Shipwrecked with Mr. Wrong

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 frigatebird 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.’

Thirty-something going on sixteen.

En masse it was quite a spectacle. Honor smiled and let him look. At peak season, these protected waters could support twenty thousand birds. Most used Pulu Keeling as a base, striking out to fish the rich waters of the Cocos Trench, then returning to nests and chicks and shelter. Even the giant frigatebirds, who generally ate and slept high above the planet on the currents of the trade winds, rested, recuperated and romanced here on the island. They were born here and instinct brought them back every two years to breed. It was, quite literally, their sanctuary.

‘And here I was thinking how quiet it is here...’

Honor looked at him strangely. ‘Quiet? No, listen.’

All around them echoed the sounds of contented birds. Occasionally, a particular voice rose in squabble or seduction but otherwise the noise blended into a low drone which underpinned the perpetual sounds of the waves crashing on the outer reef and then washing on and off the shell-covered shoreline of the island with high-pitched tinkling. She pointed off to the right where she could hear the high, creaky ack-ack sound of a buff-banded rail roosting contentedly. She saw the moment Rob heard it too, his tiny smile of recognition. Then she tuned her ears the other way, tipping her head slightly and he followed suit. She could hear a rhythmic, throaty chuckle off in the distance and she tapped her finger in the sand in time, to help him focus in on the distinctive call of a fairy tern.

His eyes drifted shut.

‘In front, the pew-pew-pew sound. In perfect time with the waves...’ she whispered.

His head tipped like a satellite dish, listening now for the ocean in the distance. It stretched his jaw to a perfect stubbly angle and Honor had a sudden urge to touch it. Relaxed like it was, his handsome face was less designer angles and more...appealing. More human. He was enjoying this.

She ripped her eyes away.

‘A thousand different sounds are out there for the listening. It’s anything but quiet.’

Their faces were quite close now and he opened his eyes to look sideways into hers, naked speculation in his gaze. Honor caught her breath. I bet that gets results every time, too. Then, as though drawn by magnetism, his eyes strayed down to her scars and then shot back up again.

She sighed.

It would be ever thus. She wasn’t angry or offended; a tiny bit disappointed, perhaps. She knew how the scars looked, what they meant and why she wore them—almost as a badge of honour. No man’s awkward stare was going to undo what they meant to her.

‘So, how far is the Emden memorial from here?’

She’d almost forgotten what had brought him to the island in the first place. ‘Uh... Over that way, I think a couple of hundred metres?’

He looked appalled. ‘Haven’t you seen it?’

She wasn’t much for manmade history, hadn’t paid the marker very much attention in four years. ‘Sure. It’s not far from the turtle nests.’

He craned upwards, towards the direction she’d indicated and his eyes glittered. ‘Show me?’

They were such simple words, but so eagerly uttered. His excitement was infectious. How long had it been since she got excited about anything? Four years? Longer? She nodded and started to crawl backwards, away from the birds. He copied, reverse commando crawling into the cover of trees. He definitely looked better doing it than she did.

Five minutes had them emerging on the beach on the far side of the tiny island. Honor turned left and wandered along a shoreline more pristine than the northern one—impossibly so—but the lagoon on this side was shallower, electric-blue and mesmerising.

Rob stared out to sea where the Emden must have once listed on the outer reef. Weathered timbers grew out of the sand up ahead and Honor touched him on the arm and nodded in their direction. He followed her gaze then, almost reverently, moved towards the memorial. She approached, more respectfully, catching some of his awe.

This is special to him.

There it stood in all its simplicity, two uprights and a cross timber engraved with the words SMS EMDEN. At its base, the green-tinged remains of some metal part of the vessel. To Honor it looked like sea rubbish, but she could see it meant something very different to Rob. He squatted and ran a feather-light hand over the corroded green surface, his fingers dancing over every contour as though it were Braille. She tore her eyes away, overwhelmed by a sudden image of those long graceful fingers learning the shapes of her own flesh.

Her pulse surged.

‘What happened here?’ She knew the basics but wanted to hear him tell it—desperately wanted to put things back on a surer footing—and nothing slowed her pulse quite as much as military history.

‘During the First World War, Australia’s HMAS Sydney responded to a distress call from Direction Island. The Cocos cluster was a strategic communications base because of its proximity between Indonesia and Australia. When the Sydney arrived, she encountered the German SMS Emden sitting offshore readying an attack.’

He moved around the memorial, checking out every angle. As though it were more than just a couple of whacked together timbers. A whole lot more. His blue eyes glowed vibrantly and Honor found herself focusing more on that than on the artefacts around them. His large hands got in on the act, waving in space, painting an imaginary scene, independent of the man telling the story. They became the punctuation for his hypnotic voice.

‘The Emden was a beast of a machine, even though she was a light cruiser. She’d scuttled hundreds of enemy vessels in her time. Then she just disappeared from known waters until she turned up here, right on Australia’s doorstep.’

The first flash of interest in the wreck she’d ignored for four years sparked through her. She had no ear for maritime history but found herself completely captivated by his low, engaging voice. Did he know what a magical storyteller he was?

‘It was a short, brutal battle and Emden’s captain ran his own ship hard onto the reef to avoid it being captured by the enemy.’

Honor got the distinct feeling he’d forgotten she was even there, was telling the story for himself. He stared out to the reef, where the massive battleship must have run aground a century before. As he did, she imagined a shimmer on the horizon where the giant grey behemoth would have rocked dangerously on the edge of the precious atoll.

Oh, the coral, a tiny voice despaired. ‘What happened to the crew?’

‘Most died in the fire-fight with the Sydney. Some in the grounding, some were captured by the Australians, but some...’ he turned and looked at the tropical paradise behind him ‘...some escaped capture and hid on the island, only to die of thirst because of the absence of fresh water. Their skeletons were found a year later, picked clean by the robber crabs.’

Well, that explained something. Honor nodded up the beach. ‘The Malay word for that bend up there means “bosun’s grave”.’

Rob turned and stared at the point where the shore disappeared around a bend. Ghosts of memory fairly flew around them.

Finally Honor broke the silence. ‘And the Emden?’

‘Just beyond the reef.’ He flicked his chin towards the flawless, rich blue ocean—so blue it seemed to become the sky somewhere off in the vast distance. ‘The Cocos people stripped her of anything they could use before she perished.’

‘She rusted away?’

‘She broke up and sank. She’s half reef herself now.’ He turned his eyes back to hers. ‘The coral got its revenge, ultimately.’

She smiled at his poeticism. ‘It always does.’

His eyes dropped to her smile briefly before turning back out to sea. Out to where she’d first seen him bobbing in his boat earlier today. Only a day? Why did it feel so much longer? They stood in silence and Honor let Rob have his thoughts. The sinking sun cast rich golden light over his tanned features, highlighting a straight nose and the symmetrical ridges of his cheekbones. She was suddenly inclined to draw out the experience, but the last place she wanted to be as the fiery sun set on the horizon was standing on a tropical island with this...sea-god. There were just some fates you didn’t tempt. The glib charmer he’d treated her to so far today might not currently be present, but he probably wasn’t far away. He was just lost at sea in the glassy expression of Robert Dalton’s blue eyes.

The thought bred a tiny chill and she curled her arms across her torso. A handful of the Emden crew may have been lucky enough to be plucked alive from the cruel waters of the Cocos Trench but the dark ocean was not always so merciful. Not everyone was given a second chance out there.

Not everyone who got one wanted it. As the men who scrabbled ashore from the Emden discovered.

‘We should get back.’ Honor’s stiff tone brought the more familiar glaze to his features as he turned back to her. She instantly missed the passion she’d briefly seen there but was incapable of chasing off the shadows that suddenly surrounded her.

He cast his eyes back out to the reef one last time and then followed her quietly back into the trees.

* * *

Rob tossed and turned in The Player’s comfortable cabin for hours. He told himself it was because he was nervous that his boat would sink out from under him and not because he kept reliving flashes of the curve of Honor’s cheek or the smell of her ocean-washed hair. Or the seductive length of her tanned thigh.

But, last time he checked, certain death didn’t harden his body so he had to assume it was the woman and not the threat of sinking to Davy Jones’s locker that was keeping him awake. Either way, the result was the same.

He was going ashore.

He sat up on the bunk and twisted sideways, well practised at not slamming his head on the low ceiling of The Player’s cabin. He’d spent many a night onboard at sea or in dock but he’d never brought anyone back to this cabin with him—real or otherwise. Honor, albeit in imaginary form, was the first woman to set foot inside this space.

Damn her! His haven felt vaguely violated.

Moonlight trailed a sparkling path over rolling ocean all the way to the horizon. Like the yellow brick road leading to Oz, except straight and sure. It occurred to him that, from the moon’s perspective, the golden pathway led straight to this island and to the golden woman inhabiting it. He turned towards shore and visualised her sleeping beneath her giant sunflower tent. Maybe he’d get to watch her sleep for a while. That wasn’t too creepy.

Was it?

He smiled and slipped into the drop-off, sucking in an agonised breath as the icy swell rushed into his board shorts. He was conscious, too, that sharks were always more active around reefs at night. The two effectively combined to put an end to any pleasurable sensations lingering.

In record time, he launched onto the reef and over into the protected lagoon. Nothing dangerous there, but he swam in swiftly nonetheless and emerged dripping on the sand. He’d done this trip enough times now to be able to spot the break in the trees along the shoreline that led to the campsite, even in the moonlight. It took no time to get closer.

He passed through trees bowing under the weight of roosting birds, moving softly so as not to disturb them, failing once or twice to the grumpy protests of a number of bigger birds.

Then he saw the clearing ahead and eased his steps. If Honor was sleeping, the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. He’d settle down in the camp chair and wait out the couple of hours until dawn.

Her little tent was, technically, big enough for two but he was certain she wouldn’t be in a hurry to share it with someone she’d just met, man or woman. And certainly not uninvited. Thinking about his reclusive mermaid stretched out all warm and sleepy got his imagination whirring.

You’re a pervert, Dalton. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that conversation with himself since arriving on the island.

As he stepped closer to camp, movement drew his attention down to one corner, near the tree line on the far side. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to three. Clearly, Honor couldn’t sleep any more than he could. She crossed the moon-dappled space towards the tent, the golden sheen of her skin unbroken from head to foot. He sucked in a breath. Without thought, he stepped back into the shadows of the trees, averting his eyes.

Naked.

He heard the sounds of her rummaging in her stores and dropping something into a small bowl. Then he heard the sounds of water trickling into the bowl.

He froze where he stood, wanting to leave but conscious that if he could hear her filling a bowl, she could hear him moving away. He swore silently. Why hadn’t he turned straight back? The sound of her wringing water out of a sponge got his complete attention. Her footsteps took her past the tent and off into the edge of the trees where he’d first seen her.

Rob fought with his conscience. He would only need to move inches to breach the gap between them with trees, block her from his view and tiptoe off. Staying made him little better than a voyeur. It would be the second time he’d spied on her in less than twenty-four hours.

Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of her bathing. His values may have been all messed up but there was nothing wrong with his imagination and the bikini she’d been getting around in all day really left little mystery. As the sounds of tinkling water reached him, he pictured her naked and natural in the moonlight, her back to him, sponging herself with suds from the bowl. Her touch was light and all business wherever the sponge travelled, almost a matter-of-fact chore. So matter-of-fact it shouldn’t have been particularly sexy, but Rob swallowed back an instinctive groan. A freshwater bath had to be a rare luxury in a saltwater environment and she would be as careful conserving the precious supplies as she was gentle with her salt-abused skin. Almost ritualistic. She stood, mostly obscured, her shoulders and head visible above the circle of low-growing pandanas bushes between them. Her hands lifted back into view as they drifted to the scars. She slowed and stroked the area with more care, almost lovingly. Then she paused for a moment with one hand resting on the puckered flesh, her head bowed.

Rob stopped breathing. He grew entranced by the way her gentle strokes over the scars resumed. The way she practically worshipped them. It was more intensely personal than any naked part of her body could possibly be. A dull thud started up right through his body.

Right about then he realised his eyes weren’t closed any more, and he wasn’t imagining. Spying on a naked woman came a paltry second to the intrusion he realised he’d made into her inner privacy. Whatever was going on in her heart and head right now, it had less than nothing to do with him. It was for Honor alone.

This ends. Now.

He stepped back out of view. The lateness of the hour and his thickened senses slowed him as he tucked back into the shadows. Before he was more than a few metres down towards the beach, Honor emerged on the little shell-lined path and stood, pale and enormous-eyed, clutching a towel in front of her and violent accusation clear in her voice.

‘Enjoy the show?’

* * *

He had a choice—deny it like a coward, or cop to it like a man. Honor knew which she hoped he’d be, even though that also meant he was a jerk.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said simply, holding his hands where she could see them, as though she was a wild creature he didn’t want to rile any further. She refused to acknowledge the sheen of seawater on his skin, the droplets in his hair and thick eyelashes, keeping her eyes planted on his unapologetic face. To his credit, his eyes never strayed from hers, even though she stood near naked before him. ‘I didn’t mean to spy on you.’

‘Yes, you did.’ She was still angry but it was moderated by a swill of hormones that had started running laps in her system. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me you tripped and fell into the bushes next to where I happened to be taking a bath.’

He acknowledged her point and changed his words. ‘Then I apologise for coming ashore. I didn’t expect you to be bathing, obviously.’

She blushed furiously. ‘You should have been asleep!’

‘So should you.’

Honor barely knew what to do with his entire lack of concern that he’d been busted being a slime-ball. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sorry—he clearly was—but he didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed. Her anger wasn’t because he’d seen her naked—lots of people had seen her body and not all of them were doctors—it was because he’d breached her just-won trust. ‘How am I going to trust you now? You spied on me.’

His head dipped. When it came back up, his eyes were sincere. He moved towards her but stopped immediately as she stumbled back a step. ‘You bathing was as much a natural part of this island’s life as watching the birds roosting.’

‘Easy for you to say. It wasn’t your butt hanging out for all the world to see.’

Some part of him must have known that smiling now would be fatal. He fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

She hugged the towel closer and glared. ‘Out of my camp.’

He turned on the Dalton charm, head tipping, sinking onto one hip, his voice like melted chocolate. ‘Come on, Honor. It was a mistake and I’ve apologised.’

‘Does that dreamy tone work on everyone? Or is it only effective with women?’

He looked at her hard and she had the feeling she’d hurt him. Too bad.

‘Mostly, yes,’ he murmured.

‘Oh, the ego—’

‘Can’t we chalk it up to a normal male reaction to a beautiful naked woman?’

There was the word again, twice in as many minutes. Beautiful. ‘Flattering me is not going to win you any points. I know how I look now. I also know the scars are not me, they haven’t changed me.’ She jabbed her fingers to the towel clutched at her breast. Saying it was as much for herself as for him.

‘They haven’t changed the rest of you either.’

She gasped and pointed back out to sea. ‘Get off my island!’

He laughed. ‘Take it easy, Honor.’

‘You’re trying to tell me the scars don’t bother you?’ she challenged him angrily.

He paused then, looking down at her. When had he moved that close? ‘Honestly? Yes, they do, but not for the reason you imagine. I’m not a complete jerk, regardless of what you think. They bother me because they must have caused you such pain. They bother me because I know they have something to do with why you’re here. They bother me because they bother you.’

‘They do not bother me.’ Honor raised her voice. She’d spent the better part of four years learning to love her scars. ‘They belong to me. And they belong to—’ Her head jerked back, appalled at what she’d been about to say. Her chest heaved beneath the towel.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

She was starting to become critically aware that he was fully dressed and she...wasn’t. She turned and marched back to the campsite, only realising at the last second that her bottom was swinging in the breeze again. She heard the crunching of his feet as he followed her into camp. Strangely, that didn’t bother her. Somewhere deep down she knew he wasn’t going to hurt her. Not physically.

‘You and I are going to keep our distance. Until your boat is repaired—’

He hissed his impatience. ‘That’s not going to be necessary, Honor. I’ve seen you without your clothes on—big deal. I virtually saw as much on the beach this afternoon—your bikini doesn’t leave much to the imagination—and I’ve managed not to drag you off into the dunes, haven’t I?’

She glared at him.

‘Oh, fine!’ He reached down and unsnapped his board shorts. Honor spun away as he dropped them.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m evening up the score,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you, so you can see me. I don’t care.’

‘I don’t want to see you!’ Liar, liar... This was ridiculous. She was not going to turn around. ‘What are we—twelve?’

‘Okay—’ his voice was muffled as he pulled his T-shirt over his head ‘—I’m naked. Take a look. Go ahead.’

She struggled not to scream. The man had a cast iron ego. Exasperation made her boil. ‘Put your clothes on, Rob.’ She listened for the sound of him restoring his clothes and, not hearing any, turned her head a quarter back towards his silence, her eyes still averted. ‘What?’

‘You called me Rob.’ His voice was rich with smile.

‘So what?’

‘My friends call me Rob.’

‘Will you put your clothes back on, please?’

‘I will if you will.’

‘Fine. Watch out for the sand-ticks; they’re a nightmare to get out of your skin folds.’ She twisted the towel huffily around behind her and ducked into her tent before closing it up with a none-too-subtle ziiiip. It was the island equivalent of a do not disturb sign.

It took long minutes after she heard Rob move away, but controlled breathing finally got Honor’s erratic heartbeat back down to a regular rate. But it would be a long time before sleep came in her cosy tent haven.

She should have been spitting mad. After what he’d done, no one would judge her for tossing his firm butt off this island. But there’d been something so credible about his explanation. Ludicrous that he’d come ashore at three a.m. but, who knew, maybe he was as much of a night owl as she was. He probably was only warming up at this time back on the mainland. And could she honestly say—hand on heart—that she wouldn’t have looked if it had been him sponging that body down in the moonlight?

Her imagination bubbled with what she hadn’t allowed herself to look at when he’d stripped down behind her. The worst of it was, no matter what she imagined, chances were the reality wasn’t too far off. Rob Dalton was young and fit and good looking and...God...so alive.

Honor frowned at the word her subconscious threw up. She guessed Rob was a man who squeezed every bit of juice out of life. He loved his shipwrecks, clearly loved his women and had such a striking sense of vitality and excitement about him even when he was relaxed—the sort of qualities she hadn’t experienced in years. Not since...

She frowned and tried to think about the last time she’d felt vital and realised she was going back a lot longer than four years. She hadn’t realised she missed it until tonight. Rob’s presence was a living reminder that comfortable and predictable was not all roses and perfume.

It meant she missed out on feelings like this. Like when she visualised Rob’s nipple-piercing and for one hot split second imagined closing her lips around it

God above. She shifted in her sleeping bag to disrupt the tingle of anticipation deep down inside. It had been a long time since she’d felt that too. Those feelings had dulled along with her enjoyment of life years ago. It was almost frightening to discover they’d been lying dormant all this time.

Waiting.

She flipped over angrily. She never let herself go there any more, back into those painful thoughts and memories. She was normally more cautious. It hurt too much.

It was easier to think about the man outside on the beach and his infuriating self-confidence and to speculate, secretly, what it might be like to press her mouth to his perfect smile and taste him. Just for a moment. To be held by those powerful arms, or lie beneath all that rock-hard strength. To feel all that life leaching into her.

Honor chased the sensual thoughts out, conscious that casting Rob in her private fantasy was no better than him watching her bathe. It was an intrusion, unwarranted and inappropriate. He was just a man whom circumstance had dumped on her island. He wasn’t here for her amusement.

It wasn’t his fault he was entirely distracting. And she was—apparently—still more alive than she’d believed. As she thought the word, she realised there had been several times today when he had distracted her for minutes on end. So much so, he’d driven all other thoughts from her mind. About her pain.

About them.

That made her feel disloyal, and the embers of pleasure finally cooled.

But they didn’t extinguish, no matter how hard she tried.