Книга - Caught In A Storm Of Passion

Caught In A Storm Of Passion
Lucy Ryder


Dr Evelyn Carmichael’s plan:1. Travel to the South Pacific and stop her sister marrying the wrong man.2. Leave as quickly as possible and refocus on her career.3. Avoid all men along the way—they’re nothing but trouble!But things take an unexpected turn when Eve finds herself trapped with sexy pilot Chase Gallagher.One look is enough to tempt Eve to throw her plan out of the window…and indulge in a sinfully hot fling in paradise!







Praise for Lucy Ryder (#ulink_a26ec866-96a8-58e6-a373-dfe05008cea3)

‘Resisting Her Rebel Hero is an absolute delight to read … the sexy writing and refreshing characters leave their mark on every page.’

—Mills & Boon Junkie




He was naked.


Her breath escaped in a stuttered whoosh. Gloriously naked. From the top of his seal-wet dark hair to his big tanned feet and everything—she meant everything—in between. And—she gulped—there certainly was a lot of in between.

She must have made a sound, because Chase stopped shaking water from his hair and lifted his head, his stormy eyes zeroing in on her with laser-point accuracy.

Eve’s gaze flew upward and her mind came to a screeching halt.

For a long, breathless moment they stared at each other, the memory of last night like a blaze across the fifteen feet separating them. Finally an arrogant dark brow rose up his bruised forehead, galvanizing Eve into action. She squeaked out an ‘Oh!’ slapped a hand over her eyes in delayed reaction and half spun away, aware that her entire body had gone hot. Because the image had been burned onto her brain for all time.

An amused baritone drawled, ‘Enjoying the view?’ and Eve could have kicked herself for reacting like a ninth-grader caught in the boys’ locker room.

‘What … what the heck are you d-doing?’ she squeaked.

There was a rustle of fabric, then his amused voice drawled, ‘It’s safe now, Dr Prim. You can look.’

Eve’s eyes snapped open and she found him barely a foot away, looking all cool and damp and … amused, darn him. But ‘safe’ was hardly a word she’d use in connection with the sexy, grumpy pilot. Especially on a storm-ravaged beach, with that dark, dangerous aura surrounding his half-naked form and with him looking as if he belonged in this wild, deserted place.


Dear Reader (#ulink_7fa52391-f258-5b4b-b6e4-440a100cb452),

With life so hectic, I often wish I could transport myself to a South Seas island for a personal time-out and regain my sanity. Instead I decided to send my very stressed and focussed heroine there to find herself. And it wouldn’t be any kind of adventure without a little danger, because we all know that a good crisis shows us what we’re made of.

Fortunately Eve is made of stern stuff—she’s had plenty of opportunity to toughen up—and she sails through a violent storm and a crash landing with minor scrapes and bruises. But what she finds in the middle of the South Pacific challenges her closely guarded heart in every possible way.

I had such fun writing Eve and Chase’s story that I feel I had my time-out in paradise. I hope you do too.

Happy reading,

Lucy


With two beautiful daughters, LUCY RYDER had to curb her adventurous spirit and settle down. But because she’s easily bored by routine she turned to writing as a creative outlet, and to romances because ‘What else is there other than chocolate?’ Characterised by friends and family as a romantic cynic, Lucy can’t write serious stuff to save her life. She loves creating characters who are funny, romantic and just a little cynical.




Caught in a Storm of Passion

Lucy Ryder





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to my niece and nephew, Cassandra and Sean Bassett, who are about to make me a great-aunt. I can’t wait to meet the new addition to our awesomely crazy family.

What a lucky kid to have you two as parents.

And also to my sister Jennifer Hargreaves, who needs a BIG hug and a lot of love and romance of her own.

I love you, Jen.


Contents

Cover (#u2c4b1ff9-83d9-5675-8f8b-7d894976f151)

Praise (#ub32c28e8-2a25-5208-bb89-f796a850b1fb)

Introduction (#u50111e8d-15a4-5645-a33f-ac753adace6c)

Dear Reader (#uf9bad175-3a8c-58ac-a85c-be713c9541be)

About the Author (#ub904c508-062a-5a3d-b668-8f5b3272a68d)

Title Page (#ud2034052-04a0-50a0-ace4-1172fa70b10d)

Dedication (#u1b3c2295-14b3-5016-9a40-cb7b9739b3be)

CHAPTER ONE (#u37dfdc65-9d6a-53ac-be46-f2d456c98221)

CHAPTER TWO (#u033365b0-f19a-536e-893c-4f8eb1274ddc)

CHAPTER THREE (#u4febe54a-0b78-58cb-86f8-500f575b493b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_0ef7c3af-5aca-515c-a9f7-185dff0cf91f)

Tuamotu Archipelago—South Pacific

DR. EVELYN CARMICHAEL squeezed her eyes shut, dug her fingernails into the armrests either side of her and thanked God for the harness strapped across her chest. The large seaplane slewed sideways in the storm that had appeared out of nowhere, just an hour out of Port Laurent. All she could think was, I’m going to die... I’m going to die in the middle of the South Pacific and I’ve never had a halfway decent...well...that.

A monster gust of wind hit the aircraft broadside, threatening to shake everything loose. Metal screamed under the assault, as though the agony of it was too much to bear in stoic silence. Eve could empathize. She was all too ready to start screaming herself. And she would if she had the presence of mind to do anything but sit wide-eyed with terror as the world around her went to hell.

A good thing too, since being frozen with terror kept her from freaking out. Because, frankly, she’d rather die than give the man beside her—the pilot from hell—the pleasure of seeing her fall apart.

She didn’t look out the cockpit window and she didn’t look sideways at the heathen turning the air blue. He was big and scary enough, without the palpable tension pouring off him between curses.

And, boy, were his curses inventive. Some she’d never heard before...others she never would have thought, let alone uttered. But they rolled off his tongue like they were best buddies.

Fortunately he seemed to have forgotten her in his battle with the aircraft and Mother Nature. Which suited her just fine. It meant he was too busy to witness her mental meltdown.

Again.

A few hours earlier she’d opened her eyes and realized she was lying on a rattan sofa with a big half-naked sea god looming over her. Wide shouldered and long legged, he’d filled the space with a toxic cocktail of masculine superiority and supreme sexual confidence. She’d hated him instantly.

Of course it had absolutely nothing to do with the unwelcome shiver of almost primal awareness his proximity had sent zinging through her veins, but rather the abrupt knowledge that he’d seen her at her most helpless.

And if there was one thing Eve hated it was being helpless.

Fine. It might also have had something to do with the way he’d made her feel—like she was awkward and gawky and thirteen again. Like she had to pretend she wasn’t dressed in charity-shop rejects and the object of pity or derision.

She’d only had to look at him, leaning close and dripping water all over her, to know he’d put the bad in bad boy.

Fortunately for Eve she was no longer shy or geeky, and she’d never had a thing for bad boys. That had been her mother’s weakness and one she’d vowed never to share. Besides, she was a thirty-year-old recently qualified OB-GYN specialist, on the brink of a promising career, and she’d learned early on that a cool look and a raised brow quickly dispelled any unwelcome ideas.

But this...this Neanderthal, with his hard body, cool gray eyes and his soft cargoes worn in interesting places, had found her icy looks amusing. His eyebrow had arched with more mockery than she could ever hope to muster.

He’d promptly sent her blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere—and not just with aggravation. That, as far as Eve was concerned, was reason enough to hate him.

But none of that really mattered. Not when her entire life was flashing before her eyes—which were still squeezed tightly closed, to shut out the vision of her impending death.

“Just stay calm!” her pilot shouted above the roar of the storm and the screech of tortured metal.

“I am calm,” she snarled, snapping her eyes open to glare at him. And she could have promptly kicked herself when he turned those disturbing slate-gray eyes her way and she got a little light-headed.

From jet lag, worry and exhaustion, she assured herself. Or maybe it was from all the testosterone that surrounded him like a thick toxic cloud. She was clearly allergic. All she needed was the antihistamine, hidden somewhere in her luggage, and she’d be fine.

Hopefully immune.

Oh, wait. Her suitcase was MIA. Along with her mind for even starting on this wild goose chase in the first place.

“Is that why you’re whimpering?”

His mouth twitched and she was tempted to snarl at him again, maybe use her teeth. She’d never been a violent person, but she would make an exception with him. Unfortunately he was about as sensitive as a rock, and any biting on her part would in all probability be construed as interest.

“Just keep this flying boat in the air, Slick, and let me handle my own life flashes.”

“We’re going to be okay, I promise,” he said. “Chris has never failed me, and I’ve flown in much worse.”

She didn’t know how that could be possible, but who the heck was she to judge? She could take or leave flying on a good day, and this certainly wasn’t turning out to be one of them. Besides, after a lifetime of disappointments she never put much store in empty promises, and his promise to keep them safe was as about as empty as the sky had been a half-hour earlier.

“You named your seaplane Chris? So what’s it short for? Christine? Crystal?” She smirked. “Christian?”

He sent her a get real look that questioned her intelligence before flicking the Saint Christopher medal hanging overhead with one long tanned finger.

“Saint Chris. We have an understanding.”

She wished he had an understanding with the weather, instead of a piece of metal that had about as much magic as this flying boat.

The thought had only just formed when the world exploded in a blinding flash of blue-white light. She sucked in a terrified squeak and nearly scorched her lungs on white-hot sulfur an instant before sparks shot out of the control panel. They were almost instantly followed by ominous pop-popping sounds.

“Oh, great!”

“What?” Back ramrod straight, she turned huge eyes on her pilot. His face was grimmer than the Grim Reaper and the death grip he had on the joystick didn’t fill her with a lot of confidence. “What?”

“Dammit, don’t just sit there,” he snapped, his hands flying over the instruments. “Grab the fire extinguisher.”

“We’re on fire?” Eve felt her mouth drop open. She stared at him in horror. They were fifteen hundred feet above the sea, for God’s sake. They couldn’t be on fire. She was not going to fry in a flying fireball.

“Flames are coming out the damn control panel, woman,” he barked. “Of course we’re on fire. Now, get the extinguisher.”

“I thought you said we were going to be okay. You promised!” Eve could hear herself, but she was unable to move or keep the abject horror and panic from her voice.

She—who never panicked—was about to lose it.

“Dear God, we’re going to die. I knew this was a bad idea. But did I listen?”

“We are not going to die. And I always keep my promises.”

He caught her horrified gaze with his, and the burning intensity of his eyes was strangely hypnotizing.

“Always,” he growled fervently. “Now, snap out of it and get the damn extinguisher.”

In a daze, Eve fumbled for the buckle and wondered if it was such a good idea to leave her seat. Maybe the fire would go out on its own. Maybe he could smother it with his damn ego. Besides, her hands were shaking so badly it was several seconds before the mechanism gave and her safety harness snapped open.

She hadn’t signed up for this, she told herself, struggling to hang on to her composure. It was all just a bad dream. She was supposed to be in London, sitting in a posh hotel, attending the Women and Birth conference. Actually she had been in London—for all of two hours—before catching the first flight out of Heathrow because her sister had left a message saying she’d met someone and was getting married.

Married! To a guy she’d only just met. In the South Pacific, for crying out loud. Had Amelia lost her mind? Had she learned nothing from their dysfunctional childhood?

There would be no marriage, Eve vowed fervently. At least not yet. Because if her sister had lost her mind, as the older twin it was up to Eve to help her find it again. Besides, Eve had a lifetime’s experience of watching over her sweet, trusting sibling and she wasn’t going to stop now. Especially with the kind of men Amelia seemed to attract. Men quick to take advantage of her naive and generous soul. Like the men parading through their mother’s life.

Clearly being on a tropical island was messing with Amelia’s mind just as it had their mother’s, when she’d met and fallen head over heels in lust with their father. Just another man in a long line of users and abusers. All Eve had to do was fly out there, talk some sense into her twin and fly back to London in time for the last three days of the conference...preferably with her sister in tow. It would be just like their childhood. Just the two of them against the world.

Only now she might not make it to the conference. Or to Tukamumu to stop the wedding. Or was it Moratunga?

Oh, what the heck difference did it make, anyway? She wasn’t going to make either of them because she was headed for a watery grave.

Feeling drunk in the violently pitching craft, she lurched upright and staggered to the fire extinguisher mounted behind the pilot’s seat. Not an easy task in three-inch heels.

“Dammit, woman. Move!”

The words were delivered through clenched teeth, and Eve would have liked to tell him to stuff it. But what if he took her at her word and bailed out with the only working parachute? She didn’t even want to consider what would happen then.

She yanked at the cylinder, shrieking as the plane took a nosedive. Lurching backward, she hit the cockpit wall and sent foam spraying everywhere.

Everywhere but the fire.

“What the seven levels of hell are you doing?” he bellowed, reaching back to grab a fistful of her silk blouse and yanking her upright.

She would have liked to tell him that he was manhandling two hundred dollars’ worth of silk, but staying on her feet was more of a priority.

“The fire,” he snarled, looking more scary than comical with foam in his hair and dripping off his nose and chin. “Aim the nozzle at the damn fire.”

“Maybe you should keep the damn floor from moving,” Eve snapped with extreme provocation, and slapped at the hand dangerously close to her breasts. Only it turned out to be a mistake when the floor abruptly tilted again and she tumbled into his lap—a tangle of arms, legs, nozzle and extinguisher.

Eve shrieked and attempted not to conk him on the head with the canister, because an unconscious pilot was something she wanted to avoid. At all costs. She whacked herself instead, instantly seeing stars and wondering if her life really was flashing before her eyes.

Dammit. It figured that she’d die in the arms of a man more interested in shoving her away than wrapping her close.

Yelping, she let the extinguisher go to slap a hand over the injury and thought, Great—another bruise to go with the one I already have thanks to Mr. I’m-your-pilot, Chase. There was a soft grunt, followed by a vicious oath, and the next thing she was being dumped on her ass. Through tearing eyes she saw him aim the nozzle at the controls with one hand while yanking at the yoke with the other. Within seconds the instruments were covered with a thick layer of foam.

The fire gave one last defiant fizzle before dying.

Kind of like her last relationship, she thought dazedly from her position on the floor. Actually, kind of like all her relationships, if she was being perfectly honest, because watching her mother flit from one man to the next had soured her when it came to love. She snorted. As if whatever her mother had had with her countless men had been love.

Relief, however, was short-lived, because no sooner had Chase tossed the canister aside than he wrapped both white-knuckled hands around the yoke, looked at the instruments now oozing white foam and cursed.

Again.

Eve didn’t like the look on his face.

“Now what?”

His expression was taut and grim, his eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. A muscle twitched in his lean, tanned cheek.

“Don’t you dare tell me we’re going down,” she informed him tightly. “Because you’ll have a hysterical female on your hands. And you do not want to see me hysterical.”

He shot her a look that said she’d sailed past hysterical a half hour ago. She ignored him. They were going down. She knew it. He knew it. He was just too darn stubborn and macho to admit that Saint Chris had abandoned them.

She swallowed a sob.

And here she was in the prime of her life, on the verge of a promising career—the realization of all her dreams after years of hard work.

She had every right to be hysterical, darn it.

Grabbing the seat, she hauled herself up. He was back to ignoring her, wrestling with the controls and trying to bring the plane’s nose up through sheer brute force.

And failing.

Oh, God, he was failing, and the nose was pointing down into what she knew would be a very unpleasant end. They might be in a seaplane, and not at the altitude of a commercial jet, but that would mean nothing when they hit the water at a sixty-degree angle. Besides, she’d watched all those seconds-from-disaster documentaries and knew there’d be no floating gently away from this.

Gulping, Eve watched in terrified fascination as the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched and strained against his soft polo shirt and smooth, tanned flesh until she thought they’d burst right out of his skin.

“Buckle up,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “It’s going to get rough.”

Eve felt her mouth drop open. More than it was already? A whimper bubbled up her throat and threatened to pop, along with her very tenuous hold on control. She was absolutely certain she could not handle rough.

They were going down.

“We’re going to die.”

“We are not going to die. I’m an excellent pilot,” he said tightly, and the engines protested with an almost human scream.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Slick,” Eve yelped, almost as loudly as the engines as she fought with the safety harness that seemed to have taken on an evil life of its own, “this is not a storm for excellent pilots. It isn’t even for creatures meant to fly. It’s Armageddon. And if I die I’m going to kill you. Very. Very. Slowly.”

“I have no intention of dying,” he snapped, as though she’d insulted his manhood as well as his entire family tree. “And what kind of doctor are you to be threatening the man trying to save your delectable ass, anyway?”

He shook his head at her and reached out to snag his Saint Christopher, kissing it before he looped it around his neck.

Eve watched in fascination as the shiny silver disc disappeared into the neckline of his shirt, wondering at her brief flash of envy that Saint Chris got to be nestled close to his heat and strength.

Dammit. She wanted to be held and protected too.

Just this once.

“What you need is a little faith,” he declared, just as the craft bucked and the engines gave an alarming splutter.

She swallowed another yelp, envy forgotten as she sank her nails into the armrests, wishing it was his hard thigh. She would like to put a few holes in his thick hide, despite the “delectable” quip. Besides, her “delectable ass,” as he’d so gallantly put it, was in real danger of becoming shark bait.

“What I need,” she snarled, “is for you to get us out of this storm. What I need is to find my sister and stop her from making the biggest mistake of her life.” Her voice rose. “What I need is not to be thinking about meeting my maker without ever having had a screaming orgas— Well, never mind.”

“What?” His gaze whipped to hers so fast she half expected his head to fly off his shoulders. After a moment his gaze dropped to her mouth. “A what?”

“Never mind,” she squeaked, losing her famed cool just a little. “I am not discussing the fact that I’m nearly thirty-one years old and have never had an earth-shaking orgasm. Before I kick the bucket I’d like to have just one. One!” Her voice rose. “Is that too much to ask?”

“You... What?” He looked so stunned that if she hadn’t been on the verge of a total meltdown she might have been flattered by his stunned disbelief. Or maybe insulted, since the disbelief was now edged with amusement. It didn’t matter that at any other time she would have been mortified at having admitted anything so private. Especially to this heathen flyboy. But since she was going to die she guessed it didn’t really matter. Dignity was the least of her problems.

“No. And now I’m never going to.”

His answer was drowned out by another ear-splitting explosion and in the next instant the airplane lurched sideways and flipped, throwing her violently against the harness. Lights exploded inside her skull and she knew that this was it. She was going to die and she was never going to have that screaming orgasm.

And to think she could be safely in London, with a hundred eligible men...


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_625d52e8-273c-50e2-9330-80dd738972e2)

Six hours earlier, Port Laurent, Tangaroa.

EVELYN PRACTICALLY FELL out of the cab as it came to a screeching halt in front of a squat building professing to be the offices of Tiki Sea & Air Charter Services. She’d flown halfway around the world, but the worst part of the journey by far had been the past five miles. Five miles of absolute white-knuckled terror in a cab that she was somewhat surprised to have survived.

Swaying in the intense midday heat, Eve clutched the side of the car and locked her wobbly knees against the urge to sink to the ground. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that the road was hotter than the depths of hell and would fry anything on contact. If she didn’t get somewhere air-conditioned soon the soles of her elegant heels weren’t the only things in danger of vaporizing with a whimper.

She’d left Boston in freezing rain, landed at Heathrow in the middle of a snowstorm, and the smart little suit she’d bought to celebrate her new professional status was sticking to her skin as if she was a sealed gourmet snack. And, since her suitcase had been lost in transit, there was nothing in her overnight bag suitable for the current soaring temperatures and smothering humidity.

Fine. There was nothing in her suitcase either, but at least she’d have something fresh to change into. She’d lost count of the time zones she’d crossed to get to... Darn, where the heck was she?

Blinking, she looked around, but that didn’t help because she was in a daze of fatigue and jet lag and couldn’t remember the name of the South Pacific island she’d just landed on.

Oh, boy... The South Pacific.

Her pulse picked up, her ears buzzed and a prickly heat erupted over her body. For an awful moment she thought she was going to pass out, and quickly sucked in the warm, moist air to clear her head.

Who’d have thought when she’d stepped off the plane at Heathrow and turned on her phone that instead of heading for the Women and Birth conference, as she’d been supposed to, she’d be getting back on a plane to fly off to Tuka-Tuka.

Or was it Moramumu?

She sighed.

She’d never even heard of the Society Islands, let alone a chain called the Tuamotu Archipelago. Which begged the question: what the heck was her sister doing down here? The last she’d heard Amelia had been singing at some fancy hotel in Hawaii.

“Lady, you sure you wanna be here?” the cab driver yelled over the music pumping from the boom box mounted on the dashboard. “There’s a much better place on the other side of the marina.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Eve said, hopefully masking her horror at the thought of getting back into that death trap for one mile more than was absolutely necessary. The guy flashed his gold teeth and cackled uproariously, making her think that maybe she hadn’t been all that successful in hiding her dismay. But then she was about twenty-nine hours past exhausted and couldn’t be expected to control anything more than the urge to weep. Or maybe scream.

And that was only because she was clenching her teeth hard enough to pulverize bone and enamel.

With a cheerfulness that Eve wished she felt—she was in the South Pacific, for heaven’s sake—the driver wrestled her bag from the cab and dropped it at her feet, along with her heavy winter coat. Then he hopped back into his decrepit vehicle and took off like a lost soul out of hell, singing at the top of his lungs to the song blaring from his boom box.

Sucking in air so heavy with moisture she thought she might be forced to grow gills, Eve hoisted her bag and coat onto her shoulder. Clutching her laptop close, she headed across the road to the small building squatting like a smug hen in a bed of exotic flowers and dense vegetation.

Suddenly she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

The wooden doors to Tiki Sea & Air were open, and Eve climbed the stone stairs to a wide wraparound porch decorated with hanging baskets exploding with exotic-looking flowers. The heady fragrance reminded her of the perfume counters at Bloomingdale’s. Rich, lush and exotic.

Inhaling the humid air, Eve looked around and decided she must be dreaming—heck, she was exhausted enough. It was as if she’d stepped into a brochure advertising glamorous holiday destinations. But since she’d never taken a holiday, let alone been tempted to research one, she couldn’t tell for certain.

Okay, that was a lie. She and her sister had used to dream all the time when they were kids about finding some exotic island where they’d live with their father and eat coconuts and fruit and maybe learn to catch fish. A place where they’d be safe and adored.

She snorted. Yeah, right. That had been so long ago it might have been someone else’s dream. Before she’d stopped believing in fairy tales. Before she’d learned that if she wanted “safe and secure” she’d have to create it herself.

Swiping at a trickle of perspiration, she glanced over to where an old man lay dozing on an old rattan sofa and experienced a moment of pure envy. She’d be willing to harvest her own kidney for a soft bed, clean sheets and about twenty-four hours of oblivion.

Oh, yeah...and air-conditioning.

She groaned as sweat ran down her throat and disappeared between her breasts. Definitely air-conditioning.

Deciding that she didn’t have the energy to fight the old guy for sofa space, Eve headed for the open door and stepped into an old French Colonial–style building that looked about three decades past its sell-by date.

The room looked like something out of a movie. There was a scattering of worn rattan furnishings, coconut fiber mats dotting the floor and a large overhead fan that lazily circulated the heavy air.

A large curved bamboo counter took up most of the far end of the room, and behind that, through the open slatted wooden French doors, Eve could see a back porch leading down to a long, wide wooden dock. Bobbing on the insanely bright turquoise water was a large white seaplane. Beyond that she could see a headland and the open sea, sparkling like a trillion jewels in the sun.

Approaching the counter, Eve peered over the scarred surface, hoping to find someone who could help her. Other than an empty mug, an overflowing wastebasket and about a ton of boxes, the only sign of life was a quietly humming computer and the soft clunk, clunk, clunk of the overhead fan.

She glanced through another open doorway behind the counter into a small messy office, but it too was deserted.

“Dammit,” Eve muttered, huffing out an irritated breath. “Where the heck is everyone?”

A loud, hoarse, “Ia ora na e Maeva!” had her jumping about a foot in the air. She looked around, wide-eyed, for the owner of that raspy voice. But other than the loud snoring coming from the old man on the front porch the building was quiet.

Quiet and deserted.

Wonderful. Now she was hearing voices on top of everything else.

Telling herself she wasn’t losing her grip on reality, Eve dropped her belongings onto a nearby chair and headed for the open doors, determined to find the source of that raspy voice. And hopefully someone who could tell her where to find a pilot named Chase.

She stepped onto the back porch and was instantly blinded by the midday light. Heat rose from the dock and the large bay reflected sunlight like a laser show.

Resisting the urge to retreat inside the blessedly dim building, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes as the raspy voice yelled, “Ia ora na e Maeva!” in her ear.

Heart lurching with fright, she swung around, expecting a hatchet-wielding psycho, and found herself face-to-beak with a large bright blue-and-scarlet parrot perched on a tree stump, watching her with baleful eyes.

“Oh!” she said to the bird on an explosive exhalation of relief, and took a cautionary step out of range of the wicked-looking beak. “Hi. Do you know where I can find, um...Chase?”

The bird cocked its head and Eve sighed. Now she was talking to a bird. Which probably meant lack of sleep along with stress and panic was sending her right over the edge.

“Okay. How about your owner?”

The parrot ruffled its bright feathers.

“Anyone?”

“Squaaawk!”

“Fine,” she said a little shortly. “I’ll just go find him myself, then, shall I?”

“Ma-oo roo-roo ro-aa,” the parrot crooned, and bobbed up and down.

“Yeah, you too,” she muttered, heading for the porch railing. She leaned over, looking past the abundant vegetation to follow where wide wooden planks led straight toward a fancy marina and the bustling business center. To her right it disappeared into the cluster of houses perched along the water’s edge a couple hundred yards away.

Not a living thing stirred, everything having most likely locked itself away from the suffocating heat.

Feeling a little queasy, Eve sank onto the top step, expelling a weary breath just as a long, tanned arm appeared out of the water and slapped onto the dock.

Almost instantly another appeared, holding a string bag of fish. And then, with both large hands planted on the dock, the rest of him followed—all six foot plus of him—emerging from the bay like a sea god visiting lesser land mortals.

Eve’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. Her eyes were locked on the gush of water lovingly tracing all that tanned masculine magnificence as it rushed south. Waaaay south.

She licked her parched lips, following the streams of water that cascaded over his wide chest and the almost perfect lines of his shoulders and biceps as though lovingly caressing the hard planes it traversed. Moving down spectacular pecs, racing over delineated abs toward the happy trail that disappeared into the waistband of his low-riding board shorts.

Eve sucked in a stunned breath—holy molasses—his legs were just as long and tanned and perfect as the rest of him. She blinked as the image wavered and wondered if she was hallucinating. But when he remained, bathed in sunlight that cast his ripped physique in bold relief, she sighed. One of those stupid girlie sighs that would have appalled her if she hadn’t been on the very edge of exhaustion.

Wow...just wow!

Unaware of her fascinated gaze, the sea god shook his head like a dog, water flying off in all directions, before stooping to retrieve the string bag in one effortless move. He turned and headed up the dock toward her, his free hand wiping water from his face.

Eve knew the instant he saw her. His body stilled for just a heartbeat, and if her gaze hadn’t been locked on him like a laser she would have missed that barely perceptible pause. Without breaking stride, he resumed that loose-hipped lope up the dock, his expression dark and hooded.

Feeling suddenly nervous, Eve rose to her feet and smoothed her hands down her skirt—whether to smooth out the wrinkles or to dry her damp palms, she wasn’t sure. Almost instantly there was a loud buzzing in her head. Her vision swam alarmingly, and as if from down a long, hollow tunnel she heard herself say, “I’m Evelyn Carmichael and I’m looking...for...I’m looking for... Ch—”

* * *

If there was one thing Chase Gallagher hated more than the IRS, it was big-city career women with big-city attitudes. But even he had to admit that the sight of long shapely legs ending in a pair of elegant heels was sexy as hell, and something that he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

And because he’d missed it he scowled down at the woman responsible for that unwelcome flash of yearning. He didn’t miss the city, or the hectic hours and traffic, and he certainly didn’t miss the big-city career attitude. Especially not the kind that made people put career before family. Hell. Career before anything. Except, of course, when something bigger and better came along.

He’d done that once and it had cost him more than a huge chunk of change.

So even though the sight of his visitor, all her prim tidiness beginning to fray at the edges, had sent his pulse ratcheting up a couple notches, he’d studied her coolly, determined to get rid of her as soon as possible. But that had been before she’d decided to sway on her feet and take a header into the ground, forcing him to leap forward and catch her before she fell.

Medium height, nice curvy body and scraped-back tawny hair that would probably glitter a hundred different colors in the sunlight—if she ever relaxed enough to let her hair down, he thought with a snort. Then a close-up of her face had him sucking in a shocked breath, because for one instant there he’d thought he was staring at his future sister-in-law.

But that was ridiculous, because not only had he left Amelia behind at the resort, with his brother, Jude, this woman had big-city impatience stamped all over her and none of Amelia’s sunny sweetness.

This had to be Amelia’s sister. The evil twin, he told himself as he slid one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees.

Lifting her into his arms, Chase ascended the stairs, cursing his bad luck. He’d taken one look at the woman and recognized trouble.

And these days Chase Gallagher avoided trouble.

At least of the feminine variety.

He shook his head at the prim skirt, long-sleeved button-up shirt and nylon-clad legs. Oh, yeah—heat exhaustion just waiting to happen. If not for those things, this woman was a dead ringer for his brother’s fiancée.

With the parrot leading the way in a flurry of feathers, Chase carried her into the waiting room and laid her down on the rattan sofa that had seen better days. He adjusted a cushion beneath her head and stood back.

He knew he had to do something. What, he didn’t know. He knew only that the long-sleeved blouse was still buttoned at her wrists, and in this heat that was a sure-fire way to get heatstroke.

After a brief internal battle Chase cursed and reached out to slip the small buttons free, jolting as the parrot landed on his shoulder, crooning, “Ia ora na e Maeva,” in Chase’s ear.

“Yeah, welcome to you too, buddy,” he said in relief.

Ignoring the flashes of lace and silk was easier with the bird’s talons digging into his shoulder, reminding him that tugging the damp shirt and camisole from her waistband was for medical purposes. And not for whatever his mind was suddenly conjuring up.

He shook his head as much at the woman as at himself. No wonder she’d passed out. She was dressed like a school librarian heading for Congress. And then he couldn’t resist a little smile tugging reluctantly at his mouth.

Okay, maybe not a librarian, he thought, hurrying off to find water and a cloth. More like a sexy lawyer hoping to disguise herself as a librarian. He shook his head. No disguising all that creamy skin, or the curves beneath those prim clothes.

He sighed. The nylons would have to go. As would the blouse, or the under-thingy. But first he had to revive her and get some fluids down her throat.

She was moaning softly when he returned with a huge wad of paper toweling and an opened bottle of water. Tearing off a section of paper towel, he soaked it with cool water before wiping her clammy forehead.

The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly; her breathing was rapid and shallow.

Great. Just great. Maybe he should just take her to the hospital and let them deal with her. Maybe he should just fly outta here and tell Amelia her sister hadn’t shown.

Yeah, and maybe he wouldn’t do any of those things, he thought as he envisioned the scene that would follow. He shuddered. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to see Amelia’s big blue eyes shimmering with hurt and know he was the cause.

Soaking another handful of towels, he roughly bathed the woman’s clammy skin, careful not to let his eyes wander to those tempting mounds of creamy flesh barely contained in silk and lace. If she suddenly woke up he didn’t want to be caught eyeing the goodies.

First, she wasn’t his type—so not your type, Chase—and second his mother had made sure her sons knew how to treat women with respect. Or else.

His mouth twisted as an unpleasant memory arose. Pity his ex-wife hadn’t had the same upbringing. Maybe then she wouldn’t have had a long-term affair with her boss and blamed Chase’s job and his family for the alienation of her affection.

He snorted. Yeah, right. As if making mounds of cash trading stocks and bonds was remotely alienating. He was the one who should have sued the damn lawyer, but by the time he’d recovered from the shock of betrayal he’d realized he didn’t care enough.

He’d survived the unpleasant discovery that his wife loved his money more than she’d loved him. But discovering that Avery had knowingly tried to pass off the Mercer Island shark’s baby as his had been like a gut punch.

Fortunately he wasn’t as stupid as he looked, and when he’d demanded a paternity test the whole ugly truth had come spewing out. What had really sickened him was the fact that whenever he’d previously brought up the subject of starting a family she’d always claimed that she wasn’t ready, that a baby would ruin her career and her figure.

After that he’d left Seattle and moved out here to the islands. He still ran his brokering business, from what his brother called his “bunker”—a windowless, climate-controlled room that housed his huge bank of computers. It was from there that he kept in contact with the financial world and the rest of his Seattle-based family.

But his marriage was in the past and really not worth dwelling on. If he did, he might just dump Amelia’s sister in the ocean, head off to his island retreat and pretend none of this had happened. But he really liked his almost sister-in-law, and he was fairly certain Jude wouldn’t be happy if he ditched her twin.

In the meantime, what the hell was he supposed to do with an unconscious woman heading for heat exhaustion? Other than strip her and toss her in the bay, that is.

Shoving a hand through his hair, he was contemplating his options when she moaned again. His gaze whipped upward in time to see the long, lush fringe of her dark eyelashes flutter and then lift, exposing glassy eyes the exact color of the five-hundred-dollar bottle of single malt whiskey he kept for special occasions.

Holy—

Air whooshed from his lungs as if he’d been punched in the head. He’d only ever seen eyes like that once before. Twice, actually. Once on an ancient amber Viking ring he’d seen in a museum and the second time...his friend’s eyes. But looking into Dr. Alain Broussard’s eyes didn’t normally leave him reeling like a drunken penguin.

Maybe he was the one in need of medical assistance.

She blinked and murmured a husky, “Hi,” her expression so softly sensuous that for an instant Chase was startled. Okay, stunned. Because...jeez...that look had reached out and grabbed him in a place that hadn’t been grabbed since his ex. Maybe even before.

In the next instant the sleepy expression cleared and any resemblance either to Amelia or Alain vanished. Soft and sensuous was replaced by razor-sharp intellect. And outrage.

“What...what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, the formerly husky voice full of indignation as she slapped at his hands, which had paused in the task of sponging her down.

Water dripped off the wad and soaked the silk camisole right over her left breast, drawing his fascinated gaze. She must have followed his eyes because she squeaked, shoved at his hand and lurched upright. Unfortunately he didn’t move back fast enough, and her head smacked into his cheekbone with enough force to rattle his brain.

She gave an agonized yelp, slapped a hand to her head and sank back against the cushions, moaning as if he’d gutted her with a dull spoon.

Oh, wait—the groaning was coming from him.

“What the hell, lady?” he snarled, holding his cheek as he staggered backward and abruptly sat on the old rattan coffee table, which immediately groaned under his weight.

The move also knocked over the bottled water. He made a grab for it, only to have it sail through the air, spraying water in a wide arc. Most of it landed on her—soaking her already wet camisole. And...oh, man...rendering the thin silk almost transparent. Which he might have appreciated if she hadn’t just tried to head butt him to death.

She made a kind of squeaking, gasping sound and he saw wide amber eyes glaring at him through a haze of pain. Realizing he was still holding a wad of damp paper towels, he slapped it over the lump already forming on his cheek.

“What...what the hell was that for?” he demanded, checking for blood.

“You...you...” she gasped, and then she turned an interesting shade of green. “Uh-oh.” She gulped and slapped a palm over her mouth. A look of panic crossed her face. She sat up. “I think I’m... Oh!”

Understanding that garbled sentence, Chase surged to his feet, scooped her up and rushed down the short passage to the ladies’ bathroom. He shoved the door open with his shoulder as she made horrifying gagging sounds.

“Hold on a sec—nearly there,” he urged in panic, rushing into a stall and dumping her unceremoniously on her feet. In one smooth move he pushed her head over the toilet, with a firm hand on the back of her neck.

Unresisting, she sank to her knees, her body racked with a couple dozen dry heaves that made the sweat pop out across his forehead. He swallowed hard and retreated outside the stall. Just to give her some privacy, he told himself.

After a while there was silence, and when he heard a weak moan he stuck his head inside. She’d sagged against the wall, eyes closed as she wiped a limp wrist across her mouth. Tendrils of hair clung to her damp forehead and cheeks. She looked so miserable that Chase felt an unwelcome tug of empathy.

Dammit, he thought, shoving a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to feel anything—let alone empathy. He’d get stupid and act like he had rescue issues, for God’s sake—which, come to think of it, was how he’d met Avery.

Yeesh. What an idiot. He’d been a perfect mark. But he’d learnt a valuable lesson and he wasn’t about to repeat his biggest mistake ever. Not now that he was older and wiser. Not now that he’d learned exactly how devious women could be.

Eyeing her pasty face with increasing concern, he crouched beside her. “You okay?”

“I’m...fine...” she rasped, and licked dry lips. “I just need a—”

“Another moment?” he supplied helpfully when her words ended abruptly. “A doctor?”

“Don’t...don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed huskily, planting one hand on the toilet and the other on his shoulder.

Her touch had him thinking bad thoughts, especially when his body stirred.

“I am a doctor.” She tried to push herself to her feet but she was still weak and shaky and immediately slid back down.

He eyed her suspiciously as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. Fainting? Vomiting? It was exactly what had happened to Avery when—

“Are you pregnant?” he demanded abruptly.

Her head whipped up and her mouth dropped open. “What—? No!”

She looked so insulted that he should suggest such a thing that his breath escaped in a loud whoosh. He wasn’t entirely sure why her reaction relieved him—for all he knew she could be lying. And boy did he have enough experience with that!

Slipping his hand beneath her armpit, he rose, drawing her to her feet. She instantly sagged against him, legs wobbly as a newborn calf. Instead of pushing her away he drew her closer, enjoying her soft, warm scent and the feel of her plump breasts against his naked chest.

Realizing what he was doing, he quickly backed out of the stall and led her to the counter, shoving her into a chair while he ripped paper towels from the dispenser. He gave the tap a vicious little twist and thrust the wad into the stream of water that appeared.

What the hell was that? Maybe the heat was affecting him too, because no way could he be attracted to her. Not only was she a big-city woman, she was almost his sister, for cripes’ sake.

Well, her sister was. Which was the same thing. Wasn’t it?

His breath whooshed out. Hell.

He turned to find her watching him with those solemn golden-syrup eyes and felt his gut clench with something hot and wild. Something along the lines of golden syrup and...and acres of soft naked skin.

The reaction shook him.

Realizing he was standing there like an idiot, he tore his gaze away, feeling the tips of his ears burn. She was the last person he wanted to feel anything for. Which just went to show that abstinence made people crazy.

Hoping to restore his IQ, he thrust the dripping mess of paper in her direction and eyed her out of the corner of his eyes.

“If you’re a doctor, what the hell are you doing in the South Pacific dressed like...that?” He waved his arm, sending drops of water flying. “That’s an open invitation to dehydration and heat exhaustion.”

She eyed the sodden mass for a couple beats before lifting her gaze, her expression rife with annoyance and maybe her opinion of his medical skills.

It wasn’t in the least complimentary. So why the hell did Chase feel his lips twitch?

There was nothing amusing about this. Nothing at all. And he certainly wasn’t attracted to her. No way. She was too uptight for his liking, and she literally vibrated with exhaustion and impatience.

After a couple more beats she sighed and rose shakily to her feet. Taking the towels from him, she sagged weakly against the counter, where she dumped the sloppy mess and reached for the dispenser.

“Maybe because I was on my way to a conference in London when I got a very disturbing message about my sister getting married to a man she’s only just met. A loser who’s probably taking advantage of her right this minute. And,” she added, sending him a look in the mirror that questioned the size of his brain, “in case you think everyone lives in perpetual summer, the northern hemisphere is experiencing a season called winter. I left Boston in freezing rain and landed in a London blizzard.”

“Well, that—” he gestured rudely to her once-snazzy outfit, outraged by the nasty quip about his brother “—will have to go, or you’ll be fainting on me every five minutes.” Jude wasn’t the kind of guy to take advantage of women, more like the other way around.

She made a growling sound in the back of her throat and her narrowed gaze snapped up to lock on his in the mirror. Her expression didn’t bode well for his continued good health.

He barely managed to cover his grin with another frown.

Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I did not faint,” she said slowly, precisely. As though he was a few bricks short of a wall.

He snorted, beginning to enjoy himself. “Could have fooled me.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “I never faint. Anyway, why do you care? It’s not like we’re ever going to see each other again after I fly out of here.”

Her tone suggested she couldn’t wait for that moment, so he sighed and pushed away from the counter. Yeah, well, neither could he. But that wasn’t about to happen.

For either of them.

His enjoyment abruptly vanished.

“Uh-huh?” he drawled, heading for the door, where he paused, turning to find an odd expression on her face as she watched him leave. “And how do you plan to fly out of here, Your Highness? Grow a pair of wings?”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m looking for Chase...something or other.” She frowned and lifted pale unsteady fingers to the bruise already forming on her forehead.

He tried not to feel guilty for putting it there as it had mostly been her fault. Besides, his eye was also swelling, and his cheek hurt like hell.

Her hand dropped to clutch the counter, as though she was a little dizzy. She sucked in a deep breath that just about gave him a heart attack as those creamy mounds of flesh rose above the lace-trimmed camisole. It was several seconds before he realized that while he was having some very racy thoughts, she was gaping at him with dawning horror.

“You’re Chase, aren’t you?”

For a long moment he stared at her with an odd feeling clenching his gut. It wasn’t exactly fear. Because he wasn’t afraid of anything. Not Chase Gallagher. Nuh-uh. No way. And certainly not of a city woman.

He snorted. Especially not this city woman, with her tawny hair, creamy skin and large whiskey eyes. She was going to be his brother’s sister-in-law, for God’s sake. Which made her practically family. And if there was one thing a Gallagher didn’t do it was leave family—no matter what.

“Don’t be too long,” he ordered over his shoulder. “Our lunch should be here soon, and I need to load the cargo before we leave.”


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bcf9076e-7c0d-5edd-b623-ac0cf538fbe4)

The crash site—Moratunga Island, one hundred miles north of Tukamumu.

CHASE BECAME AWARE of two things simultaneously. The wind and the pain. The former was slashing at his face along with needlelike rain, and the latter...jeez...was threatening to explode his brains all over the inside of his skull.

He gave a rough groan and fought the urge to empty his stomach. On the bright side, pain meant that he was alive. Which was good, he mused drowsily as he began drifting off into comforting darkness. Real good. Alive meant it had all been a bad dream...

He jerked awake, his heart lurching into a dead run as his gaze flew around the cockpit and he realized something was wrong with this picture. He instantly knew it was the wrong move when pain tore through his head and the smell of burnt plastic made him gag.

Fire!

The thought had him grabbing for his harness, which he released an instant before he realized he was hanging practically upside down.

The controls broke his fall, his left shoulder taking most of the impact before he slid to the floor in a groaning heap.

Holy freaking moly!

Chase lay dazed for a couple minutes, his shoulder radiating pain and fire, his head throbbing like an open wound. Finally his vision cleared enough to recognize that there was—what the hell?—vegetation growing inside his best girl.

Either he was hallucinating or—

The storm!

Oh, yeah.

He sucked in a breath when memories rushed back. The crash.

He’d crashed his plane.

Un-be-freaking-lievable.

Muttering curses about stupid storms that weren’t supposed to change direction so fast, Chase grabbed his shoulder and sat up. His stomach instantly revolted and he froze. Okay. Note to self. No moving until the nightmare faded.

When it didn’t, he sucked in a careful breath and blinked up into the darkness, wondering why there were two mannequins hanging a foot from his face. He knew for a fact there were no mannequins on the cargo manifest.

Then he realized that he was seeing double, and that he was looking at... What the heck was her name? He squinted past the pain and caught sight of a cascade of tawny gold hair a few feet away. His heart surged into his throat as he recognized... Amelia? Dammit, his brother was going to— No, wait. Not Amelia. Evelyn—Amelia’s evil twin—and her arms, legs and hair were hanging limply from the harness.

“Eve...Evelyn?” he rasped, wondering how long he’d been out. A couple of minutes? Hours? Vaguely alarmed by her utter stillness, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey, Doc!”

Nothing. Not even the slightest of movements. He sucked in air, shoving down panic, and attempted to squelch the awful thought that came with the dread. His heart pounded. No, no, no! No way was the feisty doc—

“Eve! Wake up, dammit.”

Head spinning, and nausea clawing its way into his throat, Chase hauled himself upright with his good arm. The world tilted, along with his stomach, and he braced himself between the chair and the controls until the urge to vomit settled. Not only did the thought of all that cool fire being extinguished leave a bitter taste of loss in his mouth, it filled him with a sudden hollow desolation he couldn’t explain.

They’d only just met, for cripes’ sake, and he didn’t even like her. But she was his responsibility—not to mention his future sister-in-law, sort of—and the first thing he needed to do was check her vitals.

He fumbled beneath that thick curtain of tawny hair and searched for a pulse. When he found it, in the soft spot just beneath her jawline, his breath whooshed out with relief at the strong and steady rhythm.

She was alive.

With the realization dawning on him that they’d just cheated certain death, Chase reached into his shirt with unsteady hands. His fingers encountered the Saint Christopher and he pulled it out, pausing to give it a noisy, grateful kiss.

Thank God she was alive and breathing.

He was breathing too, which meant that when he checked her over for other injuries he got a little sidetracked by the sight of the long naked legs...all four of them...which any red-blooded man would have noticed. Two of the four feet were bare, and her ivory silk blouse had worked loose from her skirt, exposing a few inches of skin that suddenly seemed more erotic than if she was naked.

Which was just plain stupid. He lived in paradise, where women wore a heck of a lot less in public. Besides, he had way more important things to obsess about. Like the fact that she was still unconscious. Like the fact that he’d crashed his damn airplane...well, somewhere.

Hell! He couldn’t believe it. He’d flown these waters for almost five years without a single incident.

Shoving unsteady fingers through his hair, Chase looked around and tried to come to terms with reality. It couldn’t be a coincidence, he told himself wildly, that the day she’d practically thrown herself into his arms and then tried to head butt him to death, this had happened.

The woman was bad luck.

One he needed to avoid. Like a death plague.

Besides, she was uptight and anal—his least favorite type of woman. “The type of woman I moved thousands of miles to get away from,” he informed the unconscious woman irritably. “The last thing I need complicating my life.”

Even temporarily.

So why the hell was he so fascinated by her damn-your-hide attitude and glowing amber eyes?

Biting back a curse at his idiocy, Chase massaged his throbbing temple and ordered himself not to think about underwear. But the more he tried not to think about lace and silk, the more he recalled his first glimpse of her heart-shaped butt, encased in that tight soft green skirt, bent over the bathroom counter at Port Laurent.

It had sparked some pretty racy fantasies that had just about fried his brain. And before he’d known it his gaze had been sliding down a pair of spectacular legs more suited to a Vegas showgirl than a workaholic doctor.

He’d blamed it on testosterone and abstinence, of course.

And now possibly concussion—because the sedate little business suit would have looked perfectly respectable on anyone who didn’t have enough curves to rival the Indy 500 race track.

Obviously living like a monk made a guy think about sex even when he’d just crashed his plane. Obviously he’d hit his head really hard. Maybe he even had brain damage.

Well...hell.

Too bad Mother Nature had decided to have a little fun with him, he thought darkly, swiping at a trickle of something warm and sticky on his face. She’d fried the right engine and most of the electronics. And if that wasn’t bad enough she’d made him look bad in front of this sexy, uptight doc after he’d promised her everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t okay, he thought morosely, looking at the vegetation invading the damaged cockpit. Not by a long shot.

Deciding to leave Dr. Eve where she was, until he’d made sure they weren’t about to slide tail-first into an active volcano, Chase pulled himself upright. The move brought him closer. Closer to the intoxicating scent of woman...closer to temptation.

He quickly lurched out of reach, telling himself it was a good thing he was over women like her.

A real good thing.

* * *

Eve surfaced slowly, aware of a gang of vindictive road workers using power drills inside her skull. She frowned and tried to shift away from the excavation, but the move sent pain stabbing through her.

Oh...ow! What...what the—?

Carefully drawing in a shallow breath, she took stock, wondering where she was, why she couldn’t remember...and why the heck someone was sitting on her chest. Then something cold and damp touched her head, right where it hurt. She gave a distressed moan and lifted her hand to swat feebly at the annoyance.

“G’way,” she mumbled crossly, shivering when a trickle of cold water made its way down her throat.

“Keep still,” a deep, familiar voice ordered, sending a bolt of something that felt like panic through her body.

Her eyes and mouth flew open, with the intention of giving him a piece of her mind, but the words froze in her throat when she found the hunky sea god close. Very close...and wet. As if she’d invaded his ocean kingdom and he was holding her hostage.

Yikes.

Every thought promptly flew right out of her head.

It was like déjà vu.

Or more like déjà dead.

She moaned softly on realizing that every part of her hurt. Even her eyes, which she narrowed against the light.

“Oh, great,” she rasped hoarsely. “I should have known. I’m dead, and the pilot from hell isn’t done torturing me.”

A spark of amusement briefly lit his storm-gray eyes, along with a look of what couldn’t possibly be concern and wild relief. Could it? And why hadn’t she noticed before how long and thick his dark lashes were?

Annoyance replaced the amusement, momentarily distracting her from the wet cloth he pressed to her pounding head. She tried evading it, but he gently cradled her head and turned her toward him.

“Keep still,” he muttered irritably. “I had to move you before I could check for internal injuries.”

“Isn’t that my line?” she rasped, gasping when he hit a particularly tender spot. “Ouch!” She grabbed his hand, her fingers barely fitting around the brawny wrist as she attempted to hold him off. And when she discovered that all she could do was cling weakly as he carefully dabbed the area, she grimaced.

Oh, yeah—and moaned. She could definitely moan too, she discovered—the low sound was slipping out without her permission. It was downright embarrassing. Besides, she was the doctor, dammit. Wasn’t it her job to heal the injured?

“That...hurts...”

What didn’t hurt was the oddly arousing sensation of crisp hair against her sensitive palm. It was more like a lifeline to something solid and safe. Then she noticed something dark and wet matting his thick hair, the pallor beneath his smoothly tanned skin, and her senses abruptly sharpened into medic mode.

With renewed determination she shoved his hand away and struggled into a sitting position, gasping and wheezing because her chest felt as if it was being crushed.

“What...what the heck have you done to me?” she rasped, wondering if this was what it felt like to have a coronary. If so, she suddenly had a wealth of sympathy for anyone who’d ever had one.

His startled, “Huh?” was followed by a growled, “I saved your ass, if that’s what you mean...” accompanied by an injured scowl, as if she should be grateful that she ached everywhere. And she meant everywhere. “And just in case you forgot, lady, this is the second time in less than eight hours.”

Eve ignored him and looked past his mile-wide shoulders and aggravated expression.

What she saw had her eyes widening in shock.

She gasped at the sight of the padded seats, twisted at odd angles, and the stuff strewn everywhere. There was also a large plastic sheet covering a jagged hole where the wall—fuselage?—used to be. Chase must have rigged it to block out the storm, but water still continued to pour in along the sides.

Then the truth dawned on her and her gaze snapped back to him, her mouth dropping open at the realization that they’d—

“Ohmigod, you crashed?”

Dull color crept up his neck and he snapped out an insulted, “I did no such thing. The storm—”

“We’re upside down!” she interrupted, craning her head around his wide shoulders, slack-jawed as she studied the crazy angle of everything.

It made her feel off balance, because neither the floor nor the ceiling was where it should be.

Her gaze swung back to his, and when he opened his mouth Eve sucked in a quick breath and accused, “You said everything was going to be okay.”

A muscle twitched in his hard jaw and his expression darkened even more. “It is.”

“You said you’d handle things.”

“I did,” he gritted out, his stormy gaze locking with hers so intently that Eve finally realized he wasn’t as calm as she’d thought. And he looked...embarrassed, even.

They were barely hanging on to life and he was embarrassed? Typical alpha guy.

“How? In case you haven’t noticed, you crashed your plane.”

“No kidding?” he drawled, with a wealth of sarcasm that Eve thought was entirely unwarranted. “Congratulations, Miz Observant. In case you haven’t figured it out, direct lightning strikes tend to fry electronics. So, yeah,” he snarled, “we crashed. Happy?”

She sighed, recalling the sight of the seaplane, gleaming white and obviously well cared for as it bobbed gently on the bright blue waters of Port Laurent. “I’m sorry. It was a beautiful plane.”

He grunted, looking even more dejected if that was possible.

She tried for a conciliatory tone. “Do you...um...know where we are?”

He was silent for a couple beats, then he flicked her a speculative glance, as though trying to decide how to tell her that they’d crashed on the back of a giant sea turtle—or maybe in the middle of a volcano.

“You mean other than in a wrecked plane?”

Something very close to panic edged its way into Eve’s consciousness. He was looking at her with hooded gray eyes that had gone strangely wary. Conciliation went right out the window.

“You have no idea where we are, do you?”

“Well, not at the mo—”

“Oh. My. God.” Her eyes widened and clung to his, in the vain hope that he was joking. “You don’t!” she accused, the crushing feeling in her chest returning with a vengeance.

“Well, not exactly,” he growled, flashing an unreadable glance in her direction. “But you’re fine, aren’t you? No broken bones or anything? Right?” He didn’t even have the grace to look apologetic.

Eve’s heart lurched into her throat, threatening to cut off her air. She gasped for breath and clutched at her chest, where her heart threatened to punch its way through her ribs.

She sucked in another painful breath. This could not be happening. She’d fallen asleep and was still having a nightmare about the South Pacific and a flyboy from hell. But that was okay. Any minute now she’d wake up and—

“Fine? You call this fine?” Her voice rose to a hysterical squeak. “Oh, God.” Air whooshed in and out of her lungs a few times as she tried to calm herself, but she wasn’t getting calmer—in fact her vision was graying at the edges. “I...think...I’m having...a heart attack.”

“You’re just hyperventilating,” he said, with such masculine impatience she was tempted to whack him in the head. Oh, wait. He’d already been whacked in the head—which probably explained his abhorrent personality.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d been like that before the crash.

“Take a deep breath before you faint again.”

“I am not going to faint,” she snapped, trying to calm her panicked breathing. Oh, God, she was totally going to pass out. “I just can’t seem to...to take a deep...breath. My chest...feels...it feels like...you...punched...me.”

“That’s just bruising from the harness. Maybe you should let me check you out?” he offered helpfully. “Maybe you broke a few ribs.”

“And maybe you should back the hell off,” Eve wheezed, slapping at the hand reaching out to help unbutton her silk blouse. “You just want to gawk at the goods.”

Chase sat back with an exasperated huff. “Lady, I’ve already ‘gawked at the goods,’ as you so delicately put it,” he announced.

* * *

When she narrowed her eyes on him, as though imagining taking a scalpel to his intestines, he gave a careless shrug. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not my type. So I can be all professional without going insane with lust.”

Eve growled, and when Chase ventured a glance at her face she was—surprise, surprise—glaring at him, her lush bottom lip caught between pearly white teeth.

He groaned silently. Dammit. Now was not the time to be noticing her mouth. She was mad. He was mad. And they both needed medical attention. And since she was the doctor—yeah, well, maybe he shouldn’t think about her kissing anything better...

“But if you ask real nice...” he drawled, helping himself to a mouthful of bottled water and wishing it was expensive whiskey instead. Because, man, if there was ever a time for alcohol-induced mindlessness, it was now. “When we get outta here, I’ll help you with that little problem you were screaming about earlier.”

Large amber eyes blinked at him in confusion, and then he knew the instant she recalled what she’d been talking...screaming...about before they’d crashed. Her eyelashes flickered and her throat convulsed around an audible swallow. A faint blush crept into her cheeks.

Then her pink tongue sneaked out and slid over that bottom lip he was having such hot fantasies about and he was the one swallowing hard.

“Wh-what problem?” she rasped. “The only problem I have here is you.” Her gaze slid around the interior of the cabin rather than look at him. “And the fact that you crashed your plane.”

Ignoring her attempts to distract him, he held out the bottle and said, “Well...it was kinda hard to hear above all the hysteria, but I think you were babbling something about never having had a screaming orgasm.”

She snatched the bottle on a strangled squeak of horror. “I most certainly did not.” The blush had turned wild, staining her pale skin a rosy pink.

“You most certainly did,” he said, enjoying himself enormously now that her attention had been diverted from his plane and her panic attack.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m th-thirty. Of course I’ve had org—plenty of those.”

He pointed at her. “See? You can’t even say it.” He swallowed a chuckle when she made a growling sound in her throat. “You’re not my type, or anything, but I don’t mind admitting it took everything I had just to concentrate on flying. Which, come to think of it, was probably why we crashed.” His look turned accusatory. “So I guess it’s your fault.”

“You’re...you’re insane,” she spluttered.

He hitched a shoulder. “Anyway, I thought...being fellow survivors and all...” He clenched his jaw on a chuckle at her expression and turned it into a cough. Her face was a mix of relief, outrage and stunned disbelief.

Priceless.

And almost worth crashing his baby.

Almost.

“Besides,” he continued after clearing his throat, “not many guys get to be wrecked on a deserted tropical island with an exotic underwear model.”

Her eyes widened and her fingers gave a convulsive jerk. Water shot up the plastic neck of the bottle, spilling all over her hand and down the front of her shirt. For about ten seconds she spluttered, her mouth opening and closing several times. She looked ready to toss the water in his face. Or maybe smack him on the head with it.

Considering he already had the mother of all headaches, he carefully edged out of reach.

“Better not waste that water,” he warned, in case she gave in to temptation. “It’s all we have.”

* * *

Fighting the heat of embarrassment at being reminded of her temporary loss of control, Eve tugged nervously at her skirt and couldn’t help thinking about the fact that she wasn’t “his type.”

Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?

“Lingerie,” she said primly, wriggling around to pull at her narrow skirt. She didn’t know why she cared. Let him look. There was absolutely no way she wanted this...this rude, obnoxious heathen thinking she was his type. Thinking that she wanted to be his type—even if she did get a hot flash every time his gaze dropped to her legs.

She didn’t. Not even if he were the last man on earth.

“Huh?” The heathen gave her an odd look and she wondered for a mortifying moment if she’d spoken out loud.

“Lingerie—not underwear. Men wear underwear. There’s a difference.”

“Hmm...” he murmured, squinting at her chest as though he could see through her blouse.

She quickly glanced down and gave a sigh of relief when she saw that he couldn’t.

“So you do model lingerie?”

Of course he knew she didn’t. He was just baiting her. The jerk.

“Of course not,” Eve snapped, rising irritably to the bait, anyway. “What gave you that idea?”

“You did.”

“I think you hit your head,” she said, eyeing his bruised, battered face and the wet gleam of blood matting his dark hair with sudden concern. But despite the obvious pain around his eyes he looked... Oh, boy! He looked good. Like an irreverent, roughed-up pirate, ready to raise hell.

Her belly quivered. A really hot hell-raising pirate, darn it.

His mouth quirked, as though he knew what she was thinking. “Maybe you should let me check it out for myself. For educational purposes, of course,” he added innocently when she gave a muffled growl. “To show me the difference between lingerie and underwear.”

Seeing the wicked gleam, she narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. “You. Are. Evil,” she said through clenched teeth, and shifted farther away from him—which wasn’t far enough, given their cramped quarters. “And instead of focusing on my underwear you should be thinking about where we are and...and...” She sucked in a shaky breath as their situation hit her. “Oh, God, how we’re going to be rescued.”

He sent her a dirty look, as if she’d insulted his manhood, and gingerly lay down on the pile of towels he’d used to make a pallet. When he said nothing—even closed his eyes—Eve wondered if his head injury had affected his memory.

Fear crawled into her belly like a sly fox invading a chicken coop.

“What about the radio? Did you try the radio?”

He sighed. “Of course I tried the radio,” he muttered irritably, without opening his eyes. “It’s fried—like the rest of the electronics. And before you nag me about where we are, and how we’re going to be rescued, all I can say is I don’t know.” His lids popped open and his dark eyes settled on her, oddly serious and hypnotic. “I checked earlier and all I can see is jungle. We crashed in a damn jungle.” He sighed again. “But better than the sea, huh?”

After a short silence, during which she had no clue how to reply to such male logic, his expression lightened and he gave her an up-and-down look that lingered a little too long on her breasts.

“So,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. “You’re a GP?”

“No, I’m an OB-GYN.”

“OB what?”

“OB-GYN. I specialize in pregnancy, birth and women’s...um...reproduction organs.”

He absorbed that silently while Eve felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She was a medical professional, for heaven’s sake. There was absolutely no need to blush at the mention of reproduction and childbirth.

It was normal. Completely natural.

So why did it suddenly seem intimate and...and slightly indecent, discussing it with him?

“And you’ve never been a lingerie model?”

“No,” she said with strained patience. “I’ve never been any kind of model. I’ve waited tables, cleaned motel rooms, and I did a stint at a doughnut shop and then a...” She stopped before she admitted that she’d also worked in an exclusive boutique, which was where she’d got her love of expensive lingerie. She could just imagine his reaction to that. “Well, never mind. Suffice it to say I’ve never had the slightest desire to parade around in my underwear.”

With a little smile tugging the corner of his mouth, he studied her until her face grew hot. “Huh.”

“What?”

He grunted an incomprehensible reply and returned his gaze somewhere over her head, as though disappointed by her answer. “I had this roomate in college who was specializing in gynecology,” he admitted after a short silence. “He was this huge bear of a guy who couldn’t ever seem to find clean socks, let alone know which end a baby was supposed to emerge from. You’re nothing like him.”

Unsure whether or not to be insulted, Eve rolled her eyes. “You went to college?” And then she could have kicked herself when his eyebrow rose up his forehead. She hadn’t meant to sound insulting.

At least she didn’t think so.

“Oh, yeah,” he said sleepily, and Eve leaned closer to study the gash on his head. “Even managed to get a degree and everything.”

“In what?” she murmured absently, more worried about his slurred speech and his pallor than the amount of blood. “How to raise hell while charming a girl out of her underwear?”





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