Master of the Desert. Susan Stephens
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bit her lip and then admitted in a voice that was barely audible, ‘I hitched a lift on a fishing boat.’
‘You hitched?’ Words failed him. The girl’s naivety appalled him; the danger she had put herself in defied reason. ‘What were you trying to prove?’
‘Nothing.’
He doubted that. There would be someone back home she wanted to impress. ‘Couldn’t you have caught the ferry? Or was that too easy for you?’
‘I thought the fishing boat would give me a more authentic experience.’
‘More authentic?’ he demanded cuttingly. ‘So, you’re another tourist who thinks you can visit a foreign country with nothing more than your thirst for adventure and a bleeding heart in your survival kit?’
Her face paled. ‘It wasn’t like that at all.’
‘It was exactly like that. And then you wonder why you find yourself in danger? Keep your arms outstretched,’ he reminded her when she flinched.
His pulse was thundering with outrage at the thought of pirates in the sea off the shores of Sinnebar, though the girl had his attention too. He looked at her tiny hand and thought her courage all the more remarkable, given her petite frame. She was barely half his size, her skin-tone pale against his bronze. Her quick thinking had saved her, he concluded, and because her boldness was at odds with her fragile appearance the pirates had underestimated her. He would not make the same mistake.
Now she was speaking more, she went on to talk with passion of punishment for the pirates and compensation for the fishermen, which launched another unwelcome surge of arousal which he quickly stamped on. However soft and yielding she felt beneath his hands, her mind was not half so compliant, and he had no room in his life for complications. ‘What type of boat did they have? Never mind,’ he rapped, impatient to gather as much information as he could before placing a second call to the commander of his naval forces. ‘Just tell me the colour.’
‘It was a skiff,’ she said with mild affront. ‘Powerful engine; peeling white paint above the water-line; black below. And the interior was painted a vivid shade of aquamarine.’
‘A vivid shade of aquamarine?’ he murmured dryly. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Perfectly sure,’ she said, holding his gaze with curiosity, as if surprised to see the humour there. ‘Have I told you enough?’ she asked as he turned to use the radio.
‘More than I expected,’ he conceded as he prepared to place the call. ‘You did well.’
He could feel the heat of her gaze on his back as he fired off orders. He had become part of her desert fantasy, he guessed. Too bad; he wasn’t interested. There were plenty of women who knew the score, and this girl wasn’t one of them. Breaking radio connection, he turned to face her again.
‘Okay?’ she said hopefully.
‘Okay,’ he confirmed. ‘So now it’s all about you.’ He ran a cool stare over her. ‘Let’s start with your name and what you’re doing here.’
No name. She could have no name. Signorina Antonia Ruggiero must have no name. Whoever he was, this man was successful; successful people knew other people. And people talked. How good would it look for her to be branded a thief? Or, worse still, a demented creature with a knife? Before she’d even begun the work she’d set out to do.
‘You’re European,’ the man observed in a voice that strummed something deep inside her. ‘Although, like me, I suspect you were educated in England. Am I right?’
She took in the fact that his husky, confident baritone was barely accented even though he had spoken Sinnebalese fluently. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Her own voice sounded hoarse.
‘Where in England were you educated?’ His keen eyes watched her closely, and the intensity of expression in those eyes warned her not to lie to him.
‘I went to school in Ascot.’
‘Ascot?’ There was a faint note of mockery in his voice. He’d heard of the very expensive girls’ school there. ‘So you’re a very proper young lady?’
Not in her head. One flash of this man’s muscular back when he changed his top confirmed she was anything but proper. ‘I try,’ she said primly.
‘What is such a well-brought-up young lady doing on my yacht, stealing my food and threatening me with a knife?’
His relentless stare sent ribbons of sensation flooding through her, making it hard to concentrate—but this was her best, maybe her only, chance to get to the mainland and it was crucial to forge a relationship with him. She also had to persuade him not to report her to the authorities to avoid being arrested the moment she landed. ‘I was hungry—thirsty. Your yacht was here; I took my chances.’
She flinched when he laughed. Short and sharp, it held no hint of humour.
‘You certainly did,’ he agreed. ‘Didn’t you think to call out when you came on board? You could have made some attempt to locate the owner before you stole his food.’
‘I did call out, but no one answered.’
His lips curved as he propped his hip against the bench where she was sitting. ‘So you helped yourself to whatever you felt like?’
‘I didn’t touch anything outside the galley.’ Must he move so close and tower over her?
‘And that makes it right?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She sounded childlike—plaintive, even—but was lost for something else to say.
‘Next time I’m in Ascot, I’ll wander into your house and see what I fancy taking, shall I?’
‘I don’t live in Ascot.’ The angry words shot from her mouth without any assistance from her brain and her reward was an ironic grin.
‘So, we’ve ruled out Ascot,’ he said.
Before he could delve any further, she swayed and clutched her throat.
‘Feeling faint?’ he demanded caustically, refusing to be fooled by her amateur dramatics for a single moment.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, matching him stare for stare. Whatever it took, she wasn’t about to let him see how badly he affected her.
‘You’re not fine,’ he argued, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’ve had a shock and need time to get over it.’
She hoped that meant a reprieve, and shrank instinctively from his intense maleness as he eased away from the bench.
‘Relax.’ His lips tugged with very masculine amusement. ‘You’re safe with me.’
Did he mean that to be reassuring, or was he insulting her? And was she safe? Could he be trusted? For once, she didn’t know what to think. The man’s manner was dismissive and abrupt, and his appearance…Well, that was rather more intimidating than the pirates.
There could be no guarantees, Antonia concluded, even if he had bathed her wounds. So was the flutter inside her chest a warning to be on her guard, or awareness of his sexuality?
‘Are you travelling alone?’
A shiver of apprehension coursed through her as she stared into his eyes. Why would he ask that? ‘Yes,’ she admitted cautiously. ‘I’m travelling alone—but people know where I am.’
‘Of course they do,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So your family allows you to wander the world without their protection?’
This time she couldn’t hold back. ‘They trust me.’ She was not defending herself now, but Rigo, the older brother who had cared for her since her mother had died six months after giving birth to her, her father having passed away shortly after that.
But the man pursued her relentlessly. ‘And breaking the law is