Teresa Medeiros (8 page)

One would have to be blind, deaf, and comatose to mistake him for a member of that fairer sex, Emily thought as he dipped into the wash bucket and poured handfuls of water over his flushed face. Sparkling drops caught in the dark filaments of hair along his forearms. An errant trickle eased down his muscled abdomen and disappeared into the low-slung waistband of his dungarees.

She swallowed, wishing for even a drop of tea to wet her throat.

He turned toward the door. “Tell Penfeld I went down to the beach.”

It was all Emily could do to keep from scrambling to her feet. She would have gone to the beach with Lucifer himself to escape the stifling confines of the hut.

“Take me,” she blurted out.

Her innocent plea stopped Justin in his tracks. She would be gone in a few days, he reminded himself, and then he could resume the orderly tempo of his life. All he had to do was turn around and tell her he wasn’t interested in her company.

He turned around. Her ardent brown eyes sparkled up at him. “Penfeld’s coat is due for a washing. We might as well wash it with me in it.”

Justin ruffled his hair. She lowered her lashes, obviously bracing herself for his refusal.

“I have only one question, young lady,” he said sternly, bending over her.

“What?” Emily replied, biting her lower lip. To her embarrassment, genuine tears of disappointment stung her eyes.

She gasped as he caught her under the knees and shoulders and swept her into his arms, bringing her nose to nose with him. “What if Penfeld should decide to
iron
the coat with you in it?”

She giggled. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been ironed. My teachers used to sit on me and iron my hair.”

His gaze softened. He raked his fingers through her mop of curls, mesmerizing her with his tenderness. “What a crime.”

As they started down the short, sandy path to the beach, Emily threw an arm around Justin’s neck. They burst onto the beach and her senses exploded in drunken abandon. The warmth of the setting sun branded her skin; the wind dragged soothing fingers through her hair. Moaning with delight, she tilted her face back and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, Justin’s face was very close to hers. She could see each stubbled hair along his jawline and was seized with a strange urge to rub her cheek across it and see if it felt as prickly as it looked. Her face flushed with more than the heat of the sun.

“You may put me down,” she said primly.

Mischief glinted in his golden eyes. “Oh, no. You wanted a bath, and it’s a bath you’ll be having.”

Before she could even squeal, he strode through the damp sand into the waves. She buried her face in the haven of his chest, clinging as he waded deeper into the swirling
surf. Cool water licked her thighs. Penfeld’s coat ballooned around her hips. She pressed it down with frantic fingers.

“There now, isn’t that pleasant?”

“No.” Her teeth chattered against his chest. “It’s bloody cold.”

“I’m afraid there’s only one cure for that.”

He dropped her.

Emily thrashed wildly. Salty water rushed into her mouth. Good Lord, the lunatic was trying to kill her! She should have suspected as much. He must have recognized her from the photograph. Her toes churned up a mass of sand and she realized the water was only a few feet deep. She also realized the muffled sound above her was not the pounding of the surf, but the infuriating rumble of a man’s laughter.

Her fingers dug into Justin’s thigh, and she shot from the waves, climbing him like a tree monkey. She shook water from her stinging eyes. “You ill-mannered, wretched—” She sputtered to a halt, trying to remember some of the viler names Barney had called her on the journey from England.

“Would you like to sit on my shoulders?” he suggested dryly. “The view is much better.”

Justin knew a brief moment of panic when it looked as if she might take him up on his offer. The prospect of being cradled between her shapely thighs for such a benign purpose was too torturous to contemplate.

He caught her hips to stop her panicked ascent. “I was only trying to help.”

Emily opened her mouth to argue, but realized the water now swirled around her hips in currents of delicious warmth. Even worse, most of the warmth seemed to be centered at the juncture of her thighs, where the faded V of Justin’s dungarees was pressed with alarming intimacy. By flinging her legs around him, she had put herself in a more precarious position than she dared to admit. She’d lost track of Penfeld’s coat during her writhing, and most
of it was trapped around her waist. She stilled, terrified Justin would discover only a fragile weave of calico bound her nakedness from his own.

He already knew. He betrayed himself by the downward flicker of his gaze, the faintest shift of his hips, the barely perceptible wince of his chiseled mouth. A buoyant wave rocked against his back, and her body cradled his with an artless skill as primal as the sea itself. She had never been more aware of a man’s strength or a woman’s vulnerability. Heat stung her cheeks.

Justin gazed down at her, already beginning to regret his brief lapse into kindness. He should have let Penfeld bring her to the beach. His own peace of mind was too hard won to surrender without a fight. Half wishing he were a more ruthless sort of man, he rested his hands against her ribs, his thumbs a ticklish inch from her breasts.

Emily’s heart rocked into a shuddering slam as Justin’s palms rode to her hips, easing the coat down to cover her. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and turned her away from him, cradling her back against his chest.

“Relax, Emily,” he commanded in that husky lilt of his.

He guided them past the place where the waves crested and broke. Emily poked her toe toward the sea floor but met only a chill current of deeper water. Damp hairs clung to the bronze skin of Justin’s forearm. How easy it would be for him to push her under, she thought. To hold her head beneath the water with exquisite gentleness until her struggles ceased.

She shivered, and Justin wrapped his other arm around her. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let you go.”

The shiver that rocked her at those words was so deep, he never felt it. It filled her with both a terrible fear and an insatiable longing that sharpened her loneliness to an unbearable edge. Her eyes stung. She blinked, swearing it was only the salt.

His breath warmed her ear. “Close your eyes, Em, and let the water take you.”

She couldn’t fight the sensation that she was being taken by something far more potent than the water. She let her eyes drift shut, surrendering to its seductive pull. Her head fell back against his shoulder. Her feet drifted up until her lower body was floating, rocked in the rhythmic cradle of the sea. The sunset faded to a warm spatter of gold against her eyelids. The water caressed her with liquid fingers, deliciously cool against the heat of his chest.

“Why would anyone live in London when there’s such a place as this?” she murmured, licking the salt from her lips.

He guided her around to face the shore. “Some say New Zealand is God’s own paradise, that after He created the rest of the world, He made this Eden for His own pleasure, then destroyed all the land bridges so it could belong to only the boldest adventurers.”

Emily wondered if he, like her, was thinking of three bold young men who had dared the sea to come here.

He rested his chin on top of her head. “Look at it, Emily. Can you really see it?”

Her gaze swept the shore. She wanted desperately to see it through his eyes. Glittering stars punched holes in the fading fabric of day. Night shadows melted across the swaying palms. The plaintive cry of a bellbird lifted the tiny hairs at her nape.

His long, elegant fingers curled over her collarbone. She studied them, dazed by their grace. They were saved from effeminacy by their tensile strength and the dusting of dark hair along their knuckles. “God banished every deadly creature here. There are no dangerous animals, no poisonous bugs, no snakes. He molded the mountains with His fists and blew roaring blizzards down the slopes. He sculpted icy fjords and smoothed the pristine beaches with His loving fingers.” His voice grew soft, wistful. “Then He sprinkled the hills and streams with gold.”

His love for this country was palpable, but Emily sensed that running through it like a thread of gold through a gurgling stream was a deep sadness. What had his love cost him? New Zealand might be a paradise, but for him it had become a paradise lost. Her heart ached.

Before she realized it she was cupping his hand and bringing it toward the comfort of her lips. She gently kissed his fingertips. He drew in a ragged breath and Emily stiffened, horrified by what she had done. How could she have fallen so quickly beneath the sway of his charms. Had her father succumbed as easily?

“Let me go,” she whispered, pleading for far more than her physical release.

His grip tightened for an implacable instant. “Who are you, Emily? What are you running from?”

“You!” She began to struggle, afraid panic might force her to blurt out more than she intended. She worked her fingers up between them and shoved at his arms with all her strength. “I’ve met men like you in London. You take a girl out in the moonlight, relax her guard with soft words, then play your little game of seduction.”

Before she could wiggle away, he caught her arm in a steely grasp and jerked her around to face him, his eyes dark-lashed orbs of brandy fire. “Is that what you think this is about? Seduction?”

Emily hung in his grip, accusing him with her silence and the sullen set of her jaw.

“I might remind you,
Miss
Scarlet, that
you
were the one who just kissed me. I live on a bloody island, for Christ’s sake. I’m surrounded by hundreds of miles of coastline.” His voice rose to a roar. “And
you
had the sheer audacity to wash up on
my
beach stark raving naked.” He pulled her tight against him, molding her like a wet glove to the lean curves of his body. His voice softened to a dangerous purr. “I’m warning you now—this isn’t England. We don’t deal in seduction here. If I decide I want you, I won’t need any flowery words or moonlight swims.”

Braced in the powerful cradle of his thighs, Emily knew his words to be true. A helpless shudder rocked her.

He shoved her away from him. She didn’t dare look at him. A little thrashing and a few awkward strokes and she felt sand beneath her feet. She lurched forward until she could crawl up on the shore. She wanted to run, to flee far away, where his mocking anger could not find her, but her ruse of an injured ankle forced her to sprawl in the sand like some wounded fish. If she jumped to her feet and sprinted for the shelter of the bush, would he follow?

A furious splashing came from behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see Justin emerge from the waves—a smoldering Poseidon, magnificent in his fury. Water streamed from his chest, plastering his dungarees to his hips and thighs like a second skin. Emily lowered her shocked gaze.

She needn’t have worried. Justin strode past her as if she were no more significant than a sand crab.

“Justin?” she said tentatively.

He moved down the shore, slowing only long enough to scoop up a shell and hurl it into the sea.

“Mr. Connor?” she said louder.

He was rapidly fading into the darkness. Emily cupped a hand around her mouth and yelled, “You lied! You said you wouldn’t let me go!”

She flopped to her back and let her fist fall over her eyes. “Damn,” she whispered. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

He had opened up to her, given her a glimpse of the ticking works of his mind, spoken of New Zealand and adventurers and gold. And what had she done? Behaved like a galloping ninny.

The surf tickled her toes. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched the moon drift like a weightless pearl over the horizon. The night wind caressed her cheeks. She wondered how long it would take to crawl back to the hut. Justin was probably lurking somewhere in the brush, laughing at her. She considered limping up the path,
sprinkling her performance with a pathetic stumble or two. But maybe it was time she taught him that no one could be as stubborn as Emily Claire Scarborough when she set her mind to it.

She was still glaring at the stars when Penfeld marched down to the beach, threw her over his stalwart shoulder, and carried her back to the hut.

Justin cringed as another sneeze rocked the hut. He jerked the blanket over his ears.

“There, there, dear, just tuck this around your shoulders and have another sip of tea. I put a lovely sprig of mint in it just for you.”

Muttering under his breath, Justin flopped over on his back. He wasn’t sure what was more annoying—Emily’s infernal sniffing or Penfeld’s motherly clucking. He stole a reluctant glance at the other side of the hut.

There was nothing visible of Emily but a mop of damp curls and two huge, accusing eyes. She was swathed in a woolen blanket all the way to the tip of her pinkened nose. Even through the folds of blanket Justin could hear her teeth chattering. Penfeld loosened the blanket and held a steaming cup to her lips, but she freed an arm and waved it away. The valet watched in horrified fascination as she snuffled into his coat sleeve.

“Thank you, Penfeld, but I’m sure I’ll be all right. I just caught a tiny chill lying in those icy waves.” The entire blanket shuddered.

Penfeld swiveled to skewer Justin with a reproachful stare.

“For Christ’s sake!” Justin threw back the blanket. “She wasn’t out there twenty minutes.”

“It seemed like hours,” she said earnestly.

“I dare say it did, miss,” Penfeld agreed, tucking the blanket around her toes. “I can’t imagine what possessed my master to be so thoughtless. Why, he rescued me from the clutches of Auckland’s slums when my own employer
sailed back to England and deserted me! He’s usually a very caring fellow.”

Emily’s snort might have been a sneeze, but Justin doubted it.

He sat up on his elbow, narrowing his eyes. “Take a good look at her, Penfeld. She doesn’t have a cold. She’s the very picture of good health. I suppose you’re going to tell me those roses in her chubby little cheeks are the ravages of some gruesome fever.”