‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘Come up to the house whenever you’re ready in the morning. Just go in. Make yourself at home. I probably won’t be there.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Fishing. Swimming. Rock climbing. Something.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Man with an almighty need to conquer something. She knew the type. ‘Ah, Mr Reyne?’
‘Seb.’ He waited until he was out of the door before turning back.
Right. Seb. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to say his name right now without layering it full of lust. ‘There, ah, don’t seem to be any keys to this place.’
‘Yeah, we lost them.’
‘So how do you lock up?’
‘You don’t.’
‘I what?’
‘Let me guess,’ he murmured. ‘You live in an inner-city apartment block surrounded by a million people and you know none of them.’
‘You’re very perceptive,’ she countered lightly. ‘I divide my time between Oxford and Sydney. My father’s based in Hong Kong. I’m very fond of Hong Kong. Plenty of people. Locks too. Keys.’ Not that she wanted to labour the point.
‘Relax, city girl. The doors still lock from the inside. Just make sure they’re not set to lock when you shut them in the morning.
Your stuff will be perfectly safe here, I guarantee it. There’s no one else here.’
No one he knew of.
‘What about pirates? Shipwrecked fishermen? Critters? Blackbeard?’
This earned her a grin, free and clear, and her body responded accordingly. ‘If Blackbeard happens by you give me a yell.’
‘You are too kind.’
‘I know. You got any messages for my brother?’
‘You’re calling Tomas tonight?’
Sebastian’s gaze skittered over her face once more and lingered on her lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘Courtesy call.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy eyed him uncertainly. ‘Well, tell him I said thank you for the lend of the island.’
‘Anything else?’
Nothing she could think of.
‘Miss you… Wish you were here…’ he prompted silkily.
‘Oh. That kind of message.’ A message from one lovelorn suitor to another. She had no idea what one would say. ‘Yes.’ She paused, struck by Sebastian’s sudden coiled stillness. ‘Tell him I said hello.’
CHAPTER THREE
SEB ate his seafood curry hot and took his bedtime shower lukewarm and stinging. Give it a few days, a week at the most, two weeks at the outside and mousy, brainy little Poppy West would be off his island and so would he.
Head for the mainland. Take care of some business. He found the shampoo—squirted it straight from the bottle onto his hair. Maybe he’d touch base with his crew and then go and lose himself in a woman for a while.
A savvy, experienced, blue-eyed blonde who knew how the game was played and wouldn’t expect a damn thing of him other than satisfaction at the time.
Not Poppy West, she of the golden-toffee tresses, cornflower-blue eyes and decidedly enigmatic ways.
Not her.
Seb closed his eyes and scrubbed at his hair, willing his body not to stir, but the more he willed it, the more contrary his body got.
He soaped his chest, took a scratchy sea sponge to his arms.
She’d be pliant in bed; maybe even a little inexperienced.
Deeply, openly responsive.
Seb cursed, a word that had been on his mind all day.
Even if she didn’t have a thing for Tomas, even if Tom had no interest in her, it would be very poor form to mess around with his brother’s business partner.
Tomas, who’d excelled at everything, including being a big brother. Pulled Seb out of the pit when his first girlfriend had dumped him for a blue-blooded golden boy. Talked Seb off an oil platform and into an engineering degree. Encouraged Seb’s idiot idea of putting together some sort of crack rigging crew. Troubleshoot anything that gushed or burned and cap it, bring it back under control—those were the jobs Seb and his crew took on. Proving his worth, over and over, until finally he’d believed in himself and the things he could deliver. Not as clever as Tomas. Not as polished or urbane, but worth something nonetheless.
Until one crucial split-second decision had cost one man his life and another his hearing.
Seb’s crew. Seb’s responsibility.
He wanted a drink.
He wanted his friend back.
And in true self-destructive, must-compete style, he wanted his brother’s girl.
Seb rinsed off, cut the water and walked naked through to his bedroom. He found a towel, then a pair of loose cotton pyjama bottoms.
He headed for the office and did his best to ignore the faint floral scent that hung in the air there. And then he picked up the phone and called Tom.
‘I got your parcel,’ he said when Tom answered. ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Besides torturing him with her nearness.
‘Working,’ said Tom. ‘At least, that’s the assumption. Why? What is she doing there?’
