Australia: Wicked Mistresses. Robyn Grady
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death, the lingering effects of that better-than-bliss kiss, or the fact that for the first time in weeks she felt truly free, but a jet of abandon surged up from her centre and a bubble of laughter escaped. Going with impulse, she shut her eyes and tilted back her head. When she opened her mouth wide, sweet rain filled her throat.
She gulped twice, three times, then, through the gauzy mist of rain, searched out his eyes.
Streams were coursing down his ruggedly handsome face, running off the tip of his nose. He studied her, his head slanted, before a crooked smile broke and he rocked back his neck as she had done. Laughing again, she joined him, and as he held her beneath the opened sky, she felt their strength restored.
Some quenching moments later he shook his head, like a dog after a bath, then near shouted over the water clattering through the layers of thirsty foliage behind them.
“We need shelter.”
From beneath sodden lashes, she cast a glance around. The sea had darkened and whipped up too, each slate-green crest rising ever higher before smashing on the shore. The evocative scent of fresh rainfall seemed to rise off the earth’s every pore. No birds in the sky, no tiny soldier crabs scurrying over the sand … everything seemed hidden away, as if nature had called a time out.
As the rain fell harder still, he took matters into his own hands—but he didn’t charge north towards the resort. Rather he headed inland, weaving with precise guerrilla-like movements through a break in the bush.
“Cover your face,” he called as he strode through the underbrush.
She did as he asked and protected herself. “Where are we going?”
Was there a cave close by?
But he didn’t answer, and she didn’t push. Curling into him, making herself small against the branches lashing by, once again she put her faith in this remarkable man.
Finally his gait slowed, and she was jolted when his shoulder crashed against something hard. Then the rain stopped, although she still heard it …
Thrashing on a roof?
Gingerly she uncovered her face and swiped sopping hair from her eyes, in time to see him kick a crude-looking door shut. The noise of the rain outside was cut off and they were alone, dripping puddles at the inside entrance of what looked to be a cabin—boxy, barely furnished, and located in the middle of the island’s dense tropical forest.
He crossed to a single wooden chair set beside a small round table. In the shadowy light she saw a coffee cup pushed near the plastered wall. When he lowered her upon the chair her arm unravelled from around his neck, and as his warmth drew away a violent chill racked her body. She hugged herself as he moved to a kitchenette and flicked a switch. Over the din on the tin roof, her ears picked up the hiss of a kettle.
She twined her legs around one another and, hunching her shoulders, rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms. The exposed beam ceiling was low. An old sepia-tone photo hung on the opposite wall. A gnarly wooden coatstand guarded the door. The only other furniture was a double bed to her right. Shivering, Nina clutched herself tighter. That plump blue and yellow patchwork quilt looked mighty inviting.
The photo on the wall drew her eye. A gently smiling woman sat sloped towards her husband. Humour shone in the man’s dark eyes, and Nina almost felt his hand lying upon her shoulder, as it did on his wife’s in the picture. The hairstyles and garb said mid last-century.
“How did you find this place?” she asked. Had he stumbled upon it during his walk?
The kettle had boiled and he was sliding a coffee bottle over the counter. It was overly large, with a palm tree embossed on one side. It must have been here as long as that picture.
“This isn’t what you’re used to, I expect.”
An unpolished wooden floor, a square-paned window with no curtain to draw against a view of the deluge. The cabin was austere, but also dry and cosy … and, in its intimate isolation, rustically romantic. But foremost it was somebody else’s property. Were the people in that photo still alive? Given the circumstances, she supposed the owners wouldn’t mind them sheltering here, but she frowned as he poured water from the kettle.
“Do you think we should help ourselves to the pantry?”
He paused, setting the kettle down, but then sent over a smile. “This place is mine for the week—along with a bungalow back at the resort.”
Nina lifted her brows. So this millionaire liked to rough it? And this was about as rough as it got.
He asked about sugar and milk. It seemed they both liked their coffee black, so he added some cold water from the tap and brought the much appreciated drink over.
Taking the warm mug in two hands, she sipped. The bitter but tasty brew filtered heat through her blood and most of the goosebumps faded.
Running an eye over the kitchen—retro orange tiles, super-old stove, modern microwave—she pressed the mug to her cheek, then her breastbone. “How did you know this even existed?” She hadn’t heard a murmur about a rental bush cabin from the staff.
He heeled off his shoes near the cold ashes of the fireplace. “The owner built it decades ago.” She had her mouth open to ask more, but he changed the subject. “You need to get out of those clothes.”
The nerves high in Nina’s stomach kicked—firstly at his words, then at the thought of that double bed and its come-hither quilt. But he wasn’t suggesting anything other than the obvious. The rain had set in, and sitting here, shivering and sopping, wasn’t smart. They both needed to get dry.
Striding past her towards the bed, he threw back a filmy curtain, which was hooked up to a chrome rail. “I’ll run a tub and you can get that grit off.”
Nina craned her neck. A chipped porcelain clawfoot bathtub. Hardly five-star—she set her mug aside—but if hot water was involved, she was there.
After he had twisted the stiff faucets, unseen pipes shuddered and groaned to life. He tested the water and, with the other hand propping his weight on the tub’s rim, sought out her gaze.
“You okay to undress and get in?”
His question came at the same time as she found her feet. Her blood pressure dropped and, suddenly giddy, she closed her eyes and withered back down.
He was concerned she mightn’t be able to manage with her ankle, but for her this last half-hour had moved too fast. First the appearance of her angel on the cliff, then the rescue, heightened by that once-in-a-lifetime kiss. Finally she’d been whisked away to this delectable man’s secret lair.
On the beach, as his hands had traced over her body and his mouth had covered hers, she’d craved far more than his kiss. Here was her opportunity. Maybe she ought to take up his offer to help her undress.
She felt a familiar heat and opened her eyes. He was hunkered down beside her, dark brows drawn, the bristles on his jaw rough and close enough to touch.
“Hey … you all right?”
Genuine concern shone in his eyes. For so many reasons, it wasn’t the time to think beyond what was relevant. Salt had dried on her skin where the rain hadn’t reached. Sand, stuck to her shorts and her back, rubbed against the seat. And her scratches should be washed out properly too. Never mind about getting naked. Right now she needed to get clean.
Carefully she pushed to her feet again. “I think a hot bath is exactly what I need.”
He loaned her an arm, collected the chair in his free hand, and she hobbled with him over to the tub. He set the chair below a tarnished brass rack and, before drawing the curtain, said, “That’s a fresh towel.”
Then the curtain whizzed closed and she was alone.
She slipped out of her clothes. When a perfect fan-shaped shell fell from her shorts pocket she set it on a rickety shelf. A few minutes later she slipped into warm liquid heaven.
Her