He was feeling much better by that time. The red welts had mostly melted away.
“What do I need with clothes?” he’d responded, half-teasing. “Isn’t this the tropics? I thought you all walked around like children in the Garden of Eden.”
She’d laughed, teasing right back. “Even Adam was embarrassed when he realized Eve was looking at him cross-eyed.”
“I don’t embarrass that easily,” he said, and at the same moment, his gaze caught hers and held and she felt a rush of sensual excitement in a way she’d never experienced before. There was a knowing glint in his eyes, which told her he had thoughts of exploring things between them, things that would come too close to intimacy. Things she couldn’t allow. She didn’t think she’d ever read the signals in a man’s eyes quite so clearly as she did at that moment. She’d been uncharacteristically tongue-tied for a good twenty seconds.
He’d broken the spell by smiling and speaking casually, as though none of that had happened at all.
“As for my clothes, they are back on the beach somewhere. Closer to town. The water was so clear and the fish were so beautiful, I guess I got caught up in the moment and swam pretty far from where I started.”
She’d sighed, looking at him and biting her lip. It was one thing to pal around with a halfnaked man on the beach. Somehow it seemed very different here in her home. It had made her uncomfortable.
He’d noticed. “I’d ask to borrow one of your shirts, but I have a feeling that would be a tight squeeze,” he said lightly.
“I’ll find you something,” she’d said, jumping up and then afraid she’d sounded a bit too eager. “Uh, I’ll be right back.”
She took her time, rummaging through her closet shelves and waiting for her cheeks to cool down. And then she remembered the Hawaiian shirts a previous tenant had left and pulled them out, choosing a bright yellow one with a red parrot on the front.
“Here you go,” she said as she came out into the living room again, expecting to find him still at the counter. But he wasn’t there. Instead, he was across the room where he had obviously been studying the things on her display shelves. As she came into the room he’d turned and stared at her, a completely new look on his face.
“Didn’t you say your name was Shayna Pierce?” he’d asked, at the same time studying her closely.
She remembered blinking and feeling a tiny thread of alarm slithering down her spine. What had he seen on her display shelves?
“That’s right.”
He’d frowned, staring at her face. “Are you sure?”
She gave him a sideways glance of annoyance. “Last time I looked,” she said tartly.
He shook his head and gazed at her narrowly. “There’s something familiar about you,” he’d said softly.
Her mouth had gone dry but she rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, I hope not.”
“Why would you say that?”
She’d searched his eyes. He was smiling again and she felt a sense of relief. Whatever he’d thought he saw, he’d already forgotten about it.
“No reason.” She smiled back a bit warily. “It’s just that we like our privacy out here in the islands. It’s pretty much a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ situation. You’re playing with fire if you delve too much into others’ lives.” She shrugged. “You have your life and I have mine. We tend to let sleeping dogs lie.”
He’d given a snort of amusement. “You’re just an encyclopedia of useful sayings,” he noted, teasing her again. “I’m sure I’ll be improving my English if I’m around you long enough.”
She’d laughed and teased him back, but his recent reaction stayed with her for a while. She certainly had her reasons for avoiding his curiosity. There was nothing she was prepared to share with him. As she remembered it now, she’d shaken his question away at the time and held the shirt out for him and he slipped into it, leaving the buttons undone so that the shirt hung open. There was still a lot of gorgeous flesh on display, but it was a big improvement, and she’d thought that she could relax a little.
What a fool she’d been. Relax! She’d invited a viper into her life, a spy into her home, and she was thinking she could relax.
At the time, she’d been somewhat concerned that he might recognize her face, but she’d thought that wasn’t very likely. Only a year before, her face had dominated the tabloids, but she’d taken steps to make herself look very different from that girl who’d been considered a media sensation. Her hair had been shorter, straighter, redder, and she’d faced the world with a permanent pout.
Attitude, they called it. Spoiled selfish brat behavior, she called it now. To the tabloidreading public, she’d been considered a “bad girl” who always went right to the edge of trouble, but didn’t quite slip over that cliff. Few had understood how tempting that fall would have been to her. Anything to save her from the life she’d been leading.
She’d been born Summer Hudson, daughter of Glendenning Hudson, one of the richest real estate moguls in Manhattan—a man who partied with film stars and raced yachts for recreation—always firmly in front of the cameras. As a child, her birthday parties had been covered on the evening news, her first ride on a pony documented, her first prom night celebrated. She’d grown up in the public eye.
She knew most people would choke with laughter if she told them it wasn’t easy being rich and famous. But the truth was, it wasn’t. Living life on a constant high of attention was exciting at times, but it quickly became a numbing sort of hell. That public ordeal might have been tolerable if only her private life had given her the support she needed—the support anyone needed. But her father’s insatiable appetite for publicity and acclaim left her with no safe haven.
In fact, she sometimes thought it had driven her a little insane. She did things, said things, ended up with people, who were obviously all wrong for her. Life was a mad, speeding carousel with clown faces coming at her out of the dark, and as it began to turn faster and faster, she knew she had to jump off or it would destroy her.
She’d tried often enough, and each time, her father had found a way to pull her back into the spotlight. Finally, she’d escaped secretly and on her own, using a lawyer friend as her only contact to let people know she was okay, and she’d made her way, with a new identity, to this most remote of tropical islands.
When she’d first arrived she had been exhausted and heartbroken, as damaged as a broken butterfly. She’d thought she would stay for six months or so, heal herself, take a deep breath and go back into the fray a stronger contender.
But it had been so different living here—being a real person, not a media creation; living by her own rules instead of serving as the center of other people’s emotional attachments and needs. Being able to understand that people were dealing with her as a normal person, not as some kind of sick icon.
She’d grown. She’d expanded. She felt as though her heart were bigger now. Her life was bigger. She knew what real joy was. And most important, she knew she would never voluntarily go back.
No, she hadn’t been concerned about him recognizing her, and that was just
