“Yes, I would mind terribly!” Skye hissed. She was shaking from his assault, yet mesmerized by his eyes blazing into hers. He was hateful, but she was suddenly aware that his grip upon her was firm but not cruel or painful, and as they stared at one another, his fingers began to graze her cheek caressingly. Again, although she half wanted to shoot him, she felt a startling desire to grip his hand and hold it to her, to crawl into his arms and forget the dignity she struggled to maintain. “Get your hand off me,” she managed weakly, “and I’ll bring the damn rum.”
He didn’t let go of her, but the fire died out of his eyes and he winced. “I’m sorry. Christ, this is stupid!”
His remorse was sincere, but it didn’t make Skye feel any better. With him hovering over her in his leashed pounce, exuding tense energy and vitality, she was far too keenly aware of his physical presence. Clad only in the cutoff shorts, he was frighteningly male. Skye was aware of the thick abundance of the auburn hair on his wide, taut chest, on long corded legs. She was aware of his tight, stretched belly, of the smooth, glistening bronze of his skin. Acutely, achingly aware of the strength behind the callused fingers that feathered along her cheek…
“Please,” she whispered uneasily, “just let go of me. I’ll get the rum. I’m sorry too. I guess we’re both just jumping at each other’s throats…”
Her words were swallowed up by his lips. They descended upon hers completely, hungrily seeming to demand and consume. There was no “request” to his kiss, no subtle, seductive, persuasion, just an assumption of mastery, of a need that compulsion dictated be fulfilled. The hand that had cradled her chin moved to thread through the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her steady as his lips moved savoringly with that assurance, assuming her stunned stillness to mean a simple acquiescence. Or did he care? Did he need her agreement?
Or could she deny it? Sensation flooded through her, blind sensation. And the feeling was good. He had easy access to the recesses of her mouth as her lips had been parted in speech; his probing tongue seemed to bring a surge of warmth that spewed forth from within her. While she still fought to ponder the sensation, he shifted, bringing his weight atop hers and both of them down to the sand, never breaking the kiss. His tongue slid to glide and taste her teeth, then plunged again, stirring another wave of erotically surging pleasure in her racing bloodstream. And his hands began to move. They cupped her face, touched upon her throat, caressed her shoulders. A finger moved slowly down the tender flesh of her inner arm, and all the while she was disparagingly aware of the warmth and strength of his body, pressed to hers, feeling so right, so shatteringly good. If she moved a hand, she could feel the ripple of a shoulder… marvel at the smooth texture of bronze, taut skin…
Skye moved more than a hand. As compelled as he, she touched him, gripping her delicate fingers into his back, making an entire sensual adjustment to make her body more accommodating to his. The firm softness of her breasts were crushed against the wall of his chest, tingling with the contact; she felt the grind of hips against hips and, despite the material that separated them, the male arousal she had known would be so potent. And she wanted it all. The sky, the sand, the sea—all seemed to fade. Her past, the life that had been hers until just yesterday, seemed to evaporate to nonimportance. She felt as if her flesh had merely survived for all that time, waiting.
Only coming alive now, with his touch. His lips left hers to rake a line down her cheek to her throat. Skye opened her eyes, but remained spellbound. Up above the night was becoming black, hazing out the few remains of the blood-red sunset. Tonight there were stars, the pale sliver of a moon. She was damp and sandy, a scraggly mess, but the sky had never been more beautiful, she had never felt better, more feminine.
More alive. More sensual. More complete. More uniquely a part of a whole. She shivered deliciously as his wandering, fiery lips continued their trail, his tongue tracing her collarbone, nuzzling aside the fabric of her shirt. A day’s growth of beard furred his cheeks and chin, but the abrasive quality only served to heighten the sensitized awareness that assailed her. He shifted again, allowing a hand to fondle her curves firmly from breast to hip in exploration, then move back to cradle her breast and massage the nipple. Through bra and shirt it hardened satisfyingly for his touch. Skye moaned beneath him. Her fingers feathered over his ear, sank into auburn hair that was still heavy and wet. The top button of her blouse slipped open, abetting his forays of moist exploration with lips and tongue. Again Skye felt herself possessed by compulsive trembling, shot through with the white lightning of raw, explosive desire.
And she was still in wonder that her rampaging craving for him could have been so easy to create, so undeniable and immediate— still too stunned to protest, too spellbound to halt.
In the back of her mind she knew it was wrong. Physical attraction in the heat of an explosive situation. There were a dozen reasons why it was wrong, and she could never tell herself that she had been too mindless to resist. She wasn't mindless at all. Every beautiful sensation was being tenderly registered and ingrained, as if catalogued for blissful memory. She needed the heat; she needed the explosion. In the calm that followed the storm, her own winds, dormant for so long, had grown to twist and whirl at ferocious speed. It was the island, it was the sea, the sun—the man. They had taken from her, they had given to her. They had brought her back to life.
She had to stop. But when she protested, his lips would stop tasting her skin, his mouth would stop its sensuous movement. The firm glide of his hands would cease; they would leave her, she would feel the cold again. And so she waited, fingers entwined into his hair, grazing the sinewed neck. She fought back tears. And when he slipped hands beneath her shirt and around her back to loosen the hook of her bra, she finally shuddered, drawing breath for strength, and issued a firm if wavering, “No, Kyle, no, please. No further.”
She had expected anger. She hadn’t thought there would be any way to explain that she wanted him but could allow him to go only so far, and still control her own mind, her own desires.
Yet when his eyes met hers, they remained warm. They narrowed, but with concern and puzzlement rather than disdain. He very carefully rebuttoned the top of her shirt, keeping his gaze steady with hers, his hands caressing. She could still feel the heat of him against her, the extent of his desire, and guilt brought her further misery. He had taken her unawares, but his assault had been entirely open. She had only herself to blame for allowing his arousal to grow keenly with anticipation.
His anger she had been prepared for; his tenderness hurt.
“What is it?” he queried softly.
Skye’s eyes widened in surprise. “What is it?” she repeated with disbelief. He was married. She was committed elsewhere; she had merely lost her head because of their situation—this damned island. Surely he knew that without question.
Skye watched Kyle’s high brow furrow in confusion. “I don't think I understand you. We’ve both known this was coming. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything, or anyone, as I want you. And I know that you want me. Bodies don’t lie. They can respond only with truth.”
Skye bit into her bottom lip and lowered her lashes. “I'm not denying that I want you. Please”—she lifted her eyes back to his in open entreaty—“please move away from me.” Skye smiled apologetically, straining to take the fear of her request from her voice. “I don’t want you listening to my body when my mind is going to try to make sense.”
Obligingly, he moved, sitting Indian fashion again, elbows on his knees, chin rested on his knuckles as he surveyed her, waiting. Skye breathed deeply and blinked—imprinting on her memory the look of compassion that could soften the harshness of his features, the slight beading of moisture that made his broad shoulders copper in the night. He was capable of being the world's worst chauvinist, she thought suddenly, then turned around with the patience for understanding when other men would go berserk.
“I’m really not a tease,” she began lamely. His face wa
s completely unfathomable; he waited patiently to listen, but apparently not to help. “Kyle,” she tried again, “I know what you’re feeling, because I’ve felt it. But don’t you realize why? We’re alone out here. We’re experiencing nothing but a very base desire, and I really don’t like it. We fight every other second, Kyle. I’m not sure we even like one another. Besides that, you’re a married man. And I—”
“You are not married,” Kyle interrupted, and Skye was surprised to see that the compassion and tenderness he had previously shown her had entirely disappeared. He was angry, really angry. Why now, she wondered? What had he expected her reasons to be?
“No, I’m not married, but I—I—”
“You have someone else you sleep with?” he inquired sardonically-
“What I do is none of your business,” Skye snapped, annoyed that he could make her one affair of a lifetime sound like an illicit liaison. And she and Ted were both free adults… “If I’d never been on a date in my life, Mr. Jagger,” she said icily, “I would just as soon not start with you.”
“Why?”
Skye stared at him in highly irritated exasperation. “Because you’re a married man—and a user!” she exclaimed.
“A user?” His eyes narrowed to a dangerous glitter that almost made her wish she hadn’t spoken.
She lowered her eyes. “You do have a wife,” she said quietly, “and yet you still change women as you do coats. You—you use them, I don’t care for being used.”
“I’m amazed, Ms. Delaney, that you see fit to judge me on the basis of a few magazine articles,” he said harshly, not denying a thing. “So I’m a user. It seems likely to me that, being as well read as you claim to be, you would also be aware that I’ve been separated for ten years. That’s a long time, my dear Ms. Morality. And you don’t know a damned thing about my marriage. Except that I would say that I at least had the guts to make a commitment—a real try at a relationship. You’re too much of a coward to do that. But that’s all beside the point. I’m beginning to really wonder about you and this stagnant affair you’re having. Is anything ever real with you? Or is it just convenience you crave? You don’t want marriage, but you don’t want to take any chances. Sex is something that is properly scheduled into your neat corporate life—something you indulge in when you have a weekend, or an evening to spare. Well, Ms, Delaney, in my opinion your values are more off base than mine. I may not be able to make the promises, but I do what I do because of what I feel. Anything that I give is honest—”
“You don’t have anything to give!” Skye interrupted furiously.
“That’s right,” he continued coldly, “I’m a user. Except that using usually entails taking something only. I've just discovered that I’ve been rather lucky. The women I’ve known haven’t felt so terribly used. I’ve taken pleasure from them, but I’ve given it in return. And I’ve never met a woman more dishonest than yourself. I sure as hell wasn’t ‘using’ you. You were taking, you were receiving. If you want to get down to brass tacks, I was being used. Like an idiot. Go just as far as Skye deems okay. Then she smiles and asks that you turn yourself off like a faucet.”
“I didn’t start it!”
“I know,” he replied disdainfully. “You wouldn’t have had the nerve to just go for something you wanted. You’re all tied up in some little code of absurd self-ethics. You know I have no loving wife awaiting me, and I don’t think you’re terribly concerned about betraying your lover. You’ve just decided that come hell or high water, you’re going to be the woman who said no to K.A. Jagger.”
“Your ego is incredible!”
“Un-unh, duchess, I just see things the way they are.”
“You see things the way you wish!”
“Do I?” His dry smile was hauntingly sardonic, and he moved in close to her, his eyes pinioning hers although he didn’t touch her in any way. His voice was a razor’s edge, but low and husky; it condemned, but it also shot fever into her blood. “You verbally and physically admitted you wanted me.”
Skye’s eyes fell. “I don’t believe this,” she murmured. “We’re stranded on an island and arguing over morals. I don’t want anything to do with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not when I don’t believe it,” he replied tensely.
Skye looked down and drew a pattern with her finger in the sand. He was totally infuriating—a combination of every male characteristic she had always been sure she despised. Yet instead of the righteous anger she should have been exploding with, she was busy willing away tears that burned her eyes. She closed her eyes for a second. Why was she beset with such confusion? The situation was cut and dried. He had a wife, no matter how estranged…
Kyle moved away from her. She heard and sensed his actions as he searched out a cigarette and lit it in the fire’s flame. She felt his astute gaze continue to blaze into her and she snapped out to ease her confusion.
“I may owe you a few ‘thank yous,’ but I don’t owe you any explanations—or excuses—for anything I choose to do or not do.”
“And what do I owe you?” Kyle asked sardonically.
“A lot, Mr. Jagger,” Skye retorted. “It was your airplane that crashed.” Skye saw his jaw tighten, although it was the only sign of emotion he displayed.
He smiled dryly and lifted a brow. “So sue me.”
“I just might,” Skye muttered uneasily. She suddenly found herself walking idly around the fire, more agitated than she cared to admit. And then, to her annoyance, she found herself half trying to explain and apologize anyway.
“This just isn’t a good situation,” she murmured. “I mean, I have to think about myself. But it isn’t all myself… it’s you, it’s complications…”
“Ahhh…” That dark, single brow rose even higher, his voice maintained an almost casual air. “I thought there was more here than met the eye.”
Skye glanced at him with surprise. Her unease hadn’t fully formed in her own mind, but she knew as he watched her that he had an uncanny perception of her thoughts.
“I do believe you’re afraid of an unwanted pregnancy from an island affair, aren’t you?” he asked bluntly.
“Well, it’s not an unheard of possibility!” she retorted instantly, wincing as she did so. She hadn’t meant to admit such a thing—it made it seem as if all else had been lies, which wasn’t true. It also made her accept the fact that she was afraid of him, that she might come to care when he… when he what? Could never be serious?
There was a strange glitter to Kyle’s cool eyes. “You’re not on the pill?”
Skye felt herself blush beet red. She had never imagined herself discussing contraceptives with a man she hardly knew. And she certainly wasn’t going to discuss her reasons for choosing to use a diaphragm. And yet she had never imagined herself pulled into the arms of such a man… she had never imagined herself in such a situation.
“No, I’m not,” she replied, further irritated by her own embarrassment. Really, he was intolerable. He thought he could say or do anything. The fact was that she now had to realize the character of the man was the power, not just the name. Skye strove to be as tough and crudely blunt as he. “This is merely another point—a serious one, I’m sure you’ll agree. But besides all the issues that should keep us apart, this is definitely a major point. The possibility of our… of our…”
“Conceiving a child?” Kyle offered with vast amusement at her difficulty, his features so cool and sardonic Skye was once again tempted to bury him in handfuls of sand.
“Yes,” she murmured icily. “It would be a disaster.”
Did he know how he pricked beneath her skin, she wondered. His grin suddenly split his bronze features with a handsome slash. “Skye,” he said simply, “it seems I’ve been elected to take care of you now. Surely you must realize I would always do so!”
For some reason she couldn’t prevent the bitter laughter that exploded from her. “Take care of me! How archaic. I can take care of myself, very well, thank you. My
income is quite sufficient!”
“Do excuse me.” His voice remained level, he dragged upon his cigarette, but there was an edge of steel in the tone, subtle mockery.
Skye felt heat flush her face. “You don’t understand,” she accused curtly, annoyed that he had made her feel so guilty when she owed him no reasons. “Children should only be born to happily married couples who both—father and mother—wish to have and raise a child.”
“Very moral,” he returned pleasantly, with just the hint of sarcasm.
“Oh, go to the devil!” Skye ejaculated, torn herself and infuriated that he could twist knives into her so easily with a variance in tone or flick of an eye. “There’s no reason we should be acting like a pair of animals just because we’re on an island together!”
“I hadn’t thought that was the reason,” he said politely. “Nor have I ever thought of making love as acting like an animal.” They stared at one another for several seconds, like puzzle pieces that simply didn’t fit together.
“I don’t think I'm hungry,” Skye finally said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sleep.”
“Just a minute, if you don’t mind.” Kyle rose with lithe agility and stood before her, now towering over her small frame. “You do need to be taken care of, Skye Delaney. Everyone does. But I’ll play by your rules; I’ll play the handyman. As long as I can. But watch your step. On this island you aren’t the reigning queen. I don’t give a damn how much money you make. This is a primitive place, honey. I see to your well-being—you see to mine. That means that we both put in. And”—his hands rose, he gently lifted the hair from her neck and lightly grazed an erratic pulse with a moist kiss, then moved back and dropped her hair—“you start thinking I’m a toy to play with only so far as it keeps you amused again—or falls in line with your moral values—and I’m afraid I won’t make any promises about not falling into the role of me Tarzan you Jane.” He fell silent for a moment, watching her. “Understand?”
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