Praise for Nikki Logan

‘Superb debut—4.5 stars.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Lights, Camera … Kiss the Boss

‘Now, here is an Australian writer who manages to both

tell a good story and to capture Australia well.I had fun

from start to finish. Nikki Logan will be one to watch.’

—www.goodreads.com on

Lights, Camera … Kiss the Boss

‘This story has well-defined and soundly motivated

characters as well as a heart-wrenching conflict.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Their Newborn Gift

About the Author

NIKKI LOGAN lives next to a string of protected wetlands in Western Australia, with her long-suffering partner and a menagerie of furred, feathered and scaly mates. She studied film and theatre at university, and worked for years in advertising and film distribution before finally settling down in the wildlife industry. Her romance with nature goes way back, and she considers her life charmed, given she works with wildlife by day and writes fiction by night—the perfect way to combine her two loves. Nikki believes that the passion and risk of falling in love are perfectly mirrored in the danger and beauty of wild places. Every romance she writes contains an element of nature, and if readers catch a waft of rich earth or the spray of wild ocean between the pages she knows her job is done.

Visit Nikki online at www.nikkilogan.com.au

Also by Nikki Logan

Lights, Camera … Kiss the Boss

Their Newborn Gift

Seven-Day Love Story

The Soldier’s Untamed Heart

Friends to Forever

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong

Nikki Logan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Pete: who I’d want with me if I was marooned on a

deserted isle, and who’d be able to build us an existence

to rival Robinson Crusoe’s.

Thanks to Ammon Hontz and Janine Rose for your help

with the undersea aspects of this story, and to

Helen Pickering for your assistance with all things Cocos.

Big thanks to my editor, Jo Grant, for believing in this

story so much.

CHAPTER ONE
Pulu Keeling (Island), Western Australia

‘What the …?’

Rob Dalton throttled the powerboat down to a gentle chug-a-lug and snatched up his binoculars. A frown stretched his sea-whipped skin and tipped his lucky fishing cap forward.

He was seeing things.

Must be.

He kept his eye firmly pinned on the natural lagoon created by the hazardous coral reefs around Pulu Keeling where he’d caught a momentary glimpse of her—and it. Clean, cold ocean swelled between The Player and the tiny island, obscuring his view just as he thought he might get another glimpse. Then there she was—swimming strongly towards shore, a glinting silvery mass propelling her along.

No way …

Rob lowered the binoculars and stared at the island. The towering trees and dunes and reef all seemed normal. So did the horizon. The one streak of cloud in the endless blue sky.

He rubbed under his sunglasses and lifted them to fit the super-powered field glasses more firmly to his face. She was still there, stroking across the lagoon. And it was still there too, powering along behind her. His breath caught hard in his chest.

Impossible.

But it sure as heck looked real enough, and out here, so far from everything … Who knew? He squinted in the mid-morning light, pressing the binoculars so hard to his face the rims bit into his cheekbones. Centuries of maritime mythology filled his mind. But she was no dugong and he was no sex-starved, nineteenth century sailor imagining a half-woman-half-fish in the distance.

Although you wouldn’t know it from the pace of his heart.

She neared land, her strokes steady and practised. The beach rose to meet her and then she stood …

… on two legs. Long, brown, bare legs, and she hauled a silver buoyancy sack out of the water behind her. Rob released his breath on a whoosh.

Mermaid? Idiot.

He let heat rise in his cheeks since no one was around to see him, and his heart pounded out the adrenalin surge of moments ago as he kept his focus locked on the shore. He’d caught a lot of sun out here on his latest vacation from reality but not that much, surely? Not enough to start seeing mermaids where there weren’t any. But a bikini-clad woman alone on a restricted island that was only inhabited by birds and crabs … How was that any less strange?

The old bloke who fuelled him up at the dock had muttered something about a spirit-woman living on Pulu Keeling. Some kind of guardian. He’d assumed he was talking about the mythical variety.

His mermaid tugged the buoyancy sack further onto the beach and then let it drop. Her lush, tanned body jerked in and out of his binocular frame along with the rolling ocean swell but he did his best to keep the glasses steady as she bent to check the contents of the sack she’d swum ashore. Those long legs that went forever did actually stop—at a tiny bit of yellow fabric covering a perfect peach which bobbed up and down as she rummaged through the sack on the sand.

His curiosity at what a two-legged mermaid was doing out here in the middle of the Indian Ocean took a momentary back seat to the sudden interest that surged through him. Ridiculous that he should be captivated by a bit of mermaid tail when he had any number of equivalents on speed-dial back home.

She straightened with her back to the glittering ocean and lifted her arms to wring the sea water from her long blonde hair. She twisted it into a damp rope and draped it over her right shoulder.

‘Turn around … turn around,’ Rob murmured, his breath hitching to a halt. Would his mythical mermaid have a face to match the lithe golden body? She didn’t turn, but she tugged the tethers up onto her left shoulder and dragged the sack behind her along the rocky beach towards a track in the dune grasses. Even with her heavy load, every movement was graceful. Her body radiated health and vitality. Rob’s heart thumped in his throat, his gut, as she moved towards the tree line.

Turn around.

At last she did, bending forward to pull the sack over the lip of the dune. He got a quick flash of tanned, toned arms and firm breasts behind more yellow triangles. Once the sack was up and over, she dropped it and straightened to catch her breath, leaving Rob staring through his binoculars at a honey-coloured midriff stretched upward by raised arms that she used to shield her eyes from the blazing sun. Eyes that—

He fumbled the binoculars, almost dropping them overboard.

—stared right back at him! He caught them in the nick of time and glanced back to the island where the now tiny woman waved one arm at him. Pretty keenly.

‘Yeah, I’ve seen you, honey,’ he murmured, discomfited at being caught staring but more than accustomed to the excitement of pretty females. He waved back casually.

She mirrored him, both arms this time, bouncing those yellow triangles around a treat.

Rob frowned again. ‘What?’

A sickening crunch accompanied a lurch that sent him staggering as The Player‘s stern hit the reef. It rocked again as the swell nudged his pride and joy against the protective coral surrounding Pulu Keeling.

‘Son of a …’

He shoved the throttle forward, yanking the wheel and powering the boat a safe distance from the barely exposed reef. As he swung her around, he noticed another silver buoyancy sack sitting on the reef in the distance, on the far side of the atoll where the swell did look less powerful. Had that just been delivered? He motored over using the sack as his marker and dropped anchor to arrest his drift. Moving to the injured side of the boat, he dropped his cap and sunglasses to the deck, slid his diving mask on and slipped into the deep water at the reef’s drop-off. His T-shirt ballooned as he sank into thick, icy silence.

Damn it.

Below his boat, he ran his hand over The Player‘s damaged hull where the hard coral had bitten into it. He’d need to dry-dock for at least three days to repair the steel properly. Not time he could afford with his schedule. But he wouldn’t sink, not if he could manage some basic repairs here. If he just went ashore …

He surged to the surface and filled his aching lungs with air, swimming round to the rear corner of the boat where The Player‘s chrome half-ladder dipped in and out of the sea with the motion of the swell. He hauled himself up into the boat.

‘I hope you’re planning on checking out the coral too?’ an angry voice snapped from behind.

Blinking in the glare, he reached for his sunglasses and turned in time to see his mermaid haul herself onto the smoothest part of the exposed reef. She stood, chest heaving from her swim, near-naked and dripping wet: his three favourite attributes in a woman.

Usually, his mind would have bubbled up a dozen witty comebacks, all tried-and-tested and proven to charm. But not one leapt to mind as Rob stared at the angry woman balancing on the reef nearby.

More specifically, at the brutal scars that stretched from her ear down to her right shoulder.

‘Well?’

Honor Brier was in no mood to be stared at, and certainly not by him. The man had just rammed the outer rim of the atoll—living reef that had formed, unmolested, over centuries. It thrived, ignored by most of mankind and free to grow abundantly, under the rubber booties that saved her feet from being grated like Cheddar on the reef. ‘That coral will still be repairing itself two decades after your boat has rusted away to iron-ash.’

He stared at her, trying very hard not to look at her shoulder, which only made it more obvious. She set her hands on her hips, fighting the urge to raise a self-conscious hand to her neck. ‘Do you speak or are you purely ornamental? ‘

That got his attention. The smile he flashed her then must have won dozens of hearts in its time—softer, less calloused hearts than hers. She turned official. ‘This is a protected area. You can’t be here without a permit and a guide.’

‘You’re here.’

The hairs on her neck prickled at his deep, silken voice. It was a crime that it should match the rest of him. ‘I have a permit.’

‘And a guide?’

Her tongue clucked in frustration. ‘I don’t need a guide; I work here.’

‘It wasn’t my intention to stop here. As you can see, I’ve encountered a bit of a setback.’

Honor cast her eye over the pile of equipment on the deck of his vessel. God knew how much more he had below. It explained what he was doing lurking around her island. ‘Are you out here diving?’

‘Why? Is the sea floor protected too?’

He probably thought he was being charming. ‘Parts of it are, yes. Inside Pulu Keeling waters. Why were you so close to the reef?’

‘I came in to see if I could spot the SMS Emden memorial. Then I was distracted by … uh … a bird.’

She shifted her weight. He was into birds? She hosted birding groups about twice a year. She glanced at his expensive field binoculars. It gave her pause. ‘A booby?’

He flashed those pearly whites again. ‘I believe it was—possibly a pair.’

Believe? Pulu Keeling was famous for its booby colonies. Three species. But surely he would know that if he was into …?

Oh.

Imbecile. Honor sighed and concentrated on not crossing her arms. Displeasure and impatience stained her voice. ‘Do you need a hand launching off? You must be eager to see the memorial. You’ll be able to spot it with binoculars from outside the reef.’

Time to go now.

‘Actually, I need to come ashore.’

‘Not going to happen. Not without a permit.’

‘The Player’s compromised. It wouldn’t be safe to set out without patching the breach.’

The Player—how very apt. The way he stroked the bright blue gunnel of his boat told her how important the vessel was to him. She knew all about men and their boats. ‘Then you’d better head back to Cocos—’

‘I’m coming in. If you want to stop me, knock yourself out. I’m not going to sea until I’ve made repairs.’ He crossed his arms, causing his sea-soaked T-shirt to mould to his broad chest. Honor retreated one pace. She couldn’t stop him, not if it truly wasn’t safe, but she’d never had cause to bring someone unauthorised onto the island in her many seasons on Pulu Keeling. She wasn’t certain what the procedure was.

‘So, are you sending me back out to drown or can I come ashore?’

She sucked in a breath at his choice of phrase and grabbed at the buoyancy sack to steady herself. He couldn’t know …

Her voice cracked slightly. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘Where can I enter the lagoon?’

‘You can’t.’ She fought to sound normal. ‘You’ll have to moor where you are.’

He scanned the lagoon. ‘Are you serious? What about the south side of the island?’

‘Everyone swims into Pulu Keeling. It’s an atoll, completely surrounded by coral reef. Why else would I be hauling all this stuff in by hand?’

Piles of technical equipment mounded in every spare inch of his boat. Honor wouldn’t risk leaving it all in a vessel with a damaged hull in the unpredictable weather of the Keeling Islands, and she knew he’d feel no different.

‘It’s not too late to change your mind, head for Cocos.’ Her tone was hopelessly optimistic.

‘No. I’ll come ashore. I have no choice.’

Neither do I, apparently.

They hardly spoke as they stripped The Player and Honor knew from his grumpy movements that she wasn’t the only one less than pleased with the circumstances they’d found themselves in. Then the sheer hard work of towing load after load of expensive equipment across the lagoon literally took her breath away, making conversation impossible.

He passed items to her one by one and she stacked each one along with her buoyancy sack into The Player‘s inflatable dinghy, which bobbed in the protected lagoon. Some pieces were heavier than others, but she managed every one without complaint. Pretty Boy sealed the cabin, dropped the weather shields, started the engine one final time and motored a few metres away from the reef where he could safely drop anchor.

Honor waited while he added his spare anchor to the first he’d dropped and then he dived headlong into the frigid depths and swam towards her. The razor edge of the dropoff threatened, but on his second attempt those powerful arms pushed him up and over into the lagoon, guiding the inflatable from behind towards the beach. The water was warmer and gentler on the island side of the reef-break, and teemed with brightly coloured fish enjoying the protection the coral band afforded. They darted, kamikaze-like, around the giant two-legged predator who’d appeared in their midst nudging the dinghy to shore.

Honor’s weary muscles pressed her along, closer to the island, and then she stood in the calf-deep splash waiting for him, breathing deeply. They couldn’t drag the inflatable far onto the shingle beach; the rocks threatened to shred it in moments. It rested instead on the fine-ground sand closer to the waterline.

Her unwanted guest emerged from the small surf, his saturated clothes glued to every muscled plane. ‘I’ve got it. Take a break.’

Nothing he could have said would have moved her sooner. She dropped the tow rope and bent for one of the parcels in the little boat, trying to disguise her puffing. ‘I’m fine. What is all this stuff, anyway?’

‘Recovery gear, mostly. Photographic equipment, sonar, GPS.’

That stopped her in her tracks.

‘You’re a raider?’ She intentionally used the derogatory term for a salvager. She watched him closely for a reaction.

Lord, what will I do if he is? They were a long way from the Cocos cluster’s five-strong police presence.

His face tightened. ‘I’m a maritime archaeologist.’

‘What’s the difference?’

One dark brow shot up. ‘The difference is,’ he grumbled as they lugged gear from the inflatable up above the high water mark, ‘one is sanctioned by the Australian Government, in accordance with the Historic Shipwrecks Act. The other is naked theft.’

‘You’re a shipwreck hunter?’

He smiled, bright and glorious. ‘I’m a shipwreck finder.’

She studied him, her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t look like an archaeologist.’ And he really, really didn’t. He looked like something from an underwear commercial.

‘You don’t look like a dugong.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing.’ He grinned and thrust out a sandy hand. ‘Robert Dalton. Rob, to my friends.’

She took it, nodding her greeting. ‘Robert.’ His smile twisted slightly. ‘I’m Honor Brier.’

‘And what are you doing all the way out here, Honor Brier? Pretty much the last place I expected to see a woman.’

‘Because of an old Malay myth that says women can’t be on this island?’

‘No. Because it’s supposed to be uninhabited.’

‘I live here eight months of the year. I oversee the turtle nesting and audit the booby colonies.’

He didn’t so much as smile at the word this time; she had to give him a bonus point for fast learning. He dumped the final box on the dune top.

‘You live here for eight months? On an island with no fresh water and no services?’ And no people. He didn’t need to say it; he wasn’t the first one to point that out to her. She shrugged.

He looked at her as if she was a little bit crazy; with no clue how close to the truth that was. ‘What do you do?’

She spoke more slowly, wondering if he’d spent so long in the looks queue at birth they might have been out of stock over in the brains department. She grabbed her side of the inflatable. ‘I supervise the nesting and audit …’

‘The boobies, I know. I meant what else do you do, to pass the time?’ He stepped to the edge of the dinghy. ‘One, two three … lift.’

They shuffled up the sand, carrying the empty inflatable over the many rocks littering the shore above the high-tide mark.

‘Nothing else—that’s it. It’s my job.’

He stared at her. ‘Alone?’

‘Yep.’ Until now.

He whistled. ‘Who’d you tick off?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘No one! I choose to come here—I love it.’ And it was the closest point on the planet to—

She caught herself before even thinking about them in this jerk’s presence and dumped her side of the inflatable.

He cringed as it bounced on the rocks. ‘Hey, hey—’

Adonis or not, he’d be repairing a puncture, too, if he didn’t watch what he said. ‘Your stuff should be fine here until tomorrow. There are no storms forecast … tonight.’ She threw the dismissal over her shoulder, marched to where the second buoyancy sack waited by the water’s edge, hauled it over her shoulder and staggered up the beach with as much dignity as she could on the caving sand.

She turned back and saw him looking at the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment sitting exposed on her shore. Then he grimaced and followed her as she turned up an almost unrecognisable track between the thick coconut palms fringing the dunes.

Honor shifted from foot to foot. She’d never intended anyone to see her little campsite and now a complete stranger stood in the midst of her ‘stuff'.

Two seasons ago she’d lined the little track leading from the beach with seashells so it formed a sweet pathway to camp. She’d splashed out on a designer fly-sheet for the tent—one with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers screen-printed on it—and although it did look rather odd in the middle of the tropical wilderness, the touch of whimsy pleased her. She’d even thought about planting some ground cover to help bind the fine white sand that found its way into everything, but decided against it. Pulu Keeling may well have been Australia’s smallest National Park, but it was still protected by the same regulations and restrictions afforded to the biggest mainland parks. Making a homely garden was a big conservation no-no.

So she just lived with the sand. Everywhere.

Rob gazed about him with a kind of fascination as he trailed her up from the shore. This island was her home-away-from-home, her sanctuary, and he’d been rudely dismissive of it, as though it wasn’t a rare piece of paradise with lush trees, crystalline waters and masses of wildlife.

Don’t you dare say one word. Not a word.

‘This looks pretty comfortable,’ he said in total defiance of her thought projection.

Suspicion stained the compliment. ‘Everything I need is here.’

It was true. Tent, field equipment, first aid, emergency flares, books, laptop, batteries, radio, fuelled-up generator, provisions and a mountain of ten-litre water tubs full of fresh water. Each in its designated place and each swum in across the lagoon at the beginning of every monitoring season. And swum back out empty at the end.

When he reached the edge of the campsite, he turned back to admire the view she’d been staring at for four years. Coconut trees bowed towards each other and formed a perfect picture frame for the sparkling ocean beyond the lagoon. The thirty-foot pisonia forest overhead offered protection from the worst of the weather and shade from the blazing equatorial sun.

He was silhouetted against the bright day outside the trees and Honor fought to ignore how solid and fit he looked with her lagoon as a backdrop, the wet T-shirt still clinging to his muscular back. His legs were long, contoured and as tanned as the rest of him. He was tall and lean with surfer’s shoulders. All of him was toned—sculpted but not muscle-bound. She imagined the kind of precise gym-work that went into keeping him in such balanced shape and assumed there were two personal trainers on standby somewhere awaiting his return to the mainland.

Female, no doubt.

He shifted his weight and stretched out a crick in that broad back and Honor wondered if she’d ever feel the same about her view again—or her island.

She frowned. Where had that come from? Not her brain, certainly. One man spending five minutes on Pulu Keeling was not going to undo the wonder and beauty of her safe haven for ever. It was the disturbance. It had thrown her normal rhythm.

She watched him soak up the view, his hands on his hips, body not quite relaxed. For a man who looked as if he was born in the surf, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable standing in front of one of the most beautiful beaches on the planet.

What’s he waiting for—a bellhop?

Her lips tightened. ‘Well, come on in.’

He swung around and moved out of the deep shade into the dappled light of her campsite, sliding his sunglasses up onto his damp dark hair. Honor’s heart tripped over itself, and she glanced away lest she be caught staring.

His eyes were the same vivid blue as her view.

She scurried towards her tent, willing the heart that had lurched into a frantic flutter to settle. Had everything shrunk the moment he stepped into camp? She grabbed a long-sleeved cotton shirt and hastily slipped it on over her swimsuit.

‘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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.