LITMIR.BIZ

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      Her hands wanted to stray lower, to test his desire for her. Sheesh! The poor guy was hurt, for goodness’ sake, and here she was, pawing him like some sex-starved desperado. Except, at the moment, she felt exactly like a sex-starved desperado.

      She jerked back, startled by the thought. She did not chase after guys. She didn’t even particularly crave sex! Yet here she was, her palms itching to run all over his naked body. Must be some weird hormonal reaction to almost dying.

      Forcing herself to pay attention to the job at hand, she moved around behind him, passing the bandage carefully across the cut and leaning forward to reach around him again, this time from the back. And again, a visceral need, electric and disturbing, ripped through her as she hugged his athletic form. Wouldn’t you know it—the end of the bandage ran out smack dab on top of his stomach. She ducked under his raised arm to pin the end of the bandage in place.

      And made the mistake of looking up at him. His eyes blazed, black as night, consumed by a fire that incinerated her to her very fingertips. Yowza. She jerked her hands away from him, and actually glanced down at her palms to see if the skin burned from touching him. Her every nerve felt raw and exposed.

      She stumbled backward, staring at his back hungrily as he carried the first-aid kit into the bathroom. She looked away hastily as he came out. He offered her the bathroom for a solo shower and she didn’t hesitate to take him up on the offer. Did cold showers work on women, too?

      She chickened out on testing the theory and opted instead for the relaxation of a nice, hot shower. However, when she finally turned the water off and stepped out into the bathroom, she was appalled to see a neatly folded man’s T-shirt lying on the counter beside the sink.

      He’d come into the bathroom while she was bathing? Her gaze whipped around to the shower door, and she was relieved—and disappointed—to see it was milky glass with wavy patterns through it.

      “Hungry?” he asked as she slid onto one of the bar stools.

      “I don’t know. I suppose so.” She’d been so wrapped up in staying alive and then her inexplicable reaction to him that she hadn’t stopped to think about anything as mundane as food. But now that he mentioned it, she realized she was ravenous. And thirsty.

      He set a beautiful double old-fashioned glass on the counter in front of her. The elegantly carved crystal caught the light from overhead and cast prisms all over the mahogany kitchen cabinets. She recognized the crystal pattern. Her brows lifted slightly. Waterford crystal? Who was this solitary pilot for hire? Silently, he poured water from a pitcher he took from the brushed stainless-steel refrigerator for her. She drank down the whole glass in a few gulps. He filled it again, seeming to know that she’d be desperately thirsty.

      He went to the refrigerator and emerged with a green and yellow fruit about the size of his fist. He pulled a knife out of a drawer and peeled and sliced it efficiently. He stabbed a piece of the fruit and held it out to her on the end of the knife.

      “Mango,” he announced.

      She nodded and took the juicy fruit. It was sweet, a cross between a peach and an orange. Odd, but tasty.

      “Are you sure this place belongs to you?” she asked dubiously.

      He frowned at her. “Yeah. Why?”

      “It doesn’t seem to…fit you.”

      He glanced around. “What’s wrong with it? You don’t like my decorating taste?”

      He’d decorated this place? “Nothing’s wrong with it.” That was the point. It was too perfect. Too elegant, too…classy. This was the sort of place she’d pick for herself. But he…he was rough around the edges. Primal. She’d picture him in a beach shack with empty beer bottles and old pizza boxes overflowing the trash can. She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

      He glanced at her wryly as if he knew what she was thinking. He turned away and fiddled with putting his water glass in the sink. “You can sleep on the couch.”

      “Where are you sleeping?” she blurted.

      He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why? Are you offering to share my bed?”

      Just how tempted she was at the idea shocked her into silence. It was all well and good to be turned on by this guy but to sleep with him? That was a big step.

      To get naked with him…to experience all that masculine power unleashed…to completely let go of her inhibitions with him…

      Man, it was tempting. And totally out of character for her. Obviously, she was suffering some sort of strange aftereffect of the accident and her brush with death. She’d regret it tomorrow if she took him up on his offer tonight. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d better not.”

      He frowned, almost as if confused. Opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He turned off the overhead lights and left the room without speaking. At least he left her the oil lamp. In its soft glow, she turned to face the couch, which was underneath a wide picture window that framed a magnificent view of the ocean below. Even in the darkness, she could make out the rolling and crashing white of the breakers rushing in toward the beach. Drawn to the view, she moved over to the window. A light rain whipped around the bure, driven by a sharp breeze. Cyclone Kato was beginning to breathe upon them.

      She started when something heavy thunked down behind her. Jumpy, she whipped her head around. Tom had just dropped a blanket, pillow and sheets on the coffee table.

      He shrugged apologetically. “I’d sleep on the couch, but it’s too short for me, and with my back, I’ll need to lie on my stomach.”

      She smiled understandingly at him, grateful that he was being a gentleman about the sleeping arrangement. Truth be told, she felt like a heel for climbing all over him, but then turning him down when he took her up on her unspoken offer. “I don’t mind sleeping out here. The couch will fit me just fine.”

      He nodded once, turned and disappeared on silent, bare feet into the bedroom. Suddenly, she was so exhausted she could hardly see straight. Mechanically, she made up the couch into a bed. She left the oil lamp burning. For some reason, she wasn’t quite ready to face the dark and her suddenly overactive imagination. She stretched out on the couch.

      As exhausted as she was, her brain wouldn’t unwind enough for her to immediately contemplate going to sleep. She lay there for a long time. Eventually, she forced herself to extinguish the lamp and still, sleep eluded her.

      Without warning, it all hit her. The terrifying plane crash, the desperate swim for her life, the shock of finding out about the attack on the beach. She started to shiver, and then to shake. And then the tears came. At first they were no more than hot streaks down her cheeks, but before long they’d blossomed into racking sobs. She turned her face into the pillow to muffle the sound, but for the life of her she couldn’t stop the sobs from coming.

      She started violently when a male voice rumbled from above her, “Oh, for crying out loud.”

      Reluctantly, she looked up at his dark form within the larger darkness of the room. Even as exasperated as he sounded, his presence was insanely comforting.

      He rumbled, “I suppose you want me to hug you and tell you everything will be all right, don’t you?”

      Miffed at the humor lacing his voice, she snapped, “Far be it from me to force you into such an onerous task.”

      He made a noise that could have been laughter bitten off sharply. But she wasn’t sure. He sighed and sat down on the couch beside her. “Fine. Come here.”

      She sniffed, “No, that’s all right.”

      He ignored her and gathered her up in his arms, drawing her easily into his lap, surrounding her in his big, comfortable embrace. As hard as she tried to stop it, the floodgates opened up again. She sobbed into his shoulder for several minutes before it dawned on her that his shoulder was naked. And warm.

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