Dangerous Passions Page 7

  He leaned close, closer.

  Was he going to kiss her?

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Would she kiss him back?

  No, definitely not.

  She’d already told him, clearly and unequivocally, that what happened between them last night would not happen again. Yet less than three minutes later, she was fighting against the same desire that had compelled her earlier out-of-character behavior.

  She took a careful step back.

  His gaze followed her movement, then moved past her to something in the distance. “Look at that.”

  She exhaled an unsteady breath. “What?”

  “Coconut trees.”

  She picked up her pace, perking up immediately at the thought of filling the empty hole in her stomach. Other than the bottle of water he’d given to her on the boat, she hadn’t had anything since dinner last night.

  Dinner with Michael.

  She pushed the memory aside.

  He was already crouching at the base of the tree, shaking his head as he examined and discarded samples of fruit on the ground.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “These are too old.”

  “We can’t eat them?”

  He shook his head again. “The flesh will be hard and the water dried up.”

  “Oh.” Her excitement fizzled like air escaping from a balloon, but he didn’t seem discouraged. In fact, he was removing his shoes and socks.

  She tilted her head back to look up at the top of the tree. “You’re not really going to climb up there?”

  “Do you have a better plan?”

  “No, but—” She clamped her jaw shut as he looped his arms around the tree, gripping the back of it with his hands. She watched in amazement as he braced the soles of his feet against the trunk and seemed to walk up the tree, alternately moving his hands and feet as he ascended. Amazement turned to apprehension as she realized how far off the ground he was.

  “Look out below,” he said.

  She stepped back as the first coconut thunked onto the ground near her feet. Another quickly followed. Then two more.

  After a few more seconds passed, she looked up to see Michael working his way back down the tree. She tried not to stare, but she was mesmerized by the flex of muscles in his arms and legs. Muscles she’d explored with her own hands. She felt a quiver in her belly and tore her attention away to begin gathering up the coconuts.

  He dropped to the soft ground and smiled. “Hungry?”

  Her stomach growled, her mouth watered. She nodded.

  He selected one misshapen sphere from the pile she’d made. The waxy, green covering split when he smashed it against a rock, then he dug his fingers into the fissure to peel back the husk and reveal the hairy brown inner shell.

  Then he pulled a knife out of the pocket of his shorts, flipped it open. The lethal-looking blade glinted in the sun as he poked the point of it into one of the eyes, pushed it deeper, then twisted it back and forth, boring out the hole. When he was finished, he held the shell toward her.

  She gratefully accepted the fruit, tipping her head back to taste the milk. It was watery and sweet, a glorious treat for her parched throat. After a few sips, she handed the coconut back to Michael.

  He wrapped his fingers around hers, around the shell, and lifted his other hand to brush his thumb over her bottom lip. When his hand withdrew, there was a drop of milk on the pad. He lifted it to his mouth, licked it.

  Something inside her quivered, and she felt her nipples pebble beneath the wet T-shirt.

  His gaze dropped to the front of her shirt. There was no way he could miss her obvious reaction, not with the way the wet cotton clung to her like a second skin.

  Then he raised the coconut to his mouth, putting his lips where hers had been. There was something strangely intimate about sharing the milk of this fruit with him, despite—or maybe enhanced by—the knowledge that only last night he’d had his tongue in her mouth…and other even more personal places.

  “More?” he asked.

  Her body ached, yearned.

  Yes. More.

  She finished off the juice and returned the shell to Michael.

  He picked up the knife again and sliced through the shell, neatly splitting it in two. The flesh inside was milky white, glistening with moisture. He broke a piece off, held it to her lips.

  She parted her lips to bite into the firm, crunchy meat.

  He took a bite of the same piece, his eyes on hers, his gaze reflecting the heat she felt building inside herself.

  She felt her breath coming faster, her heart pounding, and knew if she wasn’t careful, she would end up jumping the man over a coconut. She didn’t know what had gotten into her—she wasn’t an impulsive person and she definitely wasn’t the type of person to succumb to hormonal impulses. But there was something about Michael that tempted her to throw caution to the wind, even in these bizarre circumstances.

  Or maybe it was the circumstances themselves that were causing her to act so irrationally. Yes, that made sense. It was adrenaline coursing through her blood, not desire. A natural and completely understandable response to the life-threatening situation she found herself in.

  Satisfied that there was a reasonable explanation for her unreasonable behavior—even if it didn’t justify her actions last night—Shannon picked up another chunk of fruit.

  “How did you learn to climb a tree like that?” she asked.

  “Practice.”

  It was an answer, but one that didn’t give her any information. A deliberate evasion? she wondered. She didn’t know. She also didn’t intend to give up. If they had to be stuck on this island together, they might as well get to know each other.

  “Did you climb trees in your backyard as a kid? Or work picking fruit when you were a teenager?”

  “Neither.”

  “Or maybe you were separated from your parents as an infant, raised by apes like Tarzan, and therefore simply unable to carry on a human conversation.”

  His smile was wry. “That doesn’t sound like such a horrible fate.”

  Before she could decipher his cryptic comment, he stood up.

  “We need to keep moving,” he said, already gathering up the rest of the coconuts. “To find water and shelter—hopefully before the storm hits.”

  She tipped her head back, noted the sunlight still streaming through the canopy of trees. There were some clouds that she could see, but nothing that suggested a storm. She rose to her feet, anyway, ignoring the protests of her aching muscles as she did so, because she knew that, regardless of the weather, water and shelter were essential to their survival on this island.

  As she fell into step behind him, the sun beating down on them, she couldn’t help asking, “Storm, huh?”

  He chuckled. “Trust me.”

  Trust wasn’t easy for her to give under the best of circumstances, but considering that he’d already taken a bullet for her, wrestled a snake from around her throat and scaled a tree for coconuts, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least for now.

  She followed him through the thick growth, ducking through palmetto fronds and battling with hanging vines. Although the lush, tropical vegetation sheltered them from the worst of the sun’s rays, there was no escaping the oppressive humidity. Or the bugs.

  Michael paused for a second.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Shh.”

  She fell silent, listening as he was apparently doing. She could hear the steady rustle of leaves and grasses, the incessant buzzing of insects and the occasional melody of bird-song—the same sounds she’d been hearing since they landed on this island.

  But her guide obviously picked up on something else, because he pivoted about sixty degrees and started forward again. “This way,” he said. “I can hear it.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Water,” he answered over his shoulder.

  She nearly whimpered with relief. Although t
he coconut milk had taken the sharpest edge off her thirst, she desperately needed to rinse the dried salt from her skin and hair.

  When they reached the source, she recognized the need to modify her plans. The stream wasn’t even four feet across at its widest point and probably no more than a couple of feet deep. Still, it was clear and—when she stepped into it—blessedly cool.

  When Michael had taken her onboard his boat, she’d felt as though she wouldn’t ever get warm. The cold had seemed to penetrate her bones and chill her to the core. But after trekking through the tropical heat, her skin was now slick with perspiration, and the chilly water was undeniably refreshing.

  She knelt down to dip her cupped hands into the stream, then sighed as she let the liquid trickle through her fingers. It was clear, probably spring fed, but she couldn’t take the chance. As thirsty as she still was, she knew it needed to be purified before they could drink it. Even a sip of contaminated water could create bigger problems than dehydration.

  “Do you happen to have a pot in that backpack of yours so we can boil some water?” she asked hopefully.

  “No,” he admitted. “But I have purification tablets. We just need a container.”

  She’d seen him remove the pieces of the shattered canteen from the backpack and knew it wasn’t his fault they were unprepared. Still, she couldn’t resist saying, “At least Gilligan had access to the cooking equipment from the Minnow.”

  “That’s because the Minnow wasn’t blown to bits,” he said dryly.

  She nodded, acknowledging the validity of his point.

  “Of course, you’re welcome to swim to the bottom of the bay to see if there’s anything left to salvage.”

  “I doubt it would be worth the effort,” she said. “And I’ve done enough swimming for a while, thanks.”

  “Then we’ll have to get creative.”

  And saying those words, he pulled out a condom.

  Chapter 6

  Shannon stared at the square packet in his hand.

  Obviously Michael believed in being prepared, but did he really expect—

  She wouldn’t let herself complete the thought. She refused to acknowledge the hot thrill of anticipation that coursed through her veins.

  No, it wasn’t excitement; it was anger. She was furious that he would make such an assumption. Regardless of what had happened between them last night, she had no intention of sharing any further intimacies with this man. And how could he even think about getting naked when their lives were in danger?

  She forced a note of aloof disdain into her voice when she said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He followed her pointed gaze and chuckled. “You think I want to have sex with you?”

  Some of her indignant anger faded to confusion. Confusion gave way to embarrassment. “You…don’t?”

  His eyes raked over her boldly, then he smiled, a quick grin filled with blatantly masculine approval. “Oh, yeah.” He waited a beat before adding, “But that’s not what this is for.”

  The confusion returned. “I’d hardly profess to be an expert,” she said. “But even in my limited experience, I’d venture to say that’s exactly what a condom is for.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “How limited?”

  She felt her cheeks burn. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is if we’re going to be lovers.”

  “We’re not.”

  His grin widened. “Again, I beg to differ.”

  “You can beg all you want—it’s not going to happen.”

  “By the time I’m finished, Ginger, you’ll be the one begging.”

  It was a hotly spoken promise that caused her heart to skip a beat, but she was determined not to let him know it. “That’s quite an ego you have, Gilligan.”

  She’d used the insult deliberately, hoping to annoy him, to reassert distance between them. A distance she needed him to acknowledge and accept, because when she was with this man, her hormones had a tendency to overrule her common sense.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t remind her of Gilligan at all. He was too tall, too strong, too elementally masculine. And the combination of his narrowed gaze and the dark stubble on his jaw made him look just a little bit dangerous. Temptingly dangerous.

  “It’s a water receptacle,” he told her, choosing to let her comment pass without argument.

  She frowned, not entirely sure she should believe him. “Do you really expect me to drink out of that?”

  “Only if you’re thirsty.”

  She glared at him.

  “It’s not my first choice, either. But it’s the only thing we have that will hold enough water to let us safely use the purification tablets.”

  “How do you know it will work?”

  “Basic training,” he told her. “Nonlubricated condoms have several uses and are standard issue in most survival kits.”

  His reassurance made her feel only marginally better.

  “We’ll move back to the beach to make camp,” he said. “But we’ll need to take water with us.”

  “Why can’t we make camp right here?”

  “Because the sound of the stream might cover up other sounds we need to be listening for.”

  “Like rescuers?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Or predators.”

  She knew he wasn’t just referring to animals, but Rico and Jazz. Their promise to return was something that would weigh on her mind until she and Michael somehow managed to get off this island—if they managed to do so before Peart’s men returned.

  She sent up another silent prayer that the emergency beacon was working and the coast guard would find them first.

  “Near the beach, we’ll be able to hear any approaching vessels sooner and signal for help,” he explained.

  Again she read between the lines to hear what he wasn’t saying: or run for the hills. Not that there were any hills on this island, nothing substantial, anyway. And if Rico and Jazz returned before they were rescued, they were going to be in trouble.

  She shivered as a breeze rustled through the trees and clouds blocked out the sun.

  Maybe he was right—maybe there was a storm coming.

  Michael had found a bottle of purification tablets in the backpack and tucked them into his pocket. The condom was still in his hand.

  “Are you really going to put water in that?” she asked, still thinking there had to be a better way.

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. There are several more in the pack if we need them for…anything else.”

  Shannon decided the best response to his suggestion was silence. She was feeling decidedly heated as a result of their sexual banter—damn, the man didn’t even have to touch her to make her hot—and didn’t want to encourage him to continue the conversation. So she was relieved when he rose to his feet, condom in hand and headed toward the stream.

  He’d taken only a few steps, however, when he turned to glance back at her over his shoulder. “That ego you referred to earlier?”

  “Yeah,” she said hesitantly.

  “I earned it.”

  She held her breath as she watched him walk away.

  Saunter was more like it. His steps as arrogant as his words, his smile just confident enough to make her heart sigh.

  Despite their almost constant verbal sparring, however, she was grateful Michael was stranded with her. He seemed to know so much about survival, while she was comparatively inept and generally helpless.

  After snakes and sharks, there was nothing Shannon hated more than being helpless.

  It was a feeling that stemmed back to her childhood. She’d grown up poor, not knowing from day to day whether there would be dinner on the table when she got home from school. Her father had been a laborer and he’d worked hard when there was work to be had. But he’d frequently been laid off or between jobs, and then the grocery money had gone to the landlord instead. Although her mother had worked prior to meeting and marrying Robert Vaughn, he’d been insistent that his
wife did not need a job outside of the home.

  Deborah had accepted her husband’s decision, as she’d accepted that his authority was absolute in their home. She’d been completely in love, completely devoted.

  Shannon had resented her mother’s willing subservience almost as much as she’d resented living in poverty. She’d started waiting tables when she was fifteen, determined that she would go to college, that she would never subordinate her own ambitions or desires to those of a man.

  Not that she’d wanted to live her life alone. No, she’d been young and naive enough to believe that she would someday meet a man who would be willing to accept her as an equal partner. And she’d foolishly believed Doug was that man.

  When she’d finally accepted her mistake and walked away from her marriage, she’d made a new vow: to depend on no one but herself.

  For the past nine years, she’d done exactly that.

  But there was no denying that she needed Michael now. Although it grated to be dependent on someone else at this stage in her life, she was thankful for his presence. Not just his knowledge and competence in dealing with the necessities of survival, but his company.

  Pride was a strange thing, she realized now. Pride was the reason her father had forbidden her mother to work outside the home. He’d needed to feel he was capable of providing for his family, even when he wasn’t.

  Shannon now realized she was guilty of the same stubborn pride.

  It was pride that insisted she could go it alone when her heart longed for a partner with whom to share the burden. And it was pride that had made her send Michael out of her room last night when what she’d really wanted was to feel the support of his strong arms around her.

  She’d blamed Michael for his deception—suggesting that his lack of disclosure was responsible for their current predicament. The truth was, they were both at fault.

  And what did it matter who was at fault? The end result was the same. Regardless of who had done what, they were both stuck on this island, they were both probably going to die there.