Once more he released her with a small shove. "Start collecting things. We’re going to have to brace and bury what we’ve got in the strongest tree shelters.” His gaze drifted to her hand. “What’s that?”
Skye followed his eyes with hers to the forgotten Coca-Cola bottle. “It’s encouragement and hope, Kyle,” she spat. “There have been people on this island before. They left it behind.”
"Save it,” he barked. “We can use any kind of container.”
They barely spoke to one another as they gathered the few things they possessed. With every passing second, it became more and more apparent that they were going to be hit by one bad storm. Kyle made a deep shelter for their few utensils in the harbor of a deeply rooted mangrove and finally turned to her, giving her his full attention.
“We have to lash to the tree!” he shouted. Skye wasn’t sure what he meant, but the mood to argue with him had passed, blown cleanly away by the wind that increased with ferocity each time she drew a breath. It howled and moaned around her, chilling her with the smell of rain it carried. The sky was no longer gray, but increasingly black.
And then the rain did start. Not in gentle pelts like yesterday, but in saturating, stinging buckets. Skye opened her mouth to reply to him, but it was immediately filled by wind and water. Choking, she reached out to him.
A strong, steady hand gripped hers and pulled her along. With firm pressure he pushed her down to the sturdy root trunk of a tree, one that she could wrap her arms around, and before she knew what he was doing, she found herself secured there, tied by a swatch made from the half-sewn material remnants she had left earlier.
And she was scared. Through the screeching wind and blinding rain, she could see the high grass laid flat; and tips of palms bent low to the ground, kneeling in supplication to the storm. Soaked, trembling, freezing, and miserable, she realised she had never been more scared in her life, not even when she knew the plane was going down. Blackness had claimed her quickly then—this she was having to endure. Her tears were once more mingling with the rain.
Skye strained around to search for Kyle but soaked strands of her hair clung to her face and obscured her vision. But he was there. A second later she felt him, the wide breadth of his chest against her back, his face near her ear as he struggled tensely to secure another of his makeshift ropes around the tree. Giddy with relief yet terrified he might see her tears, she snapped, “Can’t find your own tree, huh?”
“Shut up,” he hissed.
She complied, grateful to feel the taut pull of his muscles against her as he strained with another knot. Finished with the task, his arms came around her. They both hugged the tree like a pair of doubled-up koala bears.
So far they had only tasted the beginning of the storm. It raged on and on, increasing to a frenzied pitch, wailing like a fleet of vengeful banshees, destroying like the hand of Almighty God sent down from the heavens to heave and toss indiscriminately. Trees bent and soared, massive branches snapped like twigs, and somewhere, not far from them, the ocean swirled and foamed in white-tipped fury. Its sound was part of that banshee wail that screeched with the wind, a thousand demons in a ravaging orgy.
Skye clung to the tree as if its bark was life itself. Branches snapped and swirled around her, but Kyle had chosen well. Their angle and that of the nearby old, sturdy trunks kept them from being bombarded by the flying missiles that whistled clearly by their ears.
The fury of the storm seemed endless. Her arms were stiff and seemed frozen around the tree; every breath she took was a great effort as she fought for air against the power of the assault of wind and water.
Yet still in her misery there was warmth, supplied by Kyle’s protecting form around her. It was the only warmth, and against all else she was barely aware of it. Only when the wind would die to renew itself to die to shriek again, would she feel the expansion of his chest and hear the barely audible whisper of his breath. There were times when she felt as if they were one, and in the endless flurry of thoughts that riddled her mind through the holocaust, she was fervently grateful for him, for the heat he supplied, for the endurance his powerful embrace brought to her.
The storm left them as it had come, slowly, at first imperceptibly. But bit by bit, through the chattering, semi-lucid state of Skye’s consciousness, she realized the winds were abating. The deluge became a gentle patter. Skye shifted against her human shelter.
“Not yet,” he whispered hoarsely to her.
Her flesh was as cold as ice; her muscles and limbs as stiff. “I can’t stay here anymore,” she moaned, “I can’t…”
“You have to. This may just be the eye passing.”
And so they waited. Skye couldn’t control her shivering, even as he wrapped more tightly about her. Then finally, when Skye was sure she could hold her wet and frigid position no longer, Kyle began tearing at their bonds. A moment later he moved laboriously to his feet. Skye attempted to do the same, but her numbed limbs simply wouldn’t obey her. She would have fallen had he not been there to grab her.
"I—I’m all right,” she protested as he swung her into his arms.
“Yes,” he said, a faint grin twisting his lips. “Yes, I think that you are." But he didn’t set her down.
The rain ceased entirely as he picked his way through the tangle of destruction that was the island. When they reached the beach— the sand only partially visible, its surface literally dotted with the palm debris from the inland—Skye saw with utter amazement that it was still daylight. Pink was streaking through the gray—the storm was going to leave in its wake a glorious sunset.
“I don’t believe it," Kyle said incredulously.
“What?” Skye demanded.
“The posts stood!” Kyle dumped her to her feet and rushed to the remains of their hut, staring at the four corners that still stood. “I’m a better builder than I thought!”
Skye watched him, partially amazed that he seemed so oblivious to discomfort after the storm, partially amused at his boyish pride.
She cleared her throat, hoping her wet and cold state wasn't going to lead to pneumonia. “What do we do now?” she asked.
He looked back to her, his eyes surprisingly gentle. “We start over,” he told her softly. “Shouldn’t be too hard—we didn’t have that much to begin with.” He walked back to her and set his hands upon her shoulders. “You okay?”
Skye nodded slowly, aware there was a lump in her throat. “Yeah,” she said huskily. “Except that I’m freezing and everything is sopped.”
“We’ll get a fire going.”
“How? Nothing will be dry?”
“First,” he said, tapping her chin, “we’ll go see if our little cache survived. We’ll find enough kindling that isn’t saturated and get it going with some of the alcohol.” Suddenly he was off again across the foliage-strewn beach. “Coming?”
Skye blinked, wondering at his easy ability to get on without crying over spilt milk. “Might as well,” she returned briskly, adding dryly, “I certainly don’t have any other pressing appointments.”
An hour later, just as the sky cleared entirely and the sun made a belated attempt to reign through clouds, Skye and Kyle returned to the beach with the last of their supplies. Kyle set determinedly to creating a fire while Skye studiously attempted to release the knots in the material ropes Kyle had made earlier.
“Boy Scout, hell!” She heard Kyle chuckle exuberantly. “I am a damn Eagle Scout!”
Skye glanced at the fire, which was picking up a cheerful blaze. She was very pleased at the idea of some warmth, but couldn’t help feeling a tinge of resentment. Wasn’t there anything he didn't handle capably?
“Eagle Scout all the way,” she muttered, taking her task to the fire.
He scowled at her. “Hey, you could have done worse."
“Yes,” she admitted quietly, “I could have done worse.” She clenched her teeth together and strained against a knot that wouldn't give. "Damn,” she murmured irritably. Her eyes
rose to meet his. “I guess you could have done a bit better,” she half apologized.
Kyle bent low beside her on one knee. He reached out with his thumb and very gently drew a soft pattern from her cheekbone to her lips, pausing just momentarily to rub her lower lip. “I don’t think I did badly at all,” he told her. His hand dropped to his side and the extremely husky timbre left his voice. “You never did give me a chance to make a return assessment,” he teased.
“Pardon?” Skye demanded, bewildered both by his words and the strange, chemical emotion that seemed to fill her with warmth at his tender touch.
His grin went rakishly wicked. “Very nice backside!” He chuckled. “Very nice, ah, everything!”
“Ohhh!” Skye murmured, creating her own warmth as a wealth of heat flushed her face. Further confused, she turned her attention back to the knots that stubbornly resisted the efforts of her fingers. She couldn’t be insulted; in fact, it pleased her very much that he found her pleasing. But she had to tread warily. They were alone in a perilous situation, and he was proving to be very much a man—wasn’t that something that automatically called out to feminine instincts? Skye didn’t want to come too close. They seemed to be veritable opposites prone to easy argument. If they had met under other circumstances, would they have even given One another a second glance?
But why did his touch thrill her so, send the ache of fire burning sensuously through her bloodstream. Now that the crisis was over and the wind no longer pounded against reason, she could remember the feel of his powerful body harboring hers so clearly. Half the time she was ready to hit him, but she was slowly finding that the intrigue to touch him, to press herself against the auburn mat of his bronze, gleaming chest, was becoming almost a mystical compulsion. Of all the men she had met in her lifetime, he was unique: sometimes brash, sometimes tender. She didn’t know who he was, and yet she had never met a man more confident of what he was.
Skye decided her best course of action at the moment would be to change the subject—and not discuss any of the confusion she was feeling. “I thought you said it wasn’t going to be a typhoon?” she accused.
“That was hardly a typhoon!” he assured her, withdrawing slightly. Had he expected her to make a comment on his favorable assessment of her physical attributes? Was he disappointed that she had neither sprung to anger nor floundered with embarrassment?
“Those winds were nothing,” he continued. “I’ve seen them when they’ve destroyed entire villages, when the tidal wash created has shifted entire coastlines.”
Skye shivered slightly; a chill she hoped was not apparent creeped along her spine. She didn’t want to ever see another storm in the South Pacific, and yet here they were marooned. What if another storm blew in, a storm with winds more vicious…
She cleared her throat, not about to let him sense her fear. “How long have you been flying, Kyle?”
She should have noticed that his smile held a wry trace of amusement as he slowly replied, “Awhile. About twenty-four years.” Her eyes widened a hair. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but she suddenly realized that couldn’t possibly be. Not if he had been flying that long. Her curiosity satisfied, she noted inwardly with surprise that she really hadn’t asked him a thing about himself. She didn’t even know his last name.
“I lied about my age and joined the Air Force at sixteen,” he explained without further questioning.
“How do you like flying for Executive Charters?” Skye asked.
There seemed to be another devilish glint to his smile, but it was quickly masked. “Why do you ask like that?” he said softly.
Skye shrugged. “Just because I hear that it’s a perfectionist operation. That the owner of the company is great on pay and benefits, but one hell of a tyrant.”
“Oh?" Kyle’s brows rose. “What else have you heard?”
Again Skye shrugged. “Oh, not too much. Your boss is never photographed, you know. I read one small article on him that compared him to a present-day Howard Hughes. A bit of recluse, you know?”
“Eccentric, eh?” Kyle murmured dryly.
Skye laughed. “You tell me! All I know is what I’ve read. You work for the man.”
“No,” Kyle interjected, “you tell me what you’ve read and think and then I’ll tell you how it compares to what I know!”
“Okay,” Skye agreed, glad to have her mind distracted from reminders of the storm. “K.A. Jagger—self-made millionaire, surely ruthless and relentless. Started off with nothing and created an empire—the largest fleet of private Lears anywhere in the world. Fame and fortune, however, made him a tyrannical despot. About ten years ago he threw out his wife of a decade, and since then he has been linked with names of stage and screen, all sorts of international beauties. Which just goes to prove that money can buy anything,” she added with a small, wry smile. “He has never been divorced, so all these lovelies are content to bask in his aura of power and accept whatever he magnanimously gives.” If she hadn’t been caught up in her storytelling, Skye might have noticed that Kyle didn’t appear to be quite so amused. His gaze had become distant and cool again; his eyes were narrowed in a way that might be construed as dangerous by an astute observer.
“He sounds like a monster,” Kyle said.
“I would imagine,” Skye agreed.
“So why do you fly the lines?”
“What do I care about the owner?” Skye laughed. “I fly to Australia frequently. I buy my gold straight out of the mines, and, of course, Virginia is there…” Her voice trailed away for a second, and then she continued. “Executive Charters gets me where I want to go when I need to be there. Usually,” she amended with a wince. Skye hesitated uneasily for a second before adding, “And they’ve never had a crash before, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Kyle answered bitterly.
Fervently wishing she had kept her mouth tactfully closed, Skye fell silent for a moment. There had been many a time when she had wished to wound him, but now wasn’t one of them, nor did she wish to cause him the pain her simple words had brought. She opened her mouth to say something, then let it fall shut. What could she say? They had crashed. He wasn’t the type of man who would appreciate her sympathy. Was he worried about his job, if and when rescue came? Perhaps she could assure him on that count without sounding as if she were patronizing him or offering pity.
“Don’t worry about your employer,” she finally told him, opting for a teasing vein. “I’ll be happy to inform him that only your skill landed us alive. And,” she added impishly, “keep up the good work around the island and I’ll even stretch the truth a bit and tell him you were charming—a perfect representative of his airline!”
Kyle raised a brow with wry skepticism. “Is that bribery?” There was a subtle change in his eyes, something akin to challenge, that made Skye wary. She was suddenly sorry she had tried to be nice. Sympathy was wasted on him. An interlude of civility with him was just that—an interlude and nothing more. She knew by his cool, mocking expression that any moment he would return to his assumption of autocratic command again.
“Yes, it is bribery,” she snapped with annoyance. She smiled with a warning sarcasm. “Toe the line, Kyle,” she informed him, allowing her tone to leave doubt as to whether she was serious or teasing, “or I’ll happily inform your boss that you’re a bit of a monster yourself!”
“Really?” His voice was soft, his brow still slightly raised. “That’s not bribery,” he said, kneeling beside her and tugging the fabric she still struggled with from her hands. “That sounds just like blackmail.”
Fascinated as the stubborn knots gave way instantly beneath the power of Kyle’s hands, Skye felt herself growing more defensive. “Maybe it is,” she replied, trying for a light tone. What was the matter with her? she wondered fleetingly. She couldn’t seem to find middle ground with this man. He could raise her temper with a look, send unwanted shivers racing along her spine with mere proximity. He frightened her, he infuriated her, he co
mpelled her.
“I told you I don’t like threats,” he said, his lips set in a tight but apparently pleasant smile as he brought a finger to lift her chin. Skye was tempted to tear away from him in panic, while at the same time she felt mesmerized by his eyes. They seemed to root her to the spot.
What happened? she wondered desperately. A moment ago they had been engaged in idle conversation. She had simply been talking, he had been polite, they had been putting the storm behind them.
And now there was suddenly a tension between them, tangible, explosive. She was drawn to the power that emanated from him, yet she felt the need to fight it, to assert herself, to set up a barrier before she found herself running with no more chance of escape than a mouse cornered by a cat.
She raised her chin above the pressure of his finger. A soft, cynical chuckle escaped her. “You don’t like threats? I’m so sorry. I don’t care for being pushed around—and you’re quite adept at pushing." She sighed with mock resignation. “I’m afraid I have a talent for threats.”
“That’s too bad for you, Ms. Delaney,” he said, that quiet tone still with him, his tight but amiable smile still in place.
Then the smile disappeared. Skye was made aware that she had been a cornered mouse all along—the cat pounced. With mercurial swiftness, she found herself brought flat to the sand, her shoulders pressed down effortlessly by his hands. He hovered above her, his volatile energy still leashed, but all the more frightening because it was so obviously under control. Stunned as she stared at him, Skye was tempted to howl with frustration. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to be able to tear him to shreds. He was in a position to do exactly as he pleased, and she hated him for it.
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