Caught In A Storm Of Passion. Lucy Ryder
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“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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