she lied, not wanting him to think her feeble. But it wasn’t only that. It was being this close to him, with the disturbing intimacy of his action that was making her pulse throb so hard that she wondered if he could hear it, so that, not trusting herself to look anywhere else, she kept her gaze fixed on the fine transparency of his shirt through his open jacket and the suggestion of dark body hair beneath it that spanned the hard contours of his chest.
‘Do you actually own this thing?’ she asked tightly, trying not to let him see how his tangible warmth and the subtlety of his cologne were affecting her as he gently bathed her wound. If he did own it, then he must have done very well for himself, she thought, since leaving Bouvier’s.
‘Would I be more of an interesting proposition for you if I said I did?’
Heat trickled through her and she felt her throat close over, even though his mocking tone assured her he was only toying with her. What respect did he have for her, after all? she reminded herself poignantly. Hadn’t he condemned her along with all the rest?
‘I wouldn’t be tempted by you, Kane, if you had twenty yachts,’ she returned with feigned sweetness, her artificial smile concealing pain—a deep, long-buried yearning. Her heart was beating too hard; much too fast. ‘Anyway, don’t you have a wife stowed away somewhere in one of those cabins?’ A little jerk of her head indicated the steps she could see dipping down beside the helm, obviously leading to the vessel’s sleeping quarters, while she racked her brain to remember whether he’d been seriously involved with anyone before.
‘No wife,’ he answered succinctly.
Relief was sweet and almost weakening. ‘Why not?’ she pressed and, trying to offset the feeling, ‘You aren’t getting any younger, you know.’ What was he now? she asked herself. Thirty-three? Thirty-four?
‘Keep still,’ he commanded, without rising to her bait, so that suddenly she felt childish for making such a ridiculous statement. She’d always thought his maturity one of the most exciting things about him, and that hard sophistication had only increased with the years.
Plunged back into an enforced silence, she swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat, her eyes straying over his tight, lean waist and beyond.
Oh, heavens! she thought, deciding she would have more control over her reactions if she didn’t have to look at him. She closed her eyes, then realised that his scent was even more acute, and that now she was even aware of his breathing. It was quite rapid, really—hard and shallow—as though carrying her hadn’t been quite as effortless as she had thought.
‘Here. You hold this.’ His tone—his whole manner—as he surrendered the cold compress and moved away from her was surprisingly abrupt.
Kane was glad that he could busy himself with cups and saucers and filling a kettle. Touching Shannon Bouvier wasn’t something that he—or any man, he was certain—could do imperviously. She affected him in ways he didn’t want to be affected—in the profound and purely sensual way she had always affected him, he thought, if he was honest with himself—and silently he rebuked himself for the stirring he felt in his body. He’d be glad when the demonstration in town had broken up and he could take her home, he told himself, slamming a cupboard door, then wondering, as he spooned tea into a pot, why he felt an underlying reluctance to see her go. She didn’t look well, and yet even her fragility lent itself to that mind-blowing sexuality of hers; did things to him that he knew weren’t just the keen sense of the strong male to protect the weaker female, but stemmed from a less magnanimous, more primal desire to make this disastrously beautiful girl his. Because to lose oneself in a fatal submission to her lovely womanhood would be disastrous—and she was certainly a woman now, he recognised, that deceptively innocent look she had once had gone with the smouldering intensity of her full-blown sensuality. But for all that, she wasn’t well. Anyone could see that, and he was concerned about her being in a strange country on her own. If she was on her own.
Damn it! Why did he have to get involved? he asked himself, gritting his teeth as he switched off the kettle and poured boiling water onto the fine-leaf tea. It wasn’t as if he owed anything to Ranulph Bouvier, and even less to his pampered, self-indulgent daughter.
She wasn’t his responsibility, he assured himself. He could just put her in a cab and let that take her back. She was over eighteen. She had chosen her life and it wasn’t anything to do with him if she wanted to ruin it. So why did he feel this ridiculous and misplaced need to protect her?
‘Does this thing have a bathroom?’
‘Yes, it’s…’ Turning round as she was getting to her feet, he broke off, noticing how shaky, how drained she looked. Spaced out was the phrase that flew to his mind.
‘Are you all right?’ Coming around the counter, he could see the perspiration now dampening her forehead.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Her words, though, were slurred with fatigue. Or something else, he thought, feeling a sick fear suddenly grip him.
The way she looked. The gaunt features… Why hadn’t he considered the possibility?
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ His hand clamped down on the scruffy canvas bag that, upon realising his intention, she had suddenly been making a grab for. He wouldn’t put anything past this girl.
His fingers bit into the delicate bones of her wrists as he grasped them both, turning them over, subjecting each arm to his hard, critical inspection.
‘What are you looking for?’ Shocked anger sparked in her eyes before she tugged forcibly away from him. ‘Signs of self-abuse?’
Without conscious thought, he was shaking out the contents of the bag onto the polished surface of the table.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she challenged, looking aghast.
He felt her heated indignation beating against him as he rifled through her things, and he hated himself for his actions, but he felt compelled to do it. For her sake. For her father’s. For his…
Lipstick. Comb. Purse. Various papers. Bottle of tablets?
He picked it up to study the label, but swiftly she snatched the bottle away from him.
‘An intestinal problem. All right? That’s why I’m here and not Peru!’
His eyes narrowed questioningly. This girl sure got around. ‘Peru?’
She shrugged. ‘Rio. Peru. What does it matter to you? You’re not interested in where I’ve been or what I might be doing. You’re just worried about what I might be bringing onto your precious boat!’
That wasn’t strictly true—in fact, not at all true—but he couldn’t tell her that.
‘So I was wrong.’ He began dropping her belongings back into the bag, but she snatched that from him too.
‘I suppose that’s less of a climb-down than saying you’re sorry!’ Angry colour gave some glow to her cheeks as she began scooping up her possessions. ‘I might not amount to much in your—or a lot of other people’s—eyes, and basically I don’t give a fig! But I do draw the line at—’ her words were punctuated by short, angry breaths ‘—drugs, other people’s husbands, and anything that puts me out of control! And I do happen to value my own body!’
As if that was a cue for them to do so,
