? How long would it take to establish a search party? Where would they begin? And how could they possibly track down Mike and Shannon before Peart’s men returned?
They were questions she didn’t want to ponder, reminders of a situation that was out of her control.
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” she asked.
“All we can do is wait.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted, but she knew it was an honest one.
“In that case,” she said. “I’m going to turn in.”
“Good idea.”
“What about you?” she asked, then cringed at the question that sounded too much like an invitation.
To her relief Michael shook his head. “I’ll stay here until the fire dies down.”
She crawled into the enclosure, relieved that she didn’t yet have to face being in this narrow space with him. She stretched out on top of the palm fronds that covered the ground, careful to stay on her side, then pulled the thermal blanket over her.
She shivered. It was likely eighty-five degrees outside, and she was shivering. It was possible her body hadn’t completely recovered from her swim, or she might have caught a chill when she got soaked by the rain, or maybe it was fear that was responsible for the bone-deep chill. Fear that Peart would come back before the coast guard. Fear that despite all of her best efforts—and Michael’s, too—she would be captured again. Fear that A.J. would kill her.
She shivered again and stared through the opening of the shelter at the dwindling fire, tried to envision a roaring blaze. But the visual exercise did nothing to ward off the chill that ran straight through to her bones.
She wished Michael was beside her. Maybe then she’d be shivering with something other than cold or fear. She pushed away the thought and tugged the blanket tighter. The last thing she needed was any more complications in her life.
Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d kissed her, couldn’t help remembering how it felt to be touched by him. The memories caused a warm heat to suffuse her body. Okay, so maybe she needed to think about Michael instead of the fire, so long as she remembered her resolution not to turn any of her sexual fantasies into reality.
It was a long time later before he finally crawled into the shelter. When he did so, Shannon kept her eyes tightly closed, tried to suppress her shivers and ignore his presence.
But he seemed to anticipate her needs, sliding closer to wrap his arms around her. “Just relax.” He murmured the words gently. “Sleep.”
How could she when the warmth of his body was already seeping into her chilled skin, infusing it with heat, awareness, desire? How could she possibly sleep when his proximity was inducing all kinds of erotic fantasies in her mind?
She wondered what would happen if she turned so that she was facing him. Would he anticipate her wishes? Would he kiss her the way only he’d ever kissed her—until everything inside her was soft and warm?
Just thinking of those kisses made her sigh.
She yawned and snuggled closer against him.
And finally she slept.
It was a new experience for Mike—waking up with a woman he hadn’t had sex with.
Come to think of it, it was a rare occasion to wake up with a woman he had had sex with. Because while he enjoyed the physical act, sleeping together suggested a level of intimacy he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
Using physical intimacy as a substitute for emotional closeness.
Shannon’s words echoed in his mind.
And yet, somehow, here he was—with this stubborn, opinionated and incredibly sexy woman asleep in his arms. Her head was nestled on his shoulder, her back flush with his chest, the curve of her derriere against his groin. And instead of making him want to bolt, it somehow felt natural.
Or as natural as anything could feel under these unusual and extraordinary circumstances.
She murmured in her sleep, then turned over so that she was facing him. Her breasts, soft and full, were pressed against his chest.
She shifted again, sliding one knee between his legs and pressing her body closer to his. Mike felt all the blood drain out of his head and migrate much further south.
She was killing him here.
The worst of it was, she seemed to have no clue about the effect she had on him, no understanding of her innate sensuality.
She laid her hand on his chest, and he wondered if she could feel the way his heart was pounding beneath her palm. The way she made his heart pound.
He tried to focus his thoughts, to remember all the reasons he’d taken that step back. But all he could remember was the taste of her.
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. The cloudy confusion of slumber slowly cleared away to reveal an awareness and desire that rivaled his own.
He should draw back.
She should push him away.
Neither of them moved.
For several long moments their gazes stayed locked together in wordless communication.
He wanted her. There was no denying that. But wanting her was a distraction he couldn’t afford right now. Rico and Jazz could return at any time and he had to be ready.
“It’s, uh, time to get up,” he said.
Her eyes flickered with a disappointment quickly masked.
Now she did draw away, forced a smile. “What’s for breakfast? Fish or coconuts?”
Shannon knew she should be grateful for his restraint. So long as they were stuck on this island, danger continued to hover over them. It was hardly an appropriate time to let herself be carried away by passion.
Dangerous Passions Page 11