Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong
‘Eight months …’ she heard him mutter.
Her chin lifted. ‘How long do you think it will take you to make repairs?’ The question was ruder than she’d intended. It practically screamed, Get off my island!
He didn’t miss the tone; his lips thinned and those amazing eyes darkened. ‘No idea. I’ll have to assess the damage.’
‘What can I do to help?’ She’d meant it to be conciliatory.
‘In a hurry to have me gone, Honor?’
Shame bit as those all-knowing eyes saw exactly which way her mind was going. ‘No. It’s just … I’m not set up for visitors.’ It was true, yet not entirely the truth.
‘I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.’ His nostrils flared briefly.
Robert Dalton had a decent poker face, an admirable life skill. The aggravated pulse high in his jaw was the only other sign that she’d ticked him off. Her own face was an open book.
‘It’s okay.’ She reached for her trusty logbook. ‘I have work to do, anyway. Make yourself at home.’
It half killed her to say it.
His smile couldn’t have been less genuine. Was it so unthinkable that a person could feel at home in her little base? Even a person whose sunglasses probably cost more than her whole camp set-up? Not waiting for his answer, she snatched up her binoculars and marched towards the trees.
Rob watched her go and then looked around again. Making himself at home felt plain wrong. This camp, with its sweet little homely touches, was so private and feminine. He felt every bit the intruder. He sighed and headed back to the beach, peeling his adhesive T-shirt from his body as he went and looking around for a sun-bleached bush to drape it on. He turned back out to the horizon and waded into the water, heading for the boat that he’d bought with the first money he’d ever earned himself.
Minutes later, under the full glare of the equatorial sun, he yanked his dive mask down harder than necessary and snapped it into place, then readied himself on the edge of The Player.
What’s her problem, anyway? His just being here obviously irritated the heck out of her. Everything he did she took exception to and he’d been here all of one hour. That had to be some kind of record. Not that she’d been entirely rude. She’d been a sport about hauling all his gear onshore, and she’d tried to make nice towards the end.
Although it obviously didn’t come as second nature to her.
Rob smiled. Honor Brier certainly was different to the women he knew. They liked having him around, they even sought him out. Actively. He wasn’t used to feeling plain unwelcome or to a woman being so … transparent and open. Honor had no interest in playing up to him or in putting on an act. She wanted him gone and was being perfectly upfront about it. It made a refreshing change from the gratuitous fawning he endured back home. Not to say it didn’t sting a bit, this feeling of not being quite good enough. But it was undeniably honest.
And unexpectedly welcome.
Robert Dalton Senior would have bawled him out for an hour for valuing character over charisma. His father’s idea of the perfect relationship was one in which everyone revolved around him like planets orbiting a star. And God knew he’d tried to raise his son in his image.
With a well-practised manoeuvre, Rob dropped over the boat’s side, diving once again into the cold waters of the Cocos Trench. Seven and a half thousand metres at its deepest point and here was he, nothing more than an amoeba splashing around right at its highest. Where the ocean bottom broke the surface and became land. This century, anyway. The shoreline on remote islands was as changeable as their sovereignty. Two hundred years belonging to Ceylon. One hundred as Britain’s. Fifty as Australia’s. Next century maybe Indonesia would get its turn. If there was anything left to claim sovereignty over. Cocos and everything on it would be underwater with his shipwrecks the way the sea levels were heading. Nothing was for ever.
Isn’t that the truth.
Rob shook his head. The earth had a way of giving back to itself. Ore ripped deep from its guts became metal. Metal became a ship. A ship became a shipwreck. A wreck became reef and a reef eventually compounded and silted up to become earth again. Oceans rose and retreated, froze over and defrosted and finally retreated enough to push the island-that-once-was-reef-that-once-was-a-shipwreck up above the surface where who knew what life would evolve on it.
His life—with all its dramas—took place in ultra fast-forward by comparison and had no bearing whatsoever on what the rest of the planet did. That thought had a way of keeping a guy humble. Keeping a guy from being too much like his father.
Despite that father’s best efforts.
The water kissed his bare skin as he sank below to assess the damage. The sun had shifted to the other side of the boat slightly, changing the light and making the fracture easier to see. He ran his hand over the hairline crack in the hull, got a feel for the injury. Angry bubbles raced him to the surface. He’d need an oxy-welder and he knew without looking that there wasn’t one amongst the mountain of equipment he’d brought on this short voyage. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t something a pretty female hermit generally kept handy.
He surfaced and climbed back into the boat, his heart heavy. The Player hadn’t taken on water yet—as far as he could see—but, given time and the relentless pounding of the ocean, that could change. It was too risky to take her back out to sea without repairs, even heading for Cocos’ Home Island. He’d have to wait for equipment or a ship to shepherd him back to dry port. Ideally, both.
Looks like this field trip just got extended.
Honor had to have a radio in camp. He hoped he could use it to contact the maritime authority to communicate his predicament.
Anger at his own stupidity made him careless as he swam back to shore, and he rushed his first attempt at boosting onto the reef. Sharp coral shards lacerated his exposed belly in several places. He fell back into the deep water of the drop-off, waited for the swell and used nature’s hoist to push himself onto the reef. The mix of saltwater and fresh air stung like crazy in the welts already forming on his stomach but he’d endured worse.
Not as bad as Honor, his mind reminded him as he dived into the calmer lagoon and stroked carefully across, tugging on the fresh wounds with each muscle flex. Her scars. He was no expert, but the damage didn’t look like burn marks. The skin wasn’t puckered enough. It was more like … patchwork. As if someone had done some kind of Frankenstein number on her.
He frowned. That wasn’t a kind comparison. There was nothing monster-like about Honor. Something very nasty had happened to his little mermaid and not too long ago. The scars still bore the red-edged look of a new injury. How much of her brittleness was caused by her damaged flesh? Maybe they still caused her pain.
His chest tightened. How much pain?
She may be hard work but she was still a human being. And though their lives took place in fast-forward by continental drift standards, they still had to live them. And living with pain was not something he’d wish on anyone.
No matter how ornery they were.
Back in camp, with his T-shirt back on, he spotted the radio immediately. Honor had been in such a flurry to get out of his presence she hadn’t taken it with her. Lucky for him. He grabbed it up and checked the frequency. It was preset to the emergency channel. Not that bumping into a tropical island full of supplies qualified as an emergency, but it was a notifiable event.
‘AMSA Base Broome, this is primary vessel VKB290. Over.’
He waited, then repeated his call to the maritime safety authority in Australia’s far north-west. Indonesia’s capital city, Jakarta, was technically closer but it was Australia who had the last word on who went where in these particular waters.
If they said go, he’d go. If they said stay.
Rob’s eyes trailed around the tiny camp. If they said stay, he’d argue with them.
A lot.
Broome answered and they both switched to a free channel, leaving the emergency frequency uncluttered. With the practice of years and in as few words as possible, Rob communicated his location, damage and condition.
Base were straight back. ‘Are you aware that’s a restricted area, VKB? Over.’
Thanks to Honor. ‘I didn’t have much alternative.’
There was a pause and Rob waited for instructions. ‘Our log shows there’s a researcher from Parks Australia based at Pulu Keeling currently with full supplies, VKB. Recommend you make contact over.’
Rob had a sudden flash of Honor standing on the reef, all dripping and fired up, those self-righteous fists planted firmly on her curvy hips.
He smiled. ‘Roger, Base. Contact established.’
‘Standby, VKB …’
More silence. Rob held his breath.
The radio crackled back to life. ‘VKB, we have a Priority One oil rig situation about eight hundred clicks to your north. All available services will be tied up on that for a few days. Suggest you stay put. Over.’
Rob closed his eyes and cursed, his finger hovering over the transmit button. This was where Robert Dalton Senior would play the son, do you know who I am? card. Make a scene. Have some kind of evac chopper sent out for him, especially. He wouldn’t think twice to throw his weight or his wallet around, even with guys with the security of Australia’s massive coastline on their shoulders.
Moments like this were prime opportunities for Rob to prove how not like his father he was.
But then he looked around again at the tiny camp and imagined himself and Honor trying to avoid each other for days on end. She’d made it pretty clear what she thought of him and his job. If he wanted that kind of judgement, he could have stayed home.
He swore again, pressed ‘transmit’ and played the only card he had. Academia. ‘That’s a negative, Base. I have a museum posting to be at and an important paper to deliver—’ he cringed at how much of a poser he sounded ‘—people who’ll miss me. Request alternative.
Over.’
He let the button go and shook his head. He sounded exactly like his father …
Not surprisingly, the operator’s friendly voice was decidedly chilly when it finally returned. ‘VKB, that suggestion just got upgraded to an instruction. Remain in your present location and await further instruction. We’ll make the necessary advice to your family. Repeat, do not move off that island until instructed. Over.’
And that was what you got for being a moron.
Rob’s gut tightened. These guys held his boating and salvage licences in their hands. Neither things he wanted to mess with. ‘Estimated time for assistance, Base?’
The log shows regular deliveries to your Parks Australia contact,’ the voice said. ‘Find a nice patch of beach to study, Professor. Looks like you’re on vacation. Over and out.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘TELL me you’re kidding.’
Honor stood, notebook in hand, by the edge of the camp clearing staring in open-mouthed horror at him.
Rob struggled not to smile. ‘When’s the next supply drop?’ he asked calmly.
‘It came this morning! Can’t they come for you any sooner?’ Her voice had a slightly hysterical note to it and his smile broke loose.
‘What’s funny?’
‘You are. You’d think I was Jack the Ripper the way you’re carrying on. When’s the supply boat due back?’
‘Ten days. More than a week!’
‘But less than a month.’ Hi, I’m Rob Dalton and I’m an eternal optimist. He took a deep breath and sobered. Ten days. That meant two things. One—he was going to have to find a way to live with this woman for ten long days until the supply boat could bring him the equipment he needed to weld-repair his hull. And two—he was going to miss Tuesday’s meeting at Dalton family headquarters. Robert Senior was not going to be happy.
Honor didn’t look much happier. What she did look, he realised, was completely gorgeous. Her wheat-blonde hair had almost dried and hung in loose segments around her face, showing off fantastic bone structure he’d not seen since an unexpected detour on a European holiday had dumped him in Iceland. Escaped from its ponytail, her locks draped over her damaged shoulder in a way that almost made him forget the patchwork damage beneath it.
Almost.
Women at home would pay hundreds of dollars to achieve that just-bedded look, but she stood there in her yellow bikini, a sheer blue shirt tossed casually over it, entirely clean-skinned and with laceless tennis shoes, looking as if she’d stepped straight off the pages of a magazine.
A much classier one than he was used to looking at.
She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d seen—Lord knew he’d met some absolute stunners in his time and dated half of them— but she easily took the award for the most naturally attractive. Healthy, toned and tanned with bright, clear eyes and perfect teeth. He had to guess at that last one. It saddened him to realise he had yet to see her smile, but she must because he could see life lines etched into the corners of eyes that somehow reflected the green of the trees above them and the blue of the ocean at the same time. Right next to the lingering sadness that permanently shadowed her gaze.
His usual type was younger and leaner and a good deal more manicured than the curvy, windswept woman standing before him, yet he recognised in himself the unmistakable echo of sexual appreciation.
Interesting. He moved his mind to something less evocative before he gave himself away. Her scars …
‘Ten days!’ Honor crossed towards him purposefully. ‘You can’t stay here ten days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because …’
Her mouth opened and closed like an angry little fish. He rather enjoyed the flush of pink that streaked up along her cheekbones.
‘I … You just can’t. I have work to do!’
He ignored that, determined not to have this argument. He had no intention of staying anywhere ten days if he could think of an alternative, but when he left it would be on his terms, not hers. He was belligerent enough to stay for the duration just to prove the point. He turned and walked towards her tent.
‘Can I borrow your first aid kit?’
Honor watched him tug his T-shirt up with his left arm and toss it onto the nearby chair. She’d got a good idea of the strength and breadth of his shoulders and back when he’d hauled himself up the boat ladder earlier, but seeing it in the flesh—very tanned flesh—threatened to steal the words right out of her mouth. She forced her mind to focus and stepped closer to tell him exactly what he could do with the first aid kit …
Then he turned around.
She clamped her mouth shut and stared, transfixed, at a tiny dumb-bell bisecting one perfect pink nipple on one perfectly formed male pectoral muscle. Her mouth dried and failed to function further.
God help me!
She’d fantasised for years about a man with a nipple piercing. Someone wilder and more assured than any man she’d ever known. Like some kind of dream manifestation of a part of herself she never revealed. Or acknowledged. A delusion she kept safely bottled down deep inside where it belonged.
Great—this just completed the nightmare.
‘Honor?’
She forced her focus back to his and then followed his glance down to his navel where nasty abrasions marred his perfect skin. ‘Oh, God!’
She immediately stepped closer, appalled to see the damage. She caught herself just short of touching him, knowing his stomach would be rock-hard and feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Then she berated herself. He’s injured …
She forced herself to be practical, exploring the worst of the wounds with two careful fingers and ignoring the little metal dumb-bell that glinted so close in her periphery.
‘Not too deep, but we need to get something on it.’ She raced for her first aid kit and started babbling as he followed her, closer to the tent. ‘Saltwater’s the best thing for it. Make sure you soak it regularly, then dry it off well. A bit of sun can’t hurt either, for good measure. But we’ll have to disinfect it first …’
She turned back to him with a large tube of disinfectant cream, some Betadine wipes, a roll of tape and an acre of gauze padding.
‘This is going to sting, isn’t it? ‘ His voice was tight.
‘I’m sure you can take it.’
‘I think I’d better sit down.’
She looked up at him. He’s serious, she suddenly realised. ‘It’s just abrasion—’
‘Too late.’
He glanced down to his abs, where the blood prickled through in the places her fingers had explored, then he staggered towards the camp chair, the colour draining from his face. ‘Not good with blood.’
He sank onto the canvas chair, breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling like the swell of the ocean. Controlled breathing— Honor recognised the signs at once—she’d done it enough in the last four years to call herself a master. She crouched in front of him and rested back on her heels, her eyes steady on his, waiting for his anxiety to pass.
She disliked him a little bit less.
Finally, he blew out a steady breath and half smiled. She matched him, trying to be supportive.
‘Is that what I have to do to get a smile out of you?’ he said at last, laughing shakily. ‘Unman myself?’
Hardly. Fortunately, her snort was only internal. Showing vulnerability only made her more aware of him as a man. He was being intentionally flippant, but she sensed his embarrassment was genuine. Funny how she could already read him after less than a day.
‘It’s a common enough reaction to blood.’ She hoped he’d sense her understanding, recognise there would be no ridicule here. She was absolutely the last one to laugh at someone else’s neuroses. ‘Or maybe you’re experiencing delayed shock from hitting the reef?’
‘No, it’s the blood. Something I’ve done since I was a kid.’
After a moment more of deep breathing, he nodded and sat up straighter and Honor kneeled up towards his stomach, scooting forward between his legs to apply the first aid.
He straightened in the chair and pressed his lips together at the discomfort of stretching the wounds. Honor peeled open one of the iodine swabs and leaned in close. She mopped around the wound first, determined to clean off the blood so he didn’t have to look at it. Eventually, she had to wipe over the abrasions and knew it would sting. His left leg bounced fast but he didn’t make a sound. She dabbed as gently as she could, across each scrape and scratch, dousing the area in super germkiller.
His groan brought her eyes up to his and stilled her hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s almost over. Coral’s full of micro-organisms that you really don’t want in your bloodstream.’
His attempt at a return smile was more of a pained grimace and she stifled a laugh. He was trying very hard to be stoical. Then his eyes strayed from hers, down over her scars to where her barely covered breasts hung level with his belly. She became suddenly and vividly aware that she was kneeling—virtually in her underwear—between the splayed legs of a man she’d only just met.
Instinct yelled move but pride kept her still, despite the furious hammering of her heart. It startled her to feel a prickle of awareness, for her fingers to tingle at the silky-hard smoothness of his muscled belly. The sensations were as foreign as that scent he had. She’d forgotten how a natural man smelled. Her heightened awareness made her movements a little rougher, more rushed. She opened some alcohol wipes and swabbed off the dark rust-coloured iodine stain from around the wound. She needed the area clean and dry for the surgical tape to stick. He didn’t move as her hands skimmed proficiently over his abdomen with the sterile pad.
Her heart thumped steadily. The alcohol was taking longer to evaporate in the humid tropical air and she was desperate to get out from between his legs, convinced that she could feel the heat radiating off his thighs. She fanned the wound with the spare packets of wipes, with little effect. Gritting her teeth, she bent in to blow the damp area dry.
‘Okay!’ Rob lurched up out of the seat and stumbled backwards, knocking the chair on its side. Honor fell back onto her heels to avoid his rushed departure. ‘I think I’m good. I can do the rest.’
‘But I need to—’
‘Really—I can put on the cream and the gauze. Thanks for cleaning it up for me.’
She returned to her feet, holding the first aid items out to him. Was he blushing? A bit more of her reserve slipped. If a man’s legs went to jelly at the sight of blood and he could still blush, how bad could he be? Then she remembered the way he’d been checking out her cleavage—her scars—and her back straightened. She handed him the first aid supplies.
He took them without quite meeting her eyes. But his voice was conciliatory. ‘Thanks. You’d make a good mother.’
Air sucked into Honor’s lungs sharply. It was just words. She knew it. Something to say in an awkward moment, but she wasn’t ready for the boot in the guts the words triggered.
She stumbled back as though physically wounded and forced a tight smile to her face. ‘I have work to do. I’ll leave you to finish up.’
Fix yourself up and go.
Without looking back, she beat a hasty retreat, snatched up her logbook and marched past him back into the trees.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Shh!’
Honor could have heard him approaching during a monsoon. She looked back over her shoulder at him, irritated. Again. Robert Dalton certainly didn’t bring out the best in her.
He slowed his approach, tiptoeing towards her hiding spot and crawled to lie next to her in the sparse scrub, taking care not to rub his patched up stomach on anything sharper than the island sand. Did he think he was well disguised now—all six foot three of him squashed behind a straggly young octopus bush?
Mainlanders. Gotta love them.
He lay by her side, glancing between her and the logbook, where she had recorded a series of numbers and unintelligible scribble that was meaningful only to her. Every time those blue eyes lifted, he looked more and more like he was itching to speak. Finally, the silence got too much for him.
‘What are you doing?’
Even his whisper seemed loud. A frigate-bird broke from its cover a few metres away, lurching into the sky, its enormous wingspan carrying the ungainly giant away in seconds. She shot him an annoyed look. He flashed a sexy, superficial smile. Fully expecting that to make a difference.
‘I bet that gets results wherever you go.’ Her own voice was hushed. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, just grinned in agreement, this time more genuine, and studied her the way she was studying the birds. His question still hung between them, unanswered.
‘I’m monitoring the flocks,’ she belatedly said.
He looked in the direction of her gaze and his eyes widened. Had he seriously not noticed it? The only other archaeologist she knew— used to know—spent most of her professional life in the bowels of the museum dusting things that other people dug up, spending most of her day staring at two square inches of artefact. Rob’s tan was too perfect and those muscles too manicured for him to spend all his time in a lab, but how else could she explain how he’d missed the massive inland lagoon that comprised half the island as he’d come towards her. Salt-crusted, sheltered and writhing with birdlife, at first glance the surface of the water and the trees on the lagoon edge seemed white with foam when in fact they were covered with the glaring white of hundreds of feathered terns, boobies and noddies. She passed Rob her binoculars. He ranged his eyes over the lake and its myriad inhabitants. ‘Whoa.’