above the howling wind as Cutter untied a dockline. “Maybe not then.”
“Right. Like I drove all night through sleet and hail so I could sit the storm out in a Port A. bar or a cheap motel.”
The boat, which Martin had named Jolly Girl one sunny summer day, was the only way to reach Lord Island tonight.
Fight, fight as hard as you can—
Damn right, he’d fight her as hard as he could. Cutter would fight because he knew he’d go mad if he had to listen to her singsong voice flit through his brain till morning.
When he jumped from the dock into the bucking sloop, he slipped on the wet fiberglass and almost fell. He opened the hatch and began casting off.
“Loco,” Miguel yelled frantically. “You crazy, boss. You don’t know enough about boats. Your brother Martin—”
Cutter glared at him.
Cutter was a remarkable entrepreneur.
He was a less than remarkable yachtsman.
Not that he could have ever admitted there was anything he couldn’t do better than his playboy brother.
Cutter stubbornly primed the bulb and then pushed in the automatic choke before starting the engine.
Only when Cutter cast off the last line, and the little boat hurtled free of the dock into the purple waves, did Cutter begin to doubt the wisdom of having let anger and arrogance rule him.
But by then it was too late.
Almost immediately, the lights of the shore and Miguel’s alarmed cries were lost in the troughs of black waves and driving rain.
The cold wind tore at his foul weather gear, and rain rushed inside it. Cutter’s teeth began to chatter as he headed toward his island.
An hour later, the little engine coughed and died. It had made almost no headway against the wind and the waves. He heard the crashing surf and knew he was too close to shore. The electricity on the island had gone out, and without lights to guide him, without the motor, he’d never make the channel to the island’s man-made harbor.
He had to restart the motor. But as he leaned over the stern, a large wave slammed into the boat, foaming into the cockpit. When Jolly Girl lurched violently, Cutter lost his footing and slid overboard. As the cold rushing water swallowed him, he fought to reach the surface.
One gurgling breath. Then he gulped water as another wave crashed over him and dragged him under.
He clawed his way through the darkness to the surface again.
This time he didn’t quite make it and gulped salt water instead.
As he sank, he heard the taunt of her husky purr.
Mr. Lord, you can’t stop me. I’m the gold digger girl.
She was laughing at him as he kicked against the undertow that sucked him down, down, ever deeper into a cold, wet hell.
A feeble sun broke through the gray, making the calmer waters glimmer like polished silver.
Waves curled around a man’s bare foot.
Freezing. Hungry. Cold
Freezing. Hungry. Cold.
Again and again like the feeble tattoo of a drum, the words fluttered through Cutter’s tired brain.
Cutter was barely conscious. His skin was pale, his lips blue. His shoes and most of his clothes had been torn off. Grit and sand filled his wet black hair, nostrils and ears. Every time he tried to swallow, his throat burned.
He had lost all sensation in his legs and arms and fingers and toes.
Where the hell was he?
Who cared? He was so cold, he just wanted to sleep.
Forever.
Then he heard a husky cry that was somehow familiar.
“Oh, my God—” A woman’s terrified voice.
With great effort he opened his eyes and saw the upturned hull of Jolly Girl.
But he wasn’t looking at the wreck. A breeze whipped a gauzy, white skirt high up a pair of shapely legs.
A woman.
Cheyenne Rose.
The troublesome witch blurred in a red haze of pain as if she were no more than the figment of a nightmare.
He forced his heavy burning eyes open again.
She wasn’t what he had expected.
She was slim and lovely—as lovely as her voice. She had a sweet face. An enormous, white gardenia bloomed in her hair.
He shivered violently, not wanting to like her.
What the hell was the matter with him? Was he delirious? Dying?
It didn’t mean a damn that she was pretty. Or soft and vulnerable looking.
She was the enemy.
But it did...mean a damn. He felt something deep and hot and eternal grip his heart.
As if she were a child clutching a treasure, she held a bag of shells in one hand as she stretched on tiptoes to examine the wrecked hull.
Her long red hair blew around her face and neck. She was dressed in a white sundress. A silver light came from behind her and lit her hair like spun flame. There was something fragile and otherworldly and enchantingly angelic about her. He noticed that behind her the sand dunes were ablaze with Fiddleleaf morning glories and yellow sunflowers as if it were summer.
What kind of woman came to an island and stayed there through a violent storm and then got up the next morning to hunt seashells?
She had fine, delicate features with high cheekbones and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Her breasts and hips were deliciously rounded; her waist small. Her skin was pale gold, and as she stared at the boat and him with wonder and fear, he realized that she was not only smolderingly sensual but irresistibly innocent.
He groaned as a sudden pain convulsed in his chest.
Startled by his cry, she screamed and jumped back. Her wary green eyes studied him. Then her incandescent smile dazzled him.
He shut his eyes.
She hesitated a brief moment before racing toward him.
Conserving the last of his strength, he lay very still.
Until she reached him.
“Hello?” Her husky voice grew more anxious. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She
