Kat's Pride. Sharon Kendrick
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mean her judgement was terminally flawed.
‘Damn you,’ she whispered shakily.
‘No, damn you,’ he shot back furiously. ‘I was warned that you liked running away—but nobody told me you’d be a liability!’
The boat reached them, with Mike at the helm, and Kat was helped aboard—acutely aware that the flat of Carlos’s palm was shoving firmly on one sodden denimcovered buttock from behind. Then he levered himself up and into the boat and helped to sit her down. His feet were bare, the black jeans were soaking and the white silk shirt now clung to his chest like a second skin—the fabric so fine that she could see the whorls of black hair through it. Suddenly, Kat felt quite weak as he crouched down beside her, placing one hand at the small of her back to help support her.
A pair of stony black eyes were levelled at her. ‘Don’t ever try pulling a stunt like that again,’ he warned softly. ‘Understand?’
Kat was aware that Mike had his back to them as he steered the little boat towards the yacht. Was he diplomatically pretending not to listen, or would it even make any difference if he was? If she started screaming hysterically like one of those women in an old black-and-white movie, was it likely that Mike would turn round to the ‘boss’ he clearly revered and demand that he return her to shore immediately? No, it was not.
Which meant she was stuck here. Stuck with the only man she’d ever felt a physical connection towards—and still did, if she was honest. Even when she was physically and mentally exhausted.
‘Understand?’ repeated Carlos.
Staring into eyes which were as emotionless as rock itself, Kat swallowed down the salt taste of the sea. ‘Do I have any choice?’ she questioned bitterly.
‘No, querida, you do not—other than to work your way on this voyage and prove that you can do it. To stand on your own two feet for once…if you think you can.’ Black eyes challenged her. ‘After that, you can walk away and we need never set eyes on each other again.’
The aftermath of all the emotion suddenly hit her like a roller coaster, along with a dull aching which had now begun to gather at the front of her forehead, and Kat began to shiver uncontrollably.
Carlos frowned, but the arm which was still at her slender back tightened by a fraction. Her face was white—almost translucent—and her lips were turning a faintly blue colour. Y por Dios—but she suddenly looked fragile. Like a little doll who might snap in two.
‘Hurry up!’ he snapped at Mike as the small craft moved alongside the larger vessel. ‘She’s freezing!’
Kat was vaguely aware of being lifted onto the deck of the Corazón Frío and aware too that Carlos had curtly dismissed Mike and the rest of the crew who had appeared to help.
And then, to her astonishment, he picked her up as if he picked up full-grown women every day of the week, and carried her along one of the wood-lined corridors to some sort of cabin. But it wasn’t the same poky little cabin which Mike had taken her to earlier.
Dazed by shock and the sensation of being held within his strong arms, she looked around at the unfamiliar luxurious surroundings. ‘Th-this isn’t m-my c-cabin,’ she protested, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as he set her down. Her eyes widened as her heart began an erratic pounding. ‘It’s n-not yours, is it?’
‘Mine?’ Carlos gave a forbidding smile as he set her back down on her feet. ‘Please don’t overestimate your appeal, querida. I don’t take idle little rich girls to my bed.’
His cruel words should have hurt but Kat was now feeling so numb that she could barely move, let alone protest at his rudeness. Disconcertingly, he had started tugging at her top and she could feel the sudden heat of his hand against her frozen skin.
‘W-what do you think you’re doing?’ she breathed.
‘What the hell does it look like?’ he demanded, but his voice sounded distorted and he hated the sudden urgent escalation of his heart. Damn her, he thought—and damn her sleek and inviting body! ‘I’m getting you out of these wet clothes before I have to cable ashore for a doctor.’
Kat expelled a shallow breath because even through her icy confusion she liked the feel of his skin against her skin. She liked it a lot. She felt faint as he peeled off the sodden T-shirt and saw his body tense as he tossed it aside, a look of grim determination etched on his face. Next, he began undoing her bra with lightning-fast dexterity, until that was also cast unceremoniously to the floor. Then, pushing her down on the bed with a touch which was more gentle than she would ever have expected, he tossed a blanket over her. A blanket so warm and so soft that it felt as if she had been enveloped in a cloud. Teeth still chattering, Kat clutched at it with convulsive fingers.
‘That’s b-bliss,’ she stumbled, her eyelids feeling weighted as the temptation to sleep began to steal over her.
‘Take off those damned shorts,’ he demanded on a snarl, but either she wasn’t listening or she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe she was in shock. He remembered the scent of wine on her breath and his mouth hardened. Or drunk.
Carlos had been the greatest bullfighter of his generation and the adroitness of his wrist action had caused ecstatic crowds to sigh in admiration. Yet such skilfulness had bizarrely deserted him when it came to removing a tiny pair of soaking denim shorts from the delectable bottom of Miss Kat Balfour. His only saving grace was that she seemed scarcely aware of the exquisite torture she was unknowingly inflicting upon him.
Only when a tiny thong had been tugged down over her goose-bumpy thighs, and she was completely naked beneath the blanket, did he step away—and then very gingerly, for he was more aroused than he had been in a long time. ¡Maldición!
Picking up another of the cashmere throws, he floated that down over her for good measure and heard her sigh before she snuggled down into its soft folds. Her eyelids had fluttered to a close and rested on her pale cheeks in two dark feathery arcs. Her lips—now restored to a rose-petal hue—were parted and she gave a soft sigh and snuggled into the pillow while he watched her. With her damp hair fanned over the pillow, she looked pure—almost innocent.
But appearances could be deceptive, he reminded himself acidly, forcing himself to remember all the reasons why he disliked her. Predatory, unscrupulous and spoiled—she was antithesis of all the qualities he admired in a woman. Carlos admired hard work and humility far more than privilege, or position.
He had appeared at her family ball with a woman on his arm, but Kat Balfour hadn’t cared about that, had she? No. She hadn’t cared about a thing except homing in on him like a sex-seeking missile. Why, even when she was half drowned she was somehow managing to send out the instinctive message of the siren.
And just for a moment back then, he had responded, hadn’t he? Responded big time.
Carlos’s mouth hardened with fury at his own susceptibility. He should have demanded that her father pay him danger money to have taken on this task. Better still, he should have told Oscar Balfour to find someone else. But it was too late to back out now. And surely this snip of an Englishwoman—no matter how flighty or petulant—could never be compared to the challenges he had faced in the bullring?
Her arm had moved back to lie above her head and he stared down at the diamond-encrusted wristwatch which dangled from her fragile wrist—an expensive-looking piece which looked as if it was completely wrecked by sea water. He saw the outline of her luscious curves beneath the fine cashmere and knew he did not dare risk removing the watch. Not unless he planned to wake her up in a way which he could—suddenly and inexplicably—imagine all too vividly…
His throat thickening, Carlos walked over to the door and snapped out the light, knowing that he had to get the hell out of there.
KAT