disaster. Well, one disaster, anyway, Rachel taunted herself silently, feeling a hysterical desire to laugh. Being hauled up against Brody’s pelvis was hardly the safest thing. She was almost sure she could feel his body stirring against her, and that offered what might be greater dangers than she’d ever anticipated.
‘Th-thank you.’
Somehow she managed to extricate herself from his hold, pick up the offending flip-flop and complete the staircase on one bare foot. Then, reaching the lobby, she hastily lifted her leg and restored her footwear. In the normal way she would have bent over to accomplish the task, but the idea of giving her rescuer an uninterrupted view of her bottom was not something she wanted to pursue.
Particularly not at present.
‘You okay?’
Matt came round her as she was lowering her foot to the floor again, and Rachel managed a careless nod.
‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose,’ she declared lightly. ‘It’s my fault for wearing these things.’ She indicated the flip-flops. ‘I’d have been better off in flats.’
‘You’d have been better off if you hadn’t tried to outrun me,’ Matt replied drily. ‘What’s the matter, Ms Claiborne? Do I make you nervous?’
Rachel was about to deny it, but then changed her mind. ‘Perhaps a little,’ she admitted tightly. ‘I’m not a very tactile person, I’m afraid.’
Matt arched dark brows. ‘Maybe what you mean is you’re only tactile with people you like.’
‘I neither like nor dislike you, Mr Brody,’ she retorted, realising he was going to be more difficult than she had even imagined. She glanced towards the palm-fringed forecourt. ‘Do you have a car?’
Matt regarded her silently for a long moment, and she was half afraid he was going to blow her off. She didn’t want that, she realised. However reckless that made her. But, after all, this was why she’d come to St Antoine.
Then, with a casual flick of his shoulders, he gestured that she should lead the way outside. And Rachel did so, supremely aware of him following her. She should have worn her Capri pants, she thought. They would have been far more suitable. She felt totally exposed in the short cotton skirt.
THERE were several cars on the forecourt, some of them owned by members of the hotel staff, she assumed. Few of the guests would have their own vehicle. Unless there was a hiring franchise at the airport.
She paused, waiting for Matt to point out his car, but he passed her without a word. He headed towards the gates and she saw an open-topped Jeep parked in the street outside.
So what did that mean? she wondered. Had he just arrived at the hotel this morning? Or had the Jeep been parked there all night?
Not that he was likely to tell her. He swung open the nearside door and waited until Rachel had folded herself into the front seat. If he noticed her attempt to keep her skirt from disappearing up her thighs, she was unaware of it. But then he took her backpack from her and slung it into the back of the vehicle, apparently uncaring what might break.
‘Oh, I need my sunglasses,’ she objected, but Matt just ignored her and walked round to get into the driving seat.
‘Try these,’ he said, tossing an expensive pair of designer glasses into her lap. And, although she was sure they would be far too big for her, they fitted her face like a glove.
‘Thanks.’
She glanced sideways at him as he started the engine, wondering if she dared ask him who the glasses belonged to. They were evidently not his. He’d donned a pair of Raybans as soon as he’d taken his seat, their dark lenses successfully concealing his expression.
But she said nothing, forcing herself to look about her as Matt drove away from the hotel. The small town was buzzing, even this early in the morning, with local people and tourists milling about the narrow streets.
They passed close to an open-air market, and Rachel could smell fresh fish and garlic and exotic vegetables, all mingling with the musky scents of animals and humanity. A stall selling straw hats reminded Rachel that she hadn’t brought any protection. It was all right as long as the Jeep was bustling through the air, but she guessed she’d feel the heat on her head if she left the car.
However, she refused to ask Matt to stop so she could buy a hat. She would have to take care she didn’t spend too long in the sun. And she probably wouldn’t have the chance, she mused, judging by the speed with which Matt was driving. She had the suspicion that he was now as unenthusiastic about this outing as she was.
And that was her fault. She knew it. She had behaved quite rudely back at the hotel. It wasn’t his fault that she wasn’t used to being handled. He’d only saved her from a nasty fall, for heaven’s sake. Not mauled her for his own ends.
The streets were quieter now. They were leaving the town behind, and now children played freely in the road, apparently indifferent to passing traffic. If Rachel had expected Matt to be impatient at having to brake every couple of minutes she couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead he waved at the reckless youngsters, answering their greetings, proving how well-known and obviously well-liked he was with them.
The air was getting warmer and more humid. Rachel could see the dampness on Matt’s forehead and felt a trickle of perspiration running down between her breasts. What she wasn’t prepared for was Matt pulling up his shirt and using it to fan his stomach, the hair around his navel glistening with sweat.
Rachel’s own stomach quivered in protest. Dear God, he was such a physical man. She discovered that, contrary to previous experiences, she wasn’t immune to this man’s sexuality. Quite the reverse, in fact. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to brush her fingers over that provocative growth of hair and feel the smoothness of taut brown skin.
The knowledge horrified her. As far as she knew this was the man her mother had flown over three thousand miles to see. Whatever their relationship—and she couldn’t believe, having met him, that it was just friendship—her father certainly didn’t expect her to get involved with him herself.
Having left the final cottages behind, they were now driving towards the ocean. Behind them, the mountains she’d seen from the taxi crowded closely towards the road. Thick vegetation turned their slopes into a lush green carpet, but ahead rough acres of uncultivated grasses descended inevitably towards the sea.
Rachel, who had been trying to remain detached about her feelings, couldn’t deny a breath of wonder at the sight of blue-green water lapping a beach of pure white sand.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said in a hushed voice, barely aware that they were the first words she’d spoken since they left the hotel.
Matt cast a fleeting glance in her direction, before agreeing that this was a pretty part of the island. ‘Mango Cove,’ he said after a moment. ‘St Antoine is reputedly one of a series of peaks from an underwater mountain range. Jamaica is another.’
‘Really?’
Rachel was fascinated, and Matt went on to explain that the Spaniards had first settled here at the beginning of the sixteenth century.
