by Anne Mather
‘I know you’re not serious,’ she said primly, although she was half afraid he was. ‘But I have brought a swimsuit, as it happens. If you’ll look the other way, I’ll put it on.’
Matt’s mouth showed his amusement. ‘Now who’s a prude?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never undressed in front of a man before.’
As a matter of fact she hadn’t, but Rachel wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Just turn the other way,’ she said tersely. ‘I’m not about to undress in front of a man I barely know.’
‘Your loss.’
But to her relief he did turn his back and saunter away towards the ocean. Though her deliverance was tempered with disbelief when he hauled his shirt over his head and flung it down on the sand. Then his hands went to the waistband of his shorts.
Rachel’s mouth fell open and she paused in the middle of unbuttoning her skirt. What on earth was he doing? she wondered. And then let out a gasp when he dropped his shorts as well.
He was wearing underwear.
Rachel relaxed a little when she saw black shorts. She’d been half afraid he went commando. But, dear God, what would her mother think? she mused, dumbfounded. Did she know he flirted with other women when she wasn’t around?
And yet he hadn’t actually flirted with her, she conceded honestly, stripping off her skirt and panties, pulling her swimsuit over her hips. It wasn’t his fault that she reacted to him. He was just naturally unconventional, naturally uninhibited, the kind of man Rachel had never had dealings with before.
Her tank top and bra were quickly disposed of, and she expelled another sigh when the top of the swimsuit was securely in place. Okay, it was strapless, and probably not the most appropriate choice in these circumstances. But she’d change back into her clothes as soon as she’d had a swim.
Matt was already in the water, the sea lapping about his hips. His tattoo was fully exposed now, wrapped darkly around his upper arm. She noticed how brown his skin was above his black waistband, smooth and unblemished. He had narrow hips and strong thighs and a tight muscled butt.
Dear Lord, she wasn’t supposed to notice such things, not about a man who was apparently involved with her mother. But, for some reason she preferred not to dwell on, she was incapable of ignoring him, or his hard masculine beauty.
Choosing a spot some yards from where Matt had entered the water, Rachel dragged her eyes away from her tormentor and ran eagerly into the sea. It was so good to submerge her shoulders, to dip her head below the surface, to come up feeling exhilarated just to be alive.
The land shelved fairly steeply, she discovered, and in no time at all she was out of her depth. But that didn’t worry her. She was a strong swimmer, and the water itself was so warm and soft and delightful. Whatever else she took from this trip, she would always remember swimming in the Caribbean.
She’d been half afraid that as soon as she was in the water Matt would join her. Or was that half hopeful? she wondered, aware of something like disappointment when he kept away. He was some distance further out, turned onto his back and floating on the water. A dark star-shaped figure that attracted her like a magnet.
She couldn’t help herself. She swam towards him and said breathlessly, ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I’ve never swum in water as clear as this.’ She’d already noticed dozens of tiny fish swimming beneath her. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’
‘No problem.’
With knife-like grace, Matt brought his legs up to his body and then straightened to tread water beside her. He’d left his dark glasses on the beach, as she had, and his eyes were unmistakably sardonic.
‘I got the impression you wished you hadn’t accepted my invitation,’ he said, reaching out to wipe a strand of wet hair from her face. He saw her flinch and his expression hardened. ‘Lighten up, can’t you? Or do you think every man who touches you wants to jump your bones?’
‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Brody,’ she retorted, her enjoyment of the day souring on the bitterness of his words. Without waiting for his response, she turned and swam back towards the shore. He was impossible, she thought irritably. He turned everything into a personal assault.
Matt overtook her before she reached the shallows, so she was obliged to follow him as he walked up out of the water. But she found her stomach tightening instinctively when she got a good look at his underwear. He was wearing black stretch boxers that clung to him like a second skin.
He turned, picking up his body shirt and using it to dry his chest and stomach. As before, he didn’t seem to care what she thought of his behaviour, but Rachel was finding it very hard to drag her eyes away. It infuriated her, but she found everything about him unbearably sexy. She was beginning to understand why the girls in the office gossiped constantly about their sexual experiences.
The bravado of bringing one of the hotel towels seemed unnecessary now. Rachel felt distinctly guilty when she pulled the towel out of her backpack. But Matt wasn’t looking at her. As he continued to rub his chest and arms, his attention seemed fixed on a large bird foraging among debris further along the sand.
Rachel couldn’t help herself. Wrapping the towel about her, she exclaimed, ‘What is that?’
‘A pelican.’ Matt sounded indifferent. ‘It’s evidently found something to eat amongst the seaweed. This beach is usually deserted. I guess it thought it wouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘A pelican.’ Rachel shook her head in wonder. ‘I’ve never seen a pelican before.’ She looked at Matt. ‘Is that what you’ve got tattooed on your arm?’
‘Hell, no.’ Matt shook his head, though his gaze barely acknowledged her. ‘This is a nighthawk. I had it done while I was at college. My father didn’t approve, but it was too late then to do anything about it.’ He grimaced. ‘Finish getting dressed. Then I’ll take you back to the hotel.’
‘Oh.’ Rachel let out a sigh. ‘Must we?’
Matt’s frown wasn’t encouraging. ‘Must we what?’
‘Go back,’ Rachel said, knowing he’d understood her the first time. ‘Look, I know I overreacted before, but that’s just me.’
‘Really?’
His frown deepened, but he didn’t immediately say anything else. Instead, to her amazement, he turned his back on her and pushed his wet boxers down his legs.
Rachel’s eyes widened. She’d been right. He was totally uninhibited. He didn’t care who saw him, or that she might find his behaviour offensive.
But she couldn’t deny he was good to look at. Wide shoulders tapered to narrow hips, his buttocks rounded and tight. And he was brown all over. No boring privacy line for him. As he used his shirt to dry himself again, Rachel found she was holding her breath.
She didn’t suck another gulp of air into her labouring lungs until he’d pulled on his cargo shorts. He wrung out the boxers he’d worn to swim in, and then put on the damp body shirt that clung even closer now. She could count the vertebrae in his spine, the neat lacing of muscles over his stomach. And then she realised, with a sense of frustration, that she hadn’t even begun to get dressed herself.
Fool, she thought impatiently. She was acting like a moonstruck schoolgirl. Heaven knew what her mother would think if she could see her now.
She fumbled beneath the towel, trying to dislodge the swimsuit. But her body was wet, the suit damp and clingy. She couldn’t help thinking how much easier it would be if she dared drop the towel and strip in front of him.
Of course she didn’t do any such thing. And to her relief Matt bent to gather up his shoes. With a supreme effort she managed to kick the swimsuit off her legs. It was fairly simple, after that, to step into her skirt and panties using the towel to protect her as she pulled on her tank top.
It was only as she was stuffing the damp towel into her backpack that she saw her bra still lying on the sand. She
said a rude word under her breath, but it was too late to worry about it now. She stuffed it into the bag, too, suddenly aware that Matt had started away along the shoreline.
He glanced back when she straightened, however, and his timing was so perfect she had to wonder if he’d been as indifferent to her struggles as she’d believed.
‘Let’s walk,’ he said neutrally, apparently prepared to humour her. ‘If you can stand the heat.’
‘I think I can.’
Rachel slung the backpack over her shoulder and hurried to catch up with him. But when she came level he reached over and lifted the bag from her arm.
‘Leave it here,’ he said, dropping it onto the sand. He spread an all-encompassing arm. ‘No one’s likely to steal it.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Except him, of course.’ He indicated the pelican, who looked poised for flight. ‘But I doubt he’d find one of my towels to his taste.’
Rachel glanced up at him. ‘I know. I shouldn’t have brought it.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You didn’t have to. I feel guilty enough as it is.’
‘Forget it.’ He dismissed her claim. ‘What’s one towel or more between enemies?’
Rachel caught her breath. ‘Are we enemies, Mr Brody?’
‘Matt,’ he corrected her shortly. And then, ‘Well, we’re sure as hell not friends.’ He started to walk again. ‘Come on. Keep moving. Or you’re going to need to cover up.’
Which wasn’t his problem, thought Rachel, trying to distract herself. But if she wanted to stay with him she had to do as he said. And it was surprisingly pleasant, walking in the shallows, feeling the sand melting away between her toes.
They walked for a while in silence. Rachel had expected to feel uncomfortable after what he’d just said, but she didn’t. In actual fact she enjoyed the sense of isolation, with only the cry of birds and the muted thunder of the ocean to disturb the peace.
And then he asked the question she’d been dreading.
‘Why did you come to St Antoine, Ms Claiborne?’
CHAPTER FOUR
MATT had halted and Rachel was forced to do the same.
She took a breath. ‘My name’s Rachel, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Okay.’ He was tolerant. ‘Why did you come to St Antoine, Rachel?’
She couldn’t tell him. Not like this. Not so baldly. She just couldn’t.
‘Um—why do people usually come to the island?’ she prevaricated lightly. ‘I needed a break and St Antoine seemed an ideal place to chill.’
‘To chill?’
Sceptical eyes drifted down over the defensive angle of her jaw to the creamy hollow of her throat.
And beyond.
Rachel was instantly aware of the disadvantages of not wearing a bra when his eyes lingered on her cleavage. The hard peaks of her breasts must be clearly visible, taut against the soft fabric of her top. And, short of covering them with her hands, there was nothing she could do about it.
‘You should have gone to the South Pole,’ he remarked mockingly. ‘I’m told it’s pretty chilly there.’
Rachel’s nostrils flared. ‘I think you know what I meant.’
‘Yeah.’
He conceded the point and started walking again. And Rachel was so relieved to be free of those scathing eyes she fell into step beside him.
But he wasn’t finished.
‘That doesn’t really explain why you chose this island,’ he persisted. ‘I mean, we’re not exactly on the tourist map.’
‘You get tourists here.’
‘They’re often recommendations,’ Matt informed her smoothly. ‘And usually from the States.’
Rachel managed a short laugh. ‘You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that you didn’t welcome new visitors, Mr Brody. If all your guests are subjected to this inquisition.’
‘Matt.’ He stopped again, his voice hardening with impatience. ‘And they’re not.’
‘Oh.’ Rachel made a moue of her lips. ‘Well, I’m here now.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry if I’m in the way.’
Matt studied her apparently innocent expression for another long disturbing moment, and then made a chopping movement with his hand.
‘Did I say you were in the way?’ he demanded. ‘You—intrigue me, that’s all. Put it down to simple curiosity, if you like, but I don’t think you’re being entirely honest about your reasons for being here.’
What did he know?
Rachel sucked in a breath. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Mr Brody?’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Ms Claiborne. There’s an expression I’ve heard that seems relevant. I think you’re being economical with the truth.’
Rachel turned away and started walking again. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head, but she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other.
‘I must say, you don’t pull your punches, Mr Brody,’ she threw back over her shoulder. ‘And here was I, thinking you’d enjoyed my company.’
‘Whether or not I enjoy your company has nothing to do with it,’ he retorted, overtaking her. He stepped in front of her. ‘And for God’s sake stop calling me Mr Brody.’
Rachel made an effort to appear composed. But it was difficult with approximately two hundred pounds of frustrated male more or less in her face.
‘All right. Matt,’ she said with assumed lightness. ‘You don’t have to humour me. I’m not what you expected and I suspect you don’t like me very much.’
He blew out a breath. ‘Now, where the hell did that come from?’ His eyes darkened. ‘But you’re right. You’re not what I expected.’
Rachel felt a twinge of disappointment. But why should he be any different from other men? And, more importantly, why did it matter? He was her mother’s problem, not hers.
‘I think we should go back,’ she said, concentrating on the unbuttoned neckline of his body shirt. Which wasn’t the most sensible place to look, bearing in mind the dark hair that was clearly visible in the opening. But at least it kept her gaze away from his. ‘It’s been very—enjoyable, but all good things must—’
‘You know, that’s part of the problem,’ he said, ignoring her suggestion completely. His voice had thickened to a sensual drawl. ‘You’re not like any woman I’ve known before.’
‘And I’m sure you’ve known many,’ Rachel retorted before she could stop herself. But, heavens, what was she supposed to say?
‘Some,’ he agreed, his eyes darkening with a predatory gleam, and Rachel couldn’t help herself. She started backing away. But he came after her. ‘Does that bother you, Ms Claiborne? The fact that I don’t want to like you but I do?’
Rachel’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you coming on to me, Mr—Matt? Because I think I should warn you, I do know how to defend myself.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ With a muffled oath, Matt strode past her. ‘Listen to yourself, will you?’ His long legs opened a yawning space between them. ‘Get your rucksack. We’re going back.’
‘It’s a backpack,’ muttered Rachel barely audibly as she hurried after him.
They’d walked a surprisingly long way, and she had to jog back to where her bag was lying before practically running to reach the place where they’d left the Jeep.
She was still muttering to herself as she struggled to climb the dunes, getting frustrated when the sand persisted in sliding away beneath her feet. She’d watched Matt navigate them without any apparent effort, and it was infuriating to see him standing at the top, watching her make an absolute idiot of herself.
‘You might have helped me,’ she panted when she got to the top, but Matt only lifted both hands, palms towards her.
‘What? And be accused of taking advantage
of one of my guests?’ he mocked. ‘And besides, why should I deprive myself of such an amusing exhibition?’
Rachel’s lips pursed. ‘Moron!’
Matt shrugged. ‘Bimbo!’
Rachel gasped. ‘I’m not a bimbo!’
‘And I’m not a moron, Ms Claiborne. I suggest you get in the vehicle and I’ll take you back to the hotel.’
Rachel wrenched open the door of the Jeep and did as he suggested. For his part, Matt pulled what she saw were the damp pair of boxers out of his pocket and tossed them into the back of the car. Then he climbed in beside her, the waistband of his shorts dipping revealingly at the back, reminding her, if any reminder was necessary, that he was naked under them.
They seemed to get back to the hotel far more quickly than Rachel had expected. In no time at all, Matt was drawing up outside the Tamarisk’s gates.
Rachel thrust open her door and jumped out, turning to make some perfunctory offer of thanks. But Matt just said, ‘Enjoy your day,’ and drove away without giving her time to speak.
Rachel’s mouth compressed frustratedly, but there was nothing she could do. He’d gone, and with him any chance of asking him about her mother. Although whether she’d have actually had the nerve to do that was anyone’s guess.
Reaching her room, she found the message light on her phone was flashing. Lifting the receiver, she connected with Reception and then said, ‘I believe you have a message for me.’
As she waited for the girl to reply, it crossed her mind that it could be her mother. If Matt had mentioned her arrival to her, she might have decided to get in touch.
‘Ms Claiborne?’
The girl was speaking again, and Rachel answered in the positive. ‘I’m here.’
‘I have here a note that says your father called at nine o’clock this morning,’ the receptionist intoned leisurely. ‘He asked if you’d ring him as soon as you came in.’
Of course. It had to be her father, thought Rachel grumpily. He’d probably expected her to phone him last night, although bearing in mind the time change that had surely not been on the cards.