Slowly, Rafe lowered his mouth to Holly’s, closing his eyes at the moment of contact, so he could channel his senses into just that one silky touch, like taking a last sip of water in the desert. She stilled. He waited. She squeezed his fingers and slid her other hand up his thigh, over his shorts, settling on his hip.
He cradled her neck, urging her closer. A bead of sweat trailed down his back. She dug her fingers into his waist, giving him all the invitation he needed to explore her mouth. She tasted salty and sweet. The breath of her sigh danced over his tongue. She untangled their hands and swiveled onto his lap, wrapping her bare legs around him, linking her feet behind his back. Mon Dieu. It was too much—and not nearly enough.
He pressed the finger pads of both hands into her scalp, not trusting himself to go lower, as much as he yearned to explore the scrap of fabric that barely covered her derrière, to dig his fingers into that soft flesh and press her against the part of him that begged for more. Instead, he concentrated on the kiss, groaning as she responded with equal urgency. She trailed her fingers up his back, over his shoulders, down his chest and settled again on the sides of his waist. She found his belt loops and tugged him closer. Every nerve and tendon and muscle strained with the craving to lose himself in her, to find that blissful state where he was both hyperaware and beyond the reach of reality. The point he lost control.
The point he didn’t dare go. He reared his head, breaking the kiss, sunlight searing his eyes even through his eyelids.
“Rafe.” Her voice was velvet with desire.
If only he could lay her gently on the grass, slip off the clothes that separated them, and taste and touch every part of her, filling the air with her sighs and groans, atoning for everything he’d done to hurt her. But if he allowed one kind of emotional release, what tsunami of darker urges would flood out?
He drew away his hands, skating them down to rest on her hips. Unable to speak, he touched his forehead to hers, his chest still heaving. She closed her eyes and linked her fingers behind his neck. They stayed like that a minute, two minutes, waiting for the world to return to equilibrium.
“I need to know you’re safe,” he said, once the roar of his desire had faded into the buzzing of insects and lapping of the tide. “From people who want you dead, and from me. I don’t want the responsibility of this.” And he didn’t want to be her next Jasper. She needed a normal man, as much as she claimed she didn’t. Someone who could teach her how to love without the fear she carried—of violence, of being abandoned. Rafe would destroy her like he had Simone, even if it was the last thing he wanted.
He eased her backward on his lap, closer to the more neutral territory of his knees. Not that any territory felt neutral under her touch. She unlinked her legs and let them fall either side of him. With the fingers of one hand he smoothed the reddened skin around her neck, where he’d gripped her in a fury he hadn’t known he could still feel. If only he could erase the mark, erase the event. He pulled her into an embrace, inhaling her salt-and coconut-scented hair. She rested her cheek on his shoulder.
“I think I’ve proved I’m not to be trusted,” he said.
“Then why do I feel safer right now than I have in my entire life?”
“Because you’re just as screwed up as me.”
She laughed, her breath tickling his neck. A cool breeze floated in from the lagoon. He pulled her tighter, and she responded. A real hug. Two people seeking nothing but comfort from each other. When was the last time he’d been able to enjoy the simple pleasure of holding a woman? Had he ever?
“Does this feel as unreal for you as it does for me?” She stroked her fingers down his arm.
“You feel unreal. Everything else feels far too real. Maybe it’s the tropics driving us mad. You know what the local name for this island translates as?”
“What?”
“Deception Island. Appropriate, yes?”
“Ha. I’m guessing they don’t tell the honeymooners that.”
He eased her away, far enough to cradle her face and look into her eyes. “Holly, I’m sorry, for before, what I did when I found out about Laura. It was unforgivable.”
“Like you said, it wasn’t you.”
“It was me—a part of me I keep buried—but it was me. And it was a warning, to you. I’m not a safe man. I have urges—dangerous urges. No matter how deeply I bury them, no matter how much concrete I pour over them, they can still break through. You don’t want to be there when it happens.”
“I understand. I forgive you,” she said, quietly, tracing a finger across his pecs. He caught her hand and moved it away. No more of that.
“You shouldn’t.”
“But you’re right. Perhaps it’s just as well we might not see each other again after tomorrow—for both of us.” Her voice held no humor anymore. “It’s not so much the physical threat of you, but what you could do to my heart. Because...” She linked her fingers through his and squeezed, looking at their entwined hands. “This. It kind of works, right? We work, somehow.”
He nodded, an unfamiliar feeling drying his throat. “I don’t want to hurt you. And I would eventually. Two wounded souls will only wound each other deeper.” He leaned in and kissed her grazed cheek. “Speaking of tomorrow, princess, we have work to do.” He inhaled her scent one last time and, reluctantly, lifted her off him.
“Can I help?”
“Body retrieval isn’t pretty work for princesses.”
“Lucky I’m not a princess.”
“Closest I’ll get to one.” He stood. “But since you’re not a princess, you can start gathering everything we’ll need to set up camp—food, water, clothes...” He walked away, his tread less certain than it should be, retrieved the safety rope from where it had fallen, shoved it into the bag along with the parachute and hoisted the main line onto his shoulder.
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Oui, Capitaine,” Holly said from the picnic bench, her back to him.
At least a dead body would sort out his priorities. Because that kiss sure didn’t.
* * *
For a long time after Rafe disappeared up the path to the cliff, Holly sat motionless on the picnic bench, staring unseeing at the lagoon. Holy crap, that was intense. Her chest ached with an emotion she hadn’t felt since the early days with Jasper—desperation, churned up with need. The kind of feeling that got her in trouble.
Somehow, she’d landed in the dangerous situation of trusting Rafe—worse, of freaking caring about him. Instinct should be screaming at her to run the other way. Instead, it was urging her closer. So much for being older and wiser. Talking to him just now...it’d made her realize that though she’d long ago shaken off her anger for Jasper—because what was the point?—she was terrified of becoming that obsessed again. And she could so easily get obsessed with Rafe. The way he kissed her, the way his words and his gaze cut right into her... She leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers to temples, staring at the flattened grass at her feet.
You’re just as screwed up as me, he’d said. Was that the problem? She felt connected with him because he seemed to understand her—and she thought she understood him. What would a life with him be like? She and Rafe and Theo, all living some harmonious existence in... Hell, she didn’t even know what continent he lived on. Yep, they sure weren’t normal people. Did that make them perfect for each other, or as wrong as it got?
Two wounded souls will only wound each other deeper.
She pushed herself up. The ground swayed. She grabbed the bench, willing her land legs to return. Wrong. It was all wrong. She straightened, warily. No, that wasn’t quite true—one thing had gone completely to plan. She’d been wildly successful in her mission to get Rafe to feel something for her, enough to stop him killing her—just—and enough to make him kiss the bejesus out of her. Trouble was, now she wanted him, too, so badly, in all sorts of ways she shouldn’t be imagining.
She wandered into the cabin, running a finger over her lips. She’d have to pack her ChapStick. She was out of practice at kissing—and she’d never been kissed like that. His stubble had felt so addictively masculine, rasping against her as his earthy scent filled her airways. A sweet torture for her body, but real torture for her skin. He’d kissed her like he’d meant it, his initial gentleness making her ache with the pleasure of being needed and wanted, and needing and wanting in return.
Then she’d yielded to the need to crank things up, and he’d responded, except that he’d kept his hands on her face, instead of exploring the parts of her that screamed for his touch. Through her bikini bottoms she’d felt his thick, hard need pressing into her as strongly as she’d felt her own desire—yet he’d kept the action above her neck, as if it was more than just her body he was interested in. And, God, that was sexy. If a little frustrating.
That was one thing she’d never felt with Jasper, or the few other men—boys, really—she’d been with. And Jasper would never have let his conscience pull him away. He didn’t have a conscience. Rafe was all conscience—well, aside from the whole kidnapping thing.
She began throwing her scattered belongings into a heap. His few clothes were folded into perfect flat squares. He even did laundry with military precision.
Damn, he kissed with military precision. She’d lost herself for several long, sweet minutes. That one wasn’t like their kiss last night, on the bed. Her body had responded then, sure, but her mind had been driven by a strategy that had little to do with desire—emotional, or physical.
The kiss in the water and the one on the cliff had been all strategy on his part. But that kiss just now, it was both of them stripped naked. No pretenses, no defenses. It’d seemed natural to open up to each other physically, after opening their souls and sharing their secrets.
Why the hell did she think she could trust this guy? She hadn’t known him forty-eight hours. The number one lesson of her last decade? She was better off alone than putting her faith in anyone else. Twenty miles from Nowheresville—that’s where she belonged, that was the dream that’d kept her sane in jail.
But now that she had a chance to make it real, its bleakness and emptiness made her stomach curl. Dammit. There is something you fear—nothingness, loneliness. She hurled a sneaker at her collected clothes. It plowed through them like a bowling pin and bounced off a wall. No. No way. Those were the things she craved.
But talking to Rafe, kissing him, being with him—it made her feel...alive. The buzz of bouncing flirty banter off a man with a quick mind, the rush of connecting with someone, the pull of physical attraction...
She kicked everything back into a heap. Dang, she needed to get out of this crazy place that screwed with her head, and away from the man who made her feel so raw and exposed, and...goddamned hopeful. Deception Island, huh? Looked like the person she was deceiving was herself.
* * *
The white light of the midday sun had given way to the gold of late afternoon by the time a splashing in the shallows heralded Rafe’s return.
“Ugh. I smelled you before I saw you,” Holly said, as he trudged up from the sand—shirtless again, of course, the low sun warming his skin to the color of burnt caramel. Pity the improvised body bag over his shoulder ruined the view.
He laid it on a patch of shaded grass, as gently as if the guy was merely injured. He’d wrapped the body in the parachute and secured it with the ropes and about a roll of duct tape so nothing was visible, though liquids she didn’t want to think about seeped through dark patches in the fabric. She shuddered, and yanked the last of the clothes from the washing line.
“It’ll be worse by tomorrow,” he said, strolling over, “but hopefully they won’t stop to distinguish between a one-day-old body and a two-day-old one. Can’t imagine they’re going to want to ID this guy before they dispose of him.”
“It looks pretty bulky—will they believe it’s me?”
“I’ve wrapped it in a couple of towels, to soak up some of the fluids.”
“Fluids. Oh, God.” She retched, shoving her palm over her mouth.
“Sorry, princess.” He dropped the parachute pack and pulled his forearm across his chest, stretching his shoulder. She didn’t even pretend she wasn’t checking out the straining muscles—it took her mind off the corpse, at least. He repeated it with the other arm, too lost in thought to notice her attention.
“Here,” he said, pulling something out of his pocket and laying it on the picnic table.
“An iPhone?”
“Counterfeit, and an older model, but it seems to work. Faint connection to a network, but no GPS. It was switched off, so it’s got a little battery left—enough for an email or phone call or two, if nothing else. Take it. We’ll be able to remain in contact once I’m off the island.”
Remain in contact. That thought really shouldn’t appeal like it did.
“You’re not leaving me the sat phone?”
“I have to risk taking it, in case my guy responds. Can I trust you not to murder me in the night if I return this?” He placed her pocketknife on the table.
She met his eyes. “You can trust me.”
He held her gaze for a few seconds, assessing her, then gave a swift nod. “You done packing?”
Before he could change his mind, she zipped the knife and phone into the pockets of her cargoes. “I’ve packed pretty much everything—which took all of about two minutes.” She waved a hand at her backpack, now stuffed with clothes and leaning on a pole on the veranda, next to a pile of bedding and towels and kitchen stuff, and the first-aid kit. “I figure we’ll only take as much food as we need for the night, and leave the rest refrigerated for now.”
“Good plan.” He grabbed a towel from the pile. “Time to make the princess a castle. I found a spot that should work—sheltered enough to provide cover from the weather and human eyes, but with a good view of incoming traffic. I’ll shower, then we can go. I smell like a zombie.”
Hell, if the undead looked like that, bring on the zombie apocalypse. But no kidding, he stank. He disappeared into the cabin. The screen door to the bathroom squealed open and snapped shut, the gas hissed as the hot water fired up. She let her eyes close, picturing a less sensible version of herself following him, stripping off his shorts and her clothes, lathering him up and picking up where they’d left off. She opened her eyes. Fortunately, she was the sensible type. She picked up the parachute pack and stuffed the clean laundry into it.
A weird kind of domestic bliss settled over the afternoon. She imagined it was the equivalent of what real couples did—working in the yard, pottering around in the house. They strolled to their new hideaway on the arm of land that hugged the eastern side of the lagoon. Now they’d opened up to each other, conversation came easily, though they didn’t stray into the deep territory of earlier that day. He talked about his son, she talked about prison and the bliss of sailing across the Pacific.
Maybe she’d played things wrong earlier. Maybe the way to get to him hadn’t been through physical temptation but through honesty. Who would have thought? She’d fallen back on the mind games Jasper had taught her, rather than trusting her instincts and respecting her adversary. She was better than that now. At some point, her connection with Rafe had become genuine—and she’d wager Jasper’s sizeable fortune that the feeling wasn’t just at her end.
Together, she and Rafe slung the hammock between two palm trees. Straight out of a tropical postcard. Not that anyone had ever sent her one, so what would she know? They hung a mosquito net over it and he rigged a Windsurfer sail with rope so they could haul it up if it rained. Real cozy, though he’d stressed the hammock was hers and the ground was his.
He found wooden boxes in the shed and carried them to the hideaway for storage and seating, refusing to let her do anything physical. Her knee felt okay, if a little stiff and puffy, but he made it clear he wasn’t taking chances.
To stop herself from spending the entire afternoon goggling at his physique, she changed into her shorts and took the fishing rod to a rocky outcrop, having been banned from the jetty in case the bad guys came. She left his T-shirt on, though it was stiff with salt. After throwing back an aquarium of tropical fish, she finally landed two snapper. While she scaled, gutted and filleted, he figured out the number of the fake iPhone and went online to create a new email account for each of them, so they could keep in contact—she noted he wasn’t trusting her with access to whatever means he was using to communicate with his buddy. “Just until I’m sure you’re safe,” he said. Yes, just until then.
As the sky blazed pink and orange, with a blue-black cloud blanketing the horizon, they set up a campfire. Rafe stripped a leaf from a banana plant, wrapped the fish in little green packages tied up with a flax-like fiber, and placed them in the embers to steam.
Holly lay back against one of the boxes and bit into a wild banana, still warm from the sun. Its sweet tang danced in her mouth. Rafe leaned on the trunk of a palm tree, long legs crossed in front of him, laptop on his knees.
Weird to think this time tomorrow he’d be gone. Then what? She wasn’t fazed by the idea of being left alone—it sure beat being surrounded by several hundred women slowly suffocating from incarceration. As long as she was alive and not locked up she wasn’t about to complain about anything. But her gut took a dive at the thought of not having Rafe around. How could she feel so goddamn comfortable with a guy she’d only met two days ago? Her skin fizzed with anticipation whenever he came near, her insides went gooey at his voice, her brain fired up as they discussed even the most banal logistical issue. Was she just deranged after being denied male attention for so long?
No. She was old enough to know this was real. Temporary, and disturbing, but real.
“Weather report says we’ll pick up the edge of that typhoon within a couple of days,” he said. “If it gets severe, shelter in the villa—they won’t navigate these waters in a storm.”
She tossed the banana skin into the undergrowth. “How bad is it?”
“The equivalent of a category three or four hurricane, but it should skirt to the north of us. Hopefully you won’t get anything worse than swaying palm trees and falling coconuts.”
“Beats swaying parachutes and falling pirates.”
He tapped on the keyboard some more. And then sat straighter. “Mon Dieu.”
“What is it?”
“Fl—my guy. He’s sent a message.” His pupils raced across the screen. “He’s on his way to Bali. Nightmare of a route—via Paris and Singapore, but it gives us a backup.”
“Will you wait here for him?”
He shook his head. “I’ll go with the militia, as planned, and tell him to lie low and wait for my say-so. I’ll contact my guy when I know the location.”
“What if they confiscate the sat phone?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t find it. They have no reason to suspect I have one.” He tapped out a reply. “Merde, princesse. This plan might actually work.”
He slid the computer and sat phone into its plastic bag and let his gaze fall lazily on her, the sunset lighting up amber tones in his eyes. She stared right back—it seemed the comfortable thing to do. At some point that afternoon the nature of the nervous tension in her belly had changed. The fear of being found out had given way to pure attraction—that delicious awareness that something could happen between them, heightened by the uncertainty of when or if it would. The idea she could have a future with him was laughable, of course. But they had tonight.