Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

A Wild Surrender

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘THIS yo’ first trip to St Antoine?’

Rachel dragged her eyes away from the exotic sight of hibiscus growing wild beside the airport buildings to give the taxi driver a slightly dazed look.

‘What? Oh—oh, yes. It’s my first visit to the Caribbean,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘I can hardly believe I’m here.’

And wasn’t that the truth? she conceded silently. A week ago she’d had no intention of taking an unplanned break in these semi-tropical surroundings. But that had been before her father broke the news that her mother had left him. Sara Claiborne had apparently abandoned her home and her husband to fly out to the small island of St Antoine to visit a man she’d known many years ago.

‘Did she say when she was coming back?’

Rachel’s first thought had been a practical one, but her father had been uncharacteristically morose.

‘Don’t you mean if she’s coming back?’ he’d mumbled bitterly. ‘And if she doesn’t I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

Rachel had felt out of her depth. Although she’d always believed her parents’ marriage was rock-solid, occasionally she’d sensed a certain ambivalence in their treatment of each other. On top of which, her mother’s attitude towards her had generally made her feel that it wasn’t her problem. And if that was a little hard to take at times, she’d assumed it was simply a case of their different attitudes towards life.

Still, she had believed that Sara and Ralph Claiborne loved one another, and that, unlike lots of their friends and neighbours, their marriage was unlikely to be torn apart by rows or infidelity.

But what did she know, really? At age thirty she was still unmarried and a virgin, so any judgements she made were hardly the result of experience.

‘So who is this man?’ she’d asked, but her father had been carefully reticent on that point.

‘His name’s Matthew Brody,’ had been all he’d say in response. ‘He’s someone she knew—years ago, as I say.’ He’d paused, before exploding his next bombshell. ‘I want you to go after her, Rachel. I want you to bring her home.’

Rachel had stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Me?’ she’d exclaimed ungrammatically. ‘Why can’t you go after her yourself?’

‘Because I can’t.’ Ralph Claiborne had regarded her from beneath lowered lids. ‘I just can’t do it. Surely you can understand that, Rachel? What would I do if she turned me away?’

The same as me, I suppose, thought Rachel unhappily, but she could see where this was going. Whoever this man was, her father saw him as a threat to their relationship—and how could she refuse to help him when there was evidently so much at stake?

It troubled her that her mother had chosen to meet this man on an island in the Caribbean. But when she’d asked her father about this, he’d explained that Matthew Brody lived on St Antoine. It troubled her, too, that she’d never sensed the distance that must have been growing between her parents for such a potentially devastating situation to develop.

But then, she’d never been particularly close to her mother. They didn’t share the same interests or like the same things. It was different with her father, but perhaps she hadn’t expected as much from him.

Rachel sighed as she remembered the rest of the conversation. Her own pleas that she couldn’t just walk out on her job at the local newspaper had fallen on stony ground.

‘I’ll have a word with Don,’ said her father at once. ‘I’ll explain that Sara needs a break and, as I can’t leave the office right now, I’ve asked you to take my place. He can’t object to you taking a couple of weeks’ unpaid holiday. Not after you’ve kept going when half his staff have been down with flu.’

‘I’ve been lucky,’ Rachel had protested, but it had been no use.

She knew that because Don Graham, the editor at the paper, and her father had gone to school together. Ralph Claiborne considered he was responsible for her getting a job there in the first place. And perhaps he was, although Rachel preferred not to believe it. She had been straight out of college, it was true, but with a good degree in English, and computer skills, she liked to think she’d got the job on her own merits.

Needless to say her father had been as good as his word. The following morning Don Graham had called her into his office and told her that another girl would be taking over her duties in the advertising department from now on.

‘Your father says your mother hasn’t been well all winter,’ he’d said, and Rachel had felt her face burning. ‘I’m giving you a couple of weeks’ compassionate leave. Just don’t make a habit of it, you hear?’

So here she was, over three thousand miles from home, without the faintest notion of how she was going to handle the situation. She was still sure her mother loved her father, but she didn’t know how that love would fare in the face of another attachment. And who was this other attachment—this Matthew Brody? And why did Rachel feel such a sense of foreboding at the prospect of seeing her mother again?

‘You here for a holiday?’

The taxi driver was speaking again, and Rachel knew he was only trying to be friendly. But, goodness, how could she answer that question when what she felt was that she was on the edge of a precipice with no practical means of getting down?

‘Um—a holiday?’ She licked her dry lips. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

It wasn’t the right answer. She could see that in the dark eyes that met hers in the rearview mirror. The man’s expression was both curious and wary, and she guessed he was wondering what kind of kook he was driving.

To distract herself, she turned her attention back to the view. Beyond the environs of the small inter-island airport, the road was narrow and unpaved. But the sight of the ocean creaming onto almost white sands below the thick grasses that grew on the clifftop was a definite lift to her spirits. Whatever else, she was being given a totally new—totally unexpected—experience, and she should try and get as much out of it as she could.

She’d never even heard of St Antoine before her father mentioned it to her. It was one of a small group of islands off the coast of Jamaica. Near the Caymans, but not part of them. A handful of mountains and reefs and jewel-bright vegetation where, according to her father, the only industries were a little sugar cane and coffee and, of course, tourism.

‘You stayin’ long?’

‘Two weeks.’

At least Rachel could be honest about that. Well, providing her mother didn’t send her packing the minute she saw her. That was always a possibility, and Rachel didn’t know if she had a strong enough motivation to stay on under those circumstances.

Though she could, she reminded herself consideringly. Her father had booked her into St Antoine’s only hotel and there was no reason why she should waste the reservation. She’d been lucky to get it, and only because someone else had cancelled at the last moment.

‘You keen on water sports, miss?’

The driver was determined to learn more about her, and Rachel pulled a wry face.

‘I like swimming,’ she admitted, not sure what else he was referring to. Unless it was snorkelling. She had tried that once in Spain.

‘Not much else to do on St Antoine,’ he persisted. ‘We got no movie theatres or nightclubs. Not a lot of call for stuff like that.’

‘I would suppose not,’ murmured Rachel, a cynical smile pulling down the corners of her mouth.

Well, he’d lasted a full ten minutes before making an oblique reference to her appearance. She doubted the elderly taxi driver was interested in her, but the fact remained he had already associated her with the kind of nightlife more readily found in Havana or Kingston.

She grimaced. A lifetime—an adult lifetime, anyway—of parrying personal comments and sexual innuendo had taught her to ignore all references to her face and figure. So she was almost six feet tall, blonde, with full breasts and long legs? But what of it? She didn’t like the way she looked or the way men looked at her. Which was probably why she was still single, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

When she was younger, she’d used to worry about her height and her appearance. She’d used to wish she was shorter, smaller, darker. More like her mother. Anything to avoid standing out in a crowd of girls her own age.

But her years at college had convinced her that boys never looked beyond the obvious. She was a blonde, therefore she was a bimbo. With an IQ no bigger than her bust size.

‘Is it far to town?’ she asked, leaning forward, deciding to take advantage of the man’s garrulousness to ask some questions of her own.

‘Not far,’ he replied, swinging out to pass a mule-drawn cart. It was loaded with banana plants that hung precariously over its sides. He beeped his horn and the mule jerked nervously.

‘You stayin’ at the Tamarisk, yeah?’

‘That’s right.’ Rachel was grateful to discuss her destination. ‘It’s just a small hotel, I believe. I suppose it will be busy at this time of the year?’

‘Oh, sure.’ The man nodded expansively, turning the wheel of the car. The little statue of the Madonna that was suspended above his mirror swung in sympathy. ‘Janu’ry, Febru’ry—they’s our busiest months. ’Course, we do get visitors in summer, but when it’s winter in the UK and the United States, that’s when we get most tourists.’ He paused. ‘Like yourself.’

‘Mmm.’

Rachel absorbed this, but she didn’t comment. She was wondering how she could get around to mentioning Matthew Brody’s name. It was a small island, and a small population. Surely it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he might have heard of the man?

The road that had been riding along the cliff now swung inland, and Rachel stared at the thickly wooded vegetation covering the land that rose on the right. Trees and shrubs, ferns and bushes, all exploding with colour. Even in the late afternoon, the brilliance of the sunlight was dazzling.

They were nearing the small town of St Antoine, she realised. Outlying dwellings, some of them with a plot of land given over to either cattle or crops, bordered the road, and presently an occasional store boasted signs that read ‘Fresh Sandwiches’ or ‘Home-made Ice-cream’.

Now the road was divided into two lanes by a belt of palm trees. Rachel could see shops and houses with bougainvillea dripping from every roof and balcony. She glimpsed frangipani and oleander behind iron railings, and lots of West Indian faces peering at her as the taxi drove by.

‘Um—I don’t suppose you know a man called Brody?’ she ventured at last, realising she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. They’d be at the hotel soon and any chance would be lost.

‘You mean Jacob Brody?’ The taxi driver didn’t wait for her to correct him before going on. ‘Sure, everyone knows Jacob Brody. Seein’ as how he and his son own most of the island.’

Rachel’s eyes widened. Her father had told her nothing about the Brodys at all. Somehow she’d got the impression that this man—Matthew Brody—was some kind of playboy. That he and her mother must have had an affair.

‘I—’

She’d been about to ask if Matthew Brody was related to Jacob when the taxi turned between wrought-iron gates. Ahead, she could see what she assumed was the Tamarisk Hotel. A two-storeyed stucco-painted structure, with a fountain playing on the forecourt out front.

‘This is it.’

Her driver, a barrel-chested man, with a luxuriant moustache and cornrows, thrust open his door and got out. Then, after swinging the passenger door open for Rachel, he walked round to the rear of the vehicle to haul her suitcase out of the boot.

Rachel followed him and thrust a handful of dollars into his palm. She never knew how much to tip people, but judging by the man’s expression she’d overdone it this time.

Oh, well…

‘You know the Brodys?’ the man asked, evidently associating her generosity with the man he’d spoken of, but Rachel shook her head.

‘No,’ she said, not wanting to get into a discussion. ‘I can manage,’ she added, when he would have carried her suitcase into the hotel. She pulled up the handle on the case to demonstrate, and then towed it after her as she walked away. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ The driver stuffed the bills into his pocket. ‘Yo’ want anything else while you’re here, yo’ just let Aaron know.’ He nodded towards the hotel. ‘They got my number.’

Rachel doubted she’d take him up on it, but she cast him a polite smile over her shoulder. However, privately she was thinking that she’d have to be more diligent with her cash. She couldn’t afford to go throwing money around, whatever happened here.

Two shallow steps that stretched along the front of the building led up to a wide verandah. Cane chairs and tables sheltered beneath the shadow of an awning, and tall columns were wound about with flowering vines. She entered into a marble-tiled foyer, where more flowers rioted from tubs and urns.

The reception desk was immediately ahead of her, but, glancing up, she saw that the second-floor rooms all opened onto a curving balcony that swept around the upper floor. The ceiling of the reception area was open to an airy atrium, and although there didn’t appear to be a lift a staircase hugged the outer wall.

A pretty West Indian girl was in charge of the reception desk, and as there were few people about at the moment she watched Rachel’s approach with a critical eye. Rachel doubted there was any aspect of her appearance that had gone unnoticed, but she was used to ignoring that kind of attention.

‘Hi, there, welcome to the Tamarisk,’ the girl said, her smile as practised as her manner. ‘You have a reservation, Ms—er—’

‘Claiborne,’ said Rachel pleasantly. ‘Yes, it was just made a few days ago.’

‘Of course.’

The girl’s voice had the slow, attractive drawl of the islands that Rachel had already noticed at the airport. And while she brought up Rachel’s booking on the computer, Rachel took the time to examine her surroundings more fully.

The hotel was small, it was true, but it was very attractive. Not least because of the white stone pillars that supported the balcony, and the airy brightness of its public rooms. There was a pleasant scent of spices and sweetness. The air outside had been close and humid, but here the layout of the foyer allowed a cross breeze that cooled her skin.

‘Here we are, Ms Claiborne.’

The girl—her name-tag read Rosa—had evidently found what she was looking for. Rescuing a pen from the drawer in front of her, she pushed a registration form towards Rachel.

‘If you just fill this in,’ she said, her dark eyes assessing. ‘Then I’ll get Toby to show you to your room.’

‘Thanks.’

Rachel rested the backpack she’d carried instead of a handbag on the counter and picked up the pen. This part was familiar to her. She’d stayed in plenty of hotels before, albeit not in such exotic surroundings. She couldn’t suppress a momentary twinge of excitement. Whatever else, this was an experience she wouldn’t forget.

She was checking to see that she’d supplied all the necessary information when she became aware of a sudden quickening in the air. Someone else had entered the foyer, and judging by the way the receptionist straightened her spine and adjusted her cleavage it was someone she wanted to impress.

A man, then, thought Rachel cynically. She doubted Rosa would make such an effort for a member of her own sex. Unable to resist, she peeked beneath her arm and saw tan loafers and taut muscular calves clad in black denim.

Definitely a man, she conceded, straightening. Women were such clichés. Didn’t they realise their reactions were so obvious to a man?

‘Hi, Matt.’

Matt!

Was that a coincidence? Rachel couldn’t help herself. She swung round to see who had garnered so much excitement in the building. And found herself confronted by a tall dark man, with a lean muscular frame and broad shoulders.

She supposed he was attractive in a hard athletic sort of way. She was trying to be detached about it, but for once it wasn’t easy. The short-sleeved black shirt that matched his pants was coming loose from his waistband in places. So sexy. And she could see the dusky tattoo of some predatory winged beast etched around his upper arm.

He was olive-skinned and clean-shaven, although she doubted he would ever be able to erase the dark shadow on his jawline. His hair was thick and straight, and just a little too long for her liking. But he evidently ticked all the boxes so far as Rosa was concerned.

‘Hey, Mr Brody’s been phoning here all day, looking for you,’ she said, her expression undeniably seductive. ‘He’s definitely on your case. I’d give him a ring, if I was you.’

‘Would you, now?’

Rachel’s stomach plunged. Despite being convinced now that this was the man she was looking for, his voice caused a primal leap of her senses. It was deep, dark, like black molasses soaked in treacle. Well, that was probably a contradiction, but she couldn’t deny its sensual appeal.

Which bothered her quite a bit. She wasn’t used to having this kind of response to a man—any man. And if this was the man her mother had apparently flown out here to meet, it was all the more disturbing.

But it couldn’t be this man. Surely. He had to be at least ten years younger than Sara Claiborne and a sexy hunk besides. If he was, and her mother had succeeded in attracting his attention, she couldn’t help acknowledging that Ralph Claiborne simply wasn’t in his league.

She wondered what he was doing here. Was her mother staying here, too? At this hotel? She could hardly ask him. She simply wasn’t capable of making such a leap. No, somehow she was going to have to get to know this man. Would it be beyond her capabilities to gain his trust?

Her lips compressed resignedly.

Probably.

CHAPTER TWO

THE man had noticed her now.

Well, he could hardly help it, she supposed, seeing as how she was standing staring at him as if she’d never seen a man before. And because of this she felt hot colour filling her cheeks. Although she turned quickly back to the desk, she was sure he must have seen it.

Rosa was completing her reservation with one eye on what she was doing and the other on the man who was approaching the desk. She pulled open another drawer and extracted a small folder containing a key card. Then, picking up the bell beside her, she gave it a peremptory ring.

‘Are you checking in?’

Rachel started. The molasses-dark voice was speaking to her now, and she swallowed convulsively before turning in his direction.

‘I—oh, yes.’ What it had to do with him she couldn’t imagine, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She licked her lips. ‘Are you?’

His smile was wide, but faintly ironic, and the explanation was clear when Rosa piped up again.

‘Mr Brody owns the hotel,’ she said, her voice full of amused disdain. Then, as a young West Indian man appeared, she held out the key card towards him. ‘Toby, will show you to your room, Ms Claiborne.’ Another practised smile. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’

‘Claiborne?’

Before Rachel could move away, the man—Matt Brody—spoke. He’d come to stand beside her at the reception desk, and she was suddenly aware of the heat of his body and the clean male scent of his skin. He was taller than she was, easily six feet three or four, she estimated, and it was quite a novelty to meet a man who made her feel small.

But what was more unsettling was the fact that she was so aware of him. Of every little thing about him, actually, and that was definitely a new experience for her. A new experience, and one she didn’t quite know how to handle. She’d never considered herself odd in any way because she was still a virgin at thirty. But suddenly the ramifications of her inexperience were beating a frantic path to her door.

But she wasn’t here to learn about her own inadequacies, she chided herself. Or to observe his appearance—she drew the line at ‘admire’—she added, as he crossed his arms over his midriff and regarded her with keen, assessing eyes. Green eyes, she saw, not dark as she’d first imagined, with long straight lashes that any woman would have died for.

‘Your name’s Claiborne?’

He repeated the question, and Rachel had to drag her eyes away from his fascinating tattoo to acknowledge his enquiry. ‘Um—that’s right,’ she said. And then, with more daring than she’d given herself credit for, ‘Does the name mean something to you?’

He seemed to hesitate. His dark brows drew together and the green of his irises deepened so that Rachel understood why she’d originally mistaken their colour. ‘Perhaps,’ he said at last. ‘I have—heard of it. It’s not a common name.’

‘No, it’s not.’

Rachel concentrated on not pursing her lips, but she was tempted to ask where he’d heard of it before. Would he be truthful? She doubted it. But she wondered what he’d say if she told him that Sara Claiborne was her mother.

‘Anyway,’ he added, apparently indifferent to her ambivalence, ‘I hope you find your accommodation satisfactory.’ He nodded towards the young man who was waiting patiently beside her suitcase. ‘If there’s anything else you need, just pick up the phone. I’m sure either the housekeeper or whoever’s on Reception will be able to help you.’

‘Thank you.’

The polite words almost stuck in her throat, but Rachel wasn’t about to air her grievances in public. Despite the adrenalin that was still pumping through her veins, she couldn’t deny she was weary.

It had been a long flight to Jamaica, and an unusually stressful final leg on the inter-island turboprop that had brought her from Montego Bay. The small plane had seemed to hit every air pocket over the Caribbean, and Rachel’s legs had felt decidedly shaky when she’d stepped down onto the tarmac at St Antoine airport.

She would be glad to shed her clothes and take a long cool shower. And then maybe Room Service, if the hotel provided such a thing. She was enchanted by the island; she loved the individuality of the hotel. But Matt—Matthew—Brody’s presence was a definite complication.

And it certainly didn’t help her case to know that she was aware of him in a totally inappropriate way.

Now, forcing a thin smile, she left the reception desk to accompany the young man, Toby, across the foyer to the stairs. But she was fairly sure at least two pairs of eyes watched their progress, and she had to suppress the urge to swing her hips to show them that she didn’t care.

Or was she being paranoid? And conceited? Matt Brody had given her no reason to believe he had found anything interesting about her. Only her name had struck a chord with him. And if what she suspected was true that was hardly surprising.

As she’d anticipated earlier, the rooms on the upper landing overlooked the foyer below. But inside they were light and airy, with a balcony opening off the outer wall that overlooked the gardens at the back of the hotel.

After assuring himself that she had everything she needed, Toby departed and Rachel took a few moments to explore her domain. The room wasn’t large, but it was comfortable, with a large colonial-style bed, and a writing table and two armchairs.

There were chairs on the balcony, too, protected from the balcony next door by a trellis of flowering vines. Below, a kidney-shaped swimming pool dozed in the afternoon sun. The pool area was deserted at present, except for a couple of children who were playing tag around the striped umbrellas that provided shade from the blistering heat.

In other circumstances Rachel would have been enchanted. Objectively, the island was everything she could have hoped it would be. But, like all paradises, there had to be a serpent, and despite his fascination Matt Brody certainly fitted the bill.

Fascination?

Where the hell had that come from? Rachel was appalled at the way her mind had latched onto the word. Had she forgotten why she was here, or were her hormones playing tricks on her? For heaven’s sake, this was not the time to find a man could be both dangerous and sexy.

The bathroom was functional, but efficient. Rachel took a long cooling shower and then dressed in the men’s boxers and strappy vest she usually wore to bed. She was glad to shed the fine woollen pants and navy blazer she’d worn to travel from London; February in St Antoine was much different from February back home.

An examination of the hotel information assured her that she could order room service if she wanted. She wasn’t particularly hungry—it was already midnight back in England, and normally she’d have been tucked up in bed by now—but if she didn’t have something she’d be starving by the time it came to breakfast.

A green salad and ice-cream seemed innocuous enough, and while she waited she went out onto the balcony. It was dark outside, but the gardens were illuminated, casting shadows everywhere. The air was exotic, velvety-soft, and scented with a dozen unfamiliar fragrances. Rachel rested her hands on the rail and breathed deeply, trying to inhale the memory into her lungs.

She’d forgotten she was only wearing the boxer shorts and tight-fitting vest. As she raised her arms above her head her breasts moved freely beneath the cloth. She felt curiously free and elemental. The night air moved like a sensual finger against her skin.

And then she saw him. Well, she was almost sure that it was Matt Brody, standing in the shadow of one of the sunshades, his head turned upward towards her balcony.

She recoiled immediately, pulling down her hands and stepping back out of sight. Dear God, had he seen her? Well, of course he had. But what was he doing out there anyway? Surely he didn’t live at the hotel.

A tap at her door had her panicking again. But then she remembered Room Service, and hastily pulled on a cotton wrapper over her vest and shorts. It was a young man she hadn’t seen before, his eyes dark and admiring as they travelled over the curling dampness of her hair and the curving shape of her figure, barely concealed by the thin wrap.

‘Enjoy your supper, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, accepting the tip she offered with easy approval. And Rachel recognised how differently she’d reacted to two almost equally attractive men.

She ate all the salad and most of the ice-cream, nibbling on a sweetened wafer as she clambered between the sheets of the big bed. Her hair was still damp, and she supposed she ought to dry it. And she would, she told herself sleepily, as soon as she’d finished her biscuit.

* * *

It was light when Rachel awakened. She hadn’t pulled the drapes the night before and the sun was streaming in through the balcony doors. At least she’d closed the door, she reflected, pushing back her hair with a lazy hand. Though the idea of anyone climbing over her balcony and invading her room was as far-fetched as her dreams.

It was only seven o’clock, but it was already far too warm in the room. She’d turned off the air-conditioning the night before, but now she pushed her legs out of bed and trudged across the carpeted floor to turn it on again. The rough shag tickled her toes, but the cool tiles in the bathroom provided a welcome contrast.

She examined her face in the mirror above the handbasin. Despite the troubling content of her dreams, she’d slept reasonably well. There were slight shadows around her eyes, and she was sure she’d acquired another wrinkle. But her skin was clear, albeit too fair for her liking, and although she’d never consider herself beautiful, her features were acceptable, she supposed.

She sighed, and, reaching for her toothbrush, started her morning routine. Nothing too complicated, just a cream cleanser to freshen her skin and a perfumed deodorant.

She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about speaking to Matt—Matthew Brody again. Or indeed how she was supposed to contact her mother. It would probably be too much to hope that she was staying at this hotel. Her father didn’t have an address for her, but Rachel suspected she might be staying with the man she’d come to meet.

And where did he live?

She dressed in a short pleated skirt that left a tolerable length of leg bare and a daffodil-yellow tank top. She wore flip-flops instead of the heels she’d worn to travel in, acknowledging that if she did see Matt Brody he would seem that much taller and—maybe—intimidating.

But she didn’t want to think about that. Leaving her room, she closed the door and, after glancing up and down the landing, she headed towards the stairs.

A middle-aged couple, just coming out of the room next door, said, ‘Good morning’. Rachel returned their greeting with a smile, noticing how pale her skin looked beside theirs. Evidently they’d been here for several days. The man, who was fairer, was already exhibiting signs of sunburn.

At the other end of the landing a pair of double doors provided an effective barrier. As she went down the stairs Rachel wondered what was beyond them. Offices, perhaps, or a boardroom? Or the private apartment of the owner of the hotel?

Shrugging, she decided that could wait until later. She followed her neighbours down to the lobby, noticing that they knew their way around. For obvious reasons, she hadn’t ventured out of her rooms again the night before.

The receptionist—not Rosa this time, but another girl—called a greeting, and Rachel had to admit that the staff were very friendly. Was it company policy, she wondered cynically, or were they just naturally gregarious people?

Like Matt Brody?

But she didn’t want to go there, so instead she trailed her neighbours across the lobby and through open double doors into a casual dining area. Some of the tables were occupied inside, but most people who were there seemed to have opted for the patio. Leaving the others behind, Rachel stepped out into the sunshine with a feeling of optimism she couldn’t suppress.

‘Table for two?’

A waitress appeared at her elbow, and Rachel pulled a wry face. ‘Just for one,’ she said, half apologetically, and was unaccountably pleased when the young woman looked surprised.

She was seated at the far side of the patio. It was still early—barely eight o’clock—but the sun was already gaining in strength. She was glad of the awning that protected the tables. She didn’t want to start her trip with sunstroke.

She drank freshly squeezed fruit juice and several cups of strong black coffee. Jamaica was famous for its coffee, and unless this was home-grown Rachel suspected she was enjoying a Jamaican blend. She ate only a warm roll and a Danish pastry, passing up French toast and maple pancakes, despite their delightfully appetising smell.

She was tempted to go for a swim after breakfast. Her usual routine, when she was on holiday, was to go sightseeing in the morning, before the sun became too unbearable, and then swim or sunbathe in the afternoon. But she wasn’t on holiday, she reminded herself, as if any remainder was necessary. And as far as sightseeing was concerned, wasn’t she more likely to find her quarry here?

She was lingering over one final cup of coffee when she became aware that someone had stopped beside her table. Someone who was tall and dark and disturbingly familiar, so that her nerves tingled and her breathing quickened, and she really had no need to look up from her abstract contemplation to find out who it was.

But of course she did.

‘Good morning, Ms Claiborne.’

Matt Brody’s voice caused the little hairs on the back of her neck to rise expectantly. Rachel found herself putting up a hand to calm them, half surprised to find the stubby ponytail she’d made of her hair that morning was still in place.

‘Um—good morning.’

Her brief appraisal told her everything about him, and that was worrying. He, too, was wearing shorts this morning, cargo shorts that exposed brown legs and muscled calves. A white body shirt clung to every heft and sinew of his torso, once again revealing the arrow of air on his stomach.

Oh, God!

Rachel couldn’t understand why she was so aware of him. Of all the men she’d ever met, and goodness knew there’d been plenty, why did she feel such a powerful reaction when Matt Brody was near?

Like mother, like daughter, perhaps?

But she refused to go there.

‘Did you sleep well?’

Rachel decided she’d get a crick in her neck if she was forced to look up at him. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, but she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. Green eyes—were they mocking her?—looked mild and inoffensive. But why was he bothering with her? Had he guessed why she was here?

‘Very well, thank you,’ she answered, aware of the crispness of her tone. ‘Did you?’

‘I always sleep well, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, his thin lips twitching with what could only be amusement. He paused. ‘I wondered if you had any plans for this morning.’

Rachel’s jaw nearly dropped. ‘Plans?’ she said somewhat blankly. And then, deciding he couldn’t possibly know what she was thinking, she added, ‘I—why, no. I was just considering my options, actually.’

Like, should I try and find out where you live, and whether my mother is staying in your house? Or if I should just wait and see what happens if you tell her that I’m here?

‘Good.’ He gave her a swift appraisal, and Rachel felt as if those shrewd green eyes had stripped her naked and found her wanting. ‘So how do you feel about seeing a little more of the island?’

Once again Rachel felt that sense of disbelief that had accompanied his first question. ‘I—yes,’ she said, not at all sure what she was committing to, but prepared to take it anyway. ‘I was thinking about that myself.’ She took a breath. ‘Are there guided tours?’

‘You could say that.’

Matt grinned, and Rachel’s stomach quivered in response. When he was relaxed, as now, he looked quite devastating, his eyes crinkling at the corners, their expression softening his masculine features.

‘I was offering my services, actually,’ he murmured. ‘I was born in England, but apart from college I’ve lived all my life on St Antoine. I know this place—intimately.’ Had he used that word deliberately? ‘I guess I know places the guidebooks couldn’t know.’

Rachel was sure he did. But she wasn’t half as sure about taking him up on his invitation. It was an ideal opportunity to question him without giving herself away. But it was also far too attractive a proposition, and she wasn’t at all certain her father would approve.

‘Um—will anyone else be coming with us?’ she asked, innocently, and for a moment she thought his eyes darkened with sudden impatience.

‘No,’ he said at last, his tone flat. ‘Does that bother you? If I promise to keep my hands off you, will you come?’

Rachel’s face flamed with colour. ‘Oh, I—that is, I wasn’t implying—’

‘Yes, you were.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘So? What’s your answer?’

Rachel let out a nervous breath. ‘Do I need to bring anything?’ she asked, holding up her head, and his mouth twisted consideringly.

‘What did you have in mind?’ he queried. And then, as if aware of her embarrassment, he took pity on her. ‘Just some sunscreen, I guess. And your swimsuit, if you have one.’

Rachel put a little space between them. ‘All right,’ she said, mentally assuring herself that her swimsuit was the last thing she’d be putting in her bag. ‘When do we leave?’

He glanced at the thick gold watch on his wrist. ‘Is fifteen minutes long enough?’

Rachel nodded. ‘I should think so.’

His smile was ironic. ‘A woman who doesn’t need the better part of an hour to get ready. How lucky am I?’

We’ll see, thought Rachel, but she didn’t make any comment. She was already feeling apprehensive about her decision. Regretting it, no. Fearing it, yes.

‘Then I’ll see you in the foyer in fifteen minutes,’ he said, and with a polite nod he strode into the hotel.

Rachel had to sit down for a minute after he’d left her. She told herself it was so she could finish her coffee, but the truth was her legs felt decidedly weak.

Dear God, what had she let herself in for?

But she couldn’t sit here indefinitely, she thought. She needed to go back to her room and collect the sunscreen he’d mentioned. She was determined not to take a swimsuit, though she was aware that her skirt was almost as revealing. But then when she’d packed her suitcase for the trip she hadn’t expected her mother’s—what? Boyfriend? Lover?—would be, at the most, ten years older than herself.

Oh, to hell with it, she chided herself impatiently. She might be a virgin, but she was still capable of taking care of herself. On her father’s advice, she’d taken classes in both karate and tae-kwon-do, and although she wasn’t a black belt in either, her height made her a worthy opponent.

She pulled her backpack out of the wardrobe and stowed suncream and her dark glasses inside. Then, snatching up the one-piece black swimsuit she’d bought the previous year in Barcelona, she packed that, too, adding one of the hotel’s towels and daring Brody to object.

A glance in the mirror above the vanity had her pulling her hair free from the scrunchie. She usually wore it straight, but she hadn’t brought her tongs with her. In consequence, it spiked up at the ends, just past her shoulders. She combed her fingers through its silky strands and decided it would have to do.

It was almost exactly fifteen minutes later when she left the room. And. to her surprise, she saw Matt Brody just coming out of the double doors at the end of the landing. So did he live in the hotel, or had he just been checking up on his house guest? she wondered. If the doors were unlocked, she might check it out herself later in the day.

A shiver of anticipation glided down her spine and she hurried down the stairs ahead of him. This was proving to be more exciting than she’d thought. She pretended she hadn’t seen Matt, hoping to reach the foyer before he did. But she should have known he would be wise to a move like that.

‘No hurry,’ he remarked, closing the gap between them. A surprisingly callused palm closed on her bare shoulder. ‘I’m right behind you.’

Rachel felt the heat of that momentary possession pass through her body like an electric current. It was only momentary, because she stumbled forward in an effort to shake him off. And almost succeeded in breaking her neck when her foot came out of one of her flip-flops. She felt herself pitching forward, her arms flailing helplessly for the rail.

But then Matt’s arm slipped around her waist, dragging her back from certain disaster. Well, one disaster, anyway, Rachel taunted herself silently, feeling a hysterical desire to laugh. Being hauled up against Brody’s pelvis was hardly the safest thing. She was almost sure she could feel his body stirring against her, and that offered what might be greater dangers than she’d ever anticipated.

‘Th-thank you.’

Somehow she managed to extricate herself from his hold, pick up the offending flip-flop and complete the staircase on one bare foot. Then, reaching the lobby, she hastily lifted her leg and restored her footwear. In the normal way she would have bent over to accomplish the task, but the idea of giving her rescuer an uninterrupted view of her bottom was not something she wanted to pursue.

Particularly not at present.

‘You okay?’

Matt came round her as she was lowering her foot to the floor again, and Rachel managed a careless nod.

‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose,’ she declared lightly. ‘It’s my fault for wearing these things.’ She indicated the flip-flops. ‘I’d have been better off in flats.’

‘You’d have been better off if you hadn’t tried to outrun me,’ Matt replied drily. ‘What’s the matter, Ms Claiborne? Do I make you nervous?’

Rachel was about to deny it, but then changed her mind. ‘Perhaps a little,’ she admitted tightly. ‘I’m not a very tactile person, I’m afraid.’

Matt arched dark brows. ‘Maybe what you mean is you’re only tactile with people you like.’

‘I neither like nor dislike you, Mr Brody,’ she retorted, realising he was going to be more difficult than she had even imagined. She glanced towards the palm-fringed forecourt. ‘Do you have a car?’

Matt regarded her silently for a long moment, and she was half afraid he was going to blow her off. She didn’t want that, she realised. However reckless that made her. But, after all, this was why she’d come to St Antoine.

Then, with a casual flick of his shoulders, he gestured that she should lead the way outside. And Rachel did so, supremely aware of him following her. She should have worn her Capri pants, she thought. They would have been far more suitable. She felt totally exposed in the short cotton skirt.

CHAPTER THREE

THERE were several cars on the forecourt, some of them owned by members of the hotel staff, she assumed. Few of the guests would have their own vehicle. Unless there was a hiring franchise at the airport.

She paused, waiting for Matt to point out his car, but he passed her without a word. He headed towards the gates and she saw an open-topped Jeep parked in the street outside.

So what did that mean? she wondered. Had he just arrived at the hotel this morning? Or had the Jeep been parked there all night?

Not that he was likely to tell her. He swung open the nearside door and waited until Rachel had folded herself into the front seat. If he noticed her attempt to keep her skirt from disappearing up her thighs, she was unaware of it. But then he took her backpack from her and slung it into the back of the vehicle, apparently uncaring what might break.

‘Oh, I need my sunglasses,’ she objected, but Matt just ignored her and walked round to get into the driving seat.

‘Try these,’ he said, tossing an expensive pair of designer glasses into her lap. And, although she was sure they would be far too big for her, they fitted her face like a glove.

‘Thanks.’

She glanced sideways at him as he started the engine, wondering if she dared ask him who the glasses belonged to. They were evidently not his. He’d donned a pair of Raybans as soon as he’d taken his seat, their dark lenses successfully concealing his expression.

But she said nothing, forcing herself to look about her as Matt drove away from the hotel. The small town was buzzing, even this early in the morning, with local people and tourists milling about the narrow streets.

They passed close to an open-air market, and Rachel could smell fresh fish and garlic and exotic vegetables, all mingling with the musky scents of animals and humanity. A stall selling straw hats reminded Rachel that she hadn’t brought any protection. It was all right as long as the Jeep was bustling through the air, but she guessed she’d feel the heat on her head if she left the car.

However, she refused to ask Matt to stop so she could buy a hat. She would have to take care she didn’t spend too long in the sun. And she probably wouldn’t have the chance, she mused, judging by the speed with which Matt was driving. She had the suspicion that he was now as unenthusiastic about this outing as she was.

And that was her fault. She knew it. She had behaved quite rudely back at the hotel. It wasn’t his fault that she wasn’t used to being handled. He’d only saved her from a nasty fall, for heaven’s sake. Not mauled her for his own ends.

The streets were quieter now. They were leaving the town behind, and now children played freely in the road, apparently indifferent to passing traffic. If Rachel had expected Matt to be impatient at having to brake every couple of minutes she couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead he waved at the reckless youngsters, answering their greetings, proving how well-known and obviously well-liked he was with them.

The air was getting warmer and more humid. Rachel could see the dampness on Matt’s forehead and felt a trickle of perspiration running down between her breasts. What she wasn’t prepared for was Matt pulling up his shirt and using it to fan his stomach, the hair around his navel glistening with sweat.

Rachel’s own stomach quivered in protest. Dear God, he was such a physical man. She discovered that, contrary to previous experiences, she wasn’t immune to this man’s sexuality. Quite the reverse, in fact. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to brush her fingers over that provocative growth of hair and feel the smoothness of taut brown skin.

The knowledge horrified her. As far as she knew this was the man her mother had flown over three thousand miles to see. Whatever their relationship—and she couldn’t believe, having met him, that it was just friendship—her father certainly didn’t expect her to get involved with him herself.

Having left the final cottages behind, they were now driving towards the ocean. Behind them, the mountains she’d seen from the taxi crowded closely towards the road. Thick vegetation turned their slopes into a lush green carpet, but ahead rough acres of uncultivated grasses descended inevitably towards the sea.

Rachel, who had been trying to remain detached about her feelings, couldn’t deny a breath of wonder at the sight of blue-green water lapping a beach of pure white sand.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said in a hushed voice, barely aware that they were the first words she’d spoken since they left the hotel.

Matt cast a fleeting glance in her direction, before agreeing that this was a pretty part of the island. ‘Mango Cove,’ he said after a moment. ‘St Antoine is reputedly one of a series of peaks from an underwater mountain range. Jamaica is another.’

‘Really?’

Rachel was fascinated, and Matt went on to explain that the Spaniards had first settled here at the beginning of the sixteenth century. ‘Then, when Jamaica became a British colony, they ignored this island and it was later taken over by the French. San Antonio became St Antoine. End of story.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I can’t understand anyone not wanting to hold on to such a beautiful place,’ she protested.

‘Economics, I suppose.’ They’d reached a bluff above the sand dunes and Matt brought the Jeep to a halt overlooking the bay. ‘Jamaica offered so much, whereas this place must have appeared to offer so little.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Hey, I’m grateful. At least St Antoine isn’t overrun with beach resorts and hotels.’

Rachel half turned in her seat to look at him. ‘The taxi driver told me that—that the Brodys own most of the island. That would be you, right?’

Matt pulled off his dark glasses to look at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Now, why would a taxi driver tell you something like that?’ he asked, and for a moment Rachel didn’t have an answer.

She was certainly not prepared to confront him about her mother at the moment. When—or even if—she did so, she would hope it was in a place less isolated than this. But at the same time she had to say something. Even if he must suspect her motives just as much as she suspected his.

‘I—er—I was asking him about the plots of land around the houses. I said I thought they were cute, but he said the tenants didn’t own them. That—that the Brodys did.’

‘Really?’ Matt looked sceptical. ‘Well, for your information, the island people do own their own plots of land.’ He gave her one final speculative glance and then thrust open his door. ‘We encourage people to be self-sufficient.’ His lips twisted. ‘Your taxi driver got it wrong.’

‘So it would seem.’ Rachel kept a wary eye on him as he got out of the Jeep. Then, pushing open her own door, she did likewise, feeling the heat of the sun on her arms and the delicious breeze off the water.

Matt pushed his glasses back onto his nose and went ahead of her. Slipping and sliding, he descended the dunes to arrive unscathed at the beach.

He turned then. ‘You coming?’ he asked, and Rachel decided she didn’t have much choice. Besides, she wanted to paddle in the water. Her feet were already itching to feel the sand between her toes.

Hauling her backpack out of the back of the Jeep, she removed the flip-flops and then followed him. It wasn’t as easy going down the dunes as he’d made it look, and she arrived at the bottom dishevelled and red-faced.

Thankfully, Matt had already walked away towards the water. And, putting down her pack, she combed her fingers through her hair again, realising that trying to look neat at the moment was far beyond her capabilities.

Shouldering the pack again, she started after him, and then paused for a second to examine a huge pink shell that was honeycombed with cracks. Evidently something had lived inside it once, but its sanctuary had been invaded. Or perhaps it was very old and had been eroded by the sea.

The sun was beginning to beat down on her head now, as well as on her shoulders. When she straightened, she lifted a hand to protect her scalp.

‘You hot now?’

Her interest in the shell had not gone unnoticed, and Matt had made his way back to her. Like her, he’d shed the Converse trainers he’d been wearing, tying the laces together and hanging them round his neck.

‘A bit,’ Rachel admitted, and Matt nodded towards the sea.

‘Take a dip,’ he advised. ‘That will cool you down. You might even enjoy it.’

Rachel pursed her lips. ‘How do you know I’ve brought a swimsuit?’

Matt pulled off his glasses again, his eyes mocking and intent. ‘Hey, I’m not a prude,’ he said. ‘We can go skinny-dipping, if you like. I’m game if you are.’

Why did he always have the power to embarrass her? As her face flamed with colour, Rachel hoped it would just blend in with the flush that already stained her cheeks.

‘I know you’re not serious,’ she said primly, although she was half afraid he was. ‘But I have brought a swimsuit, as it happens. If you’ll look the other way, I’ll put it on.’

Matt’s mouth showed his amusement. ‘Now who’s a prude?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never undressed in front of a man before.’

As a matter of fact she hadn’t, but Rachel wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Just turn the other way,’ she said tersely. ‘I’m not about to undress in front of a man I barely know.’

‘Your loss.’

But to her relief he did turn his back and saunter away towards the ocean. Though her deliverance was tempered with disbelief when he hauled his shirt over his head and flung it down on the sand. Then his hands went to the waistband of his shorts.

Rachel’s mouth fell open and she paused in the middle of unbuttoning her skirt. What on earth was he doing? she wondered. And then let out a gasp when he dropped his shorts as well.

He was wearing underwear.

Rachel relaxed a little when she saw black shorts. She’d been half afraid he went commando. But, dear God, what would her mother think? she mused, dumbfounded. Did she know he flirted with other women when she wasn’t around?

And yet he hadn’t actually flirted with her, she conceded honestly, stripping off her skirt and panties, pulling her swimsuit over her hips. It wasn’t his fault that she reacted to him. He was just naturally unconventional, naturally uninhibited, the kind of man Rachel had never had dealings with before.

Her tank top and bra were quickly disposed of, and she expelled another sigh when the top of the swimsuit was securely in place. Okay, it was strapless, and probably not the most appropriate choice in these circumstances. But she’d change back into her clothes as soon as she’d had a swim.

Matt was already in the water, the sea lapping about his hips. His tattoo was fully exposed now, wrapped darkly around his upper arm. She noticed how brown his skin was above his black waistband, smooth and unblemished. He had narrow hips and strong thighs and a tight muscled butt.

Dear Lord, she wasn’t supposed to notice such things, not about a man who was apparently involved with her mother. But, for some reason she preferred not to dwell on, she was incapable of ignoring him, or his hard masculine beauty.

Choosing a spot some yards from where Matt had entered the water, Rachel dragged her eyes away from her tormentor and ran eagerly into the sea. It was so good to submerge her shoulders, to dip her head below the surface, to come up feeling exhilarated just to be alive.

The land shelved fairly steeply, she discovered, and in no time at all she was out of her depth. But that didn’t worry her. She was a strong swimmer, and the water itself was so warm and soft and delightful. Whatever else she took from this trip, she would always remember swimming in the Caribbean.

She’d been half afraid that as soon as she was in the water Matt would join her. Or was that half hopeful? she wondered, aware of something like disappointment when he kept away. He was some distance further out, turned onto his back and floating on the water. A dark star-shaped figure that attracted her like a magnet.

She couldn’t help herself. She swam towards him and said breathlessly, ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I’ve never swum in water as clear as this.’ She’d already noticed dozens of tiny fish swimming beneath her. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

‘No problem.’

With knife-like grace, Matt brought his legs up to his body and then straightened to tread water beside her. He’d left his dark glasses on the beach, as she had, and his eyes were unmistakably sardonic.

‘I got the impression you wished you hadn’t accepted my invitation,’ he said, reaching out to wipe a strand of wet hair from her face. He saw her flinch and his expression hardened. ‘Lighten up, can’t you? Or do you think every man who touches you wants to jump your bones?’

‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Brody,’ she retorted, her enjoyment of the day souring on the bitterness of his words. Without waiting for his response, she turned and swam back towards the shore. He was impossible, she thought irritably. He turned everything into a personal assault.

Matt overtook her before she reached the shallows, so she was obliged to follow him as he walked up out of the water. But she found her stomach tightening instinctively when she got a good look at his underwear. He was wearing black stretch boxers that clung to him like a second skin.

He turned, picking up his body shirt and using it to dry his chest and stomach. As before, he didn’t seem to care what she thought of his behaviour, but Rachel was finding it very hard to drag her eyes away. It infuriated her, but she found everything about him unbearably sexy. She was beginning to understand why the girls in the office gossiped constantly about their sexual experiences.

The bravado of bringing one of the hotel towels seemed unnecessary now. Rachel felt distinctly guilty when she pulled the towel out of her backpack. But Matt wasn’t looking at her. As he continued to rub his chest and arms, his attention seemed fixed on a large bird foraging among debris further along the sand.

Rachel couldn’t help herself. Wrapping the towel about her, she exclaimed, ‘What is that?’

‘A pelican.’ Matt sounded indifferent. ‘It’s evidently found something to eat amongst the seaweed. This beach is usually deserted. I guess it thought it wouldn’t be disturbed.’

‘A pelican.’ Rachel shook her head in wonder. ‘I’ve never seen a pelican before.’ She looked at Matt. ‘Is that what you’ve got tattooed on your arm?’

‘Hell, no.’ Matt shook his head, though his gaze barely acknowledged her. ‘This is a nighthawk. I had it done while I was at college. My father didn’t approve, but it was too late then to do anything about it.’ He grimaced. ‘Finish getting dressed. Then I’ll take you back to the hotel.’

‘Oh.’ Rachel let out a sigh. ‘Must we?’

Matt’s frown wasn’t encouraging. ‘Must we what?’

‘Go back,’ Rachel said, knowing he’d understood her the first time. ‘Look, I know I overreacted before, but that’s just me.’

‘Really?’

His frown deepened, but he didn’t immediately say anything else. Instead, to her amazement, he turned his back on her and pushed his wet boxers down his legs.

Rachel’s eyes widened. She’d been right. He was totally uninhibited. He didn’t care who saw him, or that she might find his behaviour offensive.

But she couldn’t deny he was good to look at. Wide shoulders tapered to narrow hips, his buttocks rounded and tight. And he was brown all over. No boring privacy line for him. As he used his shirt to dry himself again, Rachel found she was holding her breath.

She didn’t suck another gulp of air into her labouring lungs until he’d pulled on his cargo shorts. He wrung out the boxers he’d worn to swim in, and then put on the damp body shirt that clung even closer now. She could count the vertebrae in his spine, the neat lacing of muscles over his stomach. And then she realised, with a sense of frustration, that she hadn’t even begun to get dressed herself.

Fool, she thought impatiently. She was acting like a moonstruck schoolgirl. Heaven knew what her mother would think if she could see her now.

She fumbled beneath the towel, trying to dislodge the swimsuit. But her body was wet, the suit damp and clingy. She couldn’t help thinking how much easier it would be if she dared drop the towel and strip in front of him.

Of course she didn’t do any such thing. And to her relief Matt bent to gather up his shoes. With a supreme effort she managed to kick the swimsuit off her legs. It was fairly simple, after that, to step into her skirt and panties using the towel to protect her as she pulled on her tank top.

It was only as she was stuffing the damp towel into her backpack that she saw her bra still lying on the sand. She said a rude word under her breath, but it was too late to worry about it now. She stuffed it into the bag, too, suddenly aware that Matt had started away along the shoreline.

He glanced back when she straightened, however, and his timing was so perfect she had to wonder if he’d been as indifferent to her struggles as she’d believed.

‘Let’s walk,’ he said neutrally, apparently prepared to humour her. ‘If you can stand the heat.’

‘I think I can.’

Rachel slung the backpack over her shoulder and hurried to catch up with him. But when she came level he reached over and lifted the bag from her arm.

‘Leave it here,’ he said, dropping it onto the sand. He spread an all-encompassing arm. ‘No one’s likely to steal it.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Except him, of course.’ He indicated the pelican, who looked poised for flight. ‘But I doubt he’d find one of my towels to his taste.’

Rachel glanced up at him. ‘I know. I shouldn’t have brought it.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘You didn’t have to. I feel guilty enough as it is.’

‘Forget it.’ He dismissed her claim. ‘What’s one towel or more between enemies?’

Rachel caught her breath. ‘Are we enemies, Mr Brody?’

‘Matt,’ he corrected her shortly. And then, ‘Well, we’re sure as hell not friends.’ He started to walk again. ‘Come on. Keep moving. Or you’re going to need to cover up.’

Which wasn’t his problem, thought Rachel, trying to distract herself. But if she wanted to stay with him she had to do as he said. And it was surprisingly pleasant, walking in the shallows, feeling the sand melting away between her toes.

They walked for a while in silence. Rachel had expected to feel uncomfortable after what he’d just said, but she didn’t. In actual fact she enjoyed the sense of isolation, with only the cry of birds and the muted thunder of the ocean to disturb the peace.

And then he asked the question she’d been dreading.

‘Why did you come to St Antoine, Ms Claiborne?’

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