The sport sandals still on her feet were covered with sand and grit. He took those off first, then brushed the sand from her feet.
He unbuttoned the waistband of her shorts and slid the zipper down. But when his hands brushed over her skin at her waist, a sizzle of electricity shot up his arm, and he froze in place, unable to move.
Her skin was as soft as a butterfly’s wing and as smooth as cream. His hands were suddenly burning hot against the coolness of her skin, and he clenched his fingers around the waistband of her shorts to stop himself from touching her.
Appalled, he pulled his hands away as if he’d been burned and jumped up. He stared at the unconscious woman, feeling the heat of need rush through him. What the hell was the matter with him?
Shaken, he picked up the phone again to call for an ambulance, but hesitated before he’d punched in the numbers. This woman was in danger, he reminded himself. And he had sworn to protect those in danger. It was part of his code of honor, both professionally and personally. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t control himself.
Just because he was acting like a randy teenager didn’t mean he had to throw her to the wolves. He swallowed once and sat on the bed. He could do this. He could think of her as an impersonal object that needed his help.
His resolve lasted just long enough to remove her shorts. Tossing them on the floor, he looked at the tiny scrap of lace that she wore beneath the shorts and swore long and hard. A blond triangle of hair was visible beneath the almost-transparent lace. And although he estimated she was only a few inches taller than five feet, her legs seemed to go on forever. Slim and firm, they were evidence that his mystery woman led an active life.
Scowling, he deliberately looked away from her legs and grabbed the hem of her T-shirt. This was ridiculous. The woman was unconscious. He was the only person who could help her right now, and that’s what he would do. He could tame his hormones into submission.
But when he pulled the T-shirt over her head and tossed it on the floor, he closed his eyes and groaned. The bra she wore matched the lacy panties and did about as much to hide her body. He forced his gaze to her face and told himself his job was about her health and safety and nothing else.
“Snap out of it, Waters,” he growled to himself. “This woman already has enough problems. She doesn’t need you making a fool of yourself.”
Steeling himself, knowing he had to check her from head to toe, he forced himself to think of all the things that could be wrong with her. Then he began to examine her, utilizing the basic medical training that was part of every SPEAR agent’s education. He tried to ignore how she felt, ignore the softness of her skin and the smoothness of her body. He could block her beauty out of his mind, but it was more difficult to ignore the way her vulnerability touched a soft spot he didn’t even realize he still had.
Finally he stood up and draped a blanket over her. His hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. It was best to pretend that she didn’t have any effect on him, he told himself.
“You don’t seem to be too badly hurt,” he said to her, even though she was still unconscious. With an effort of will, he forced himself to ignore his physical reaction to her. “If you can hear me, you need to know that you’re safe now. You’ve got a bunch of scrapes and bruises, especially on your legs, but nothing is broken. And since there are no cuts, bruises or bumps to your head, it doesn’t look like you have a head injury, although we’ll have to wait until you’re awake to know for sure. You’re going to be plenty sore when you wake up, but I think that’s about all.”
Certain that he’d made the right decision about calling for help, he walked into the bathroom and started the water running in the bathtub. Then he walked out and crouched next to her again. “I’m going to give you a bath. You’re covered with sand and salt, and I don’t want it to irritate your skin.”
He stopped, reaching for the control that had never failed him before. She was a stranger who needed his help, he reminded himself. But he swallowed once before he continued. “I know this is pretty personal, but you’ll thank me for it in the morning.”
Would she? Or would she be horribly embarrassed that someone had undressed her and bathed her while she was unconscious? “Let’s get that underwear off of you. It’s not doing much good, anyway,” he muttered.
Steeling himself, he quickly peeled away the tiny scraps of lace and chiffon that passed for underwear. He tossed them on the floor, then slid his arms around her, trying not to notice how perfectly she fit against him, and carried her into the bathroom. He placed her gently in the tub, where he quickly sponged off the worst of the grit.
“You’ll have to do the rest yourself after you wake up,” he muttered after a few minutes. The sight of her perfect breasts and lithe young body had made him as hard as granite. “I know it’s not your fault, but I can’t do this anymore.”
He grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her, then carried her to the bed. Peeling back the bedspread, he laid her on the sheets, leaving the towel wrapped around her.
“I can’t leave that on you.” He scowled. The large bath towel covered her body, but it was damp and she would be shivering in a few minutes. He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out one of his T-shirts. “This should work.”
He eased the towel away from her and quickly pulled the T-shirt over her head. It floated down her body, covering her almost to her knees. He breathed a sigh of relief, which turned into a scowl when he realized that it did nothing to hide the curve of her breasts and the outline of her nipples. His hands ached to weigh her breasts, to feel their weight in his hands, and he jerked the sheet over her body. “I’ll be in the other room.”
Night had fallen completely, and the sky was dark velvet over the black of the Caribbean. Stars glittered in the sky, reflected in the water like sharp diamonds. The muted sound of voices and the low laughter of women drifted on the breeze from the common areas of the resort.
Marcus ignored the sounds of merriment that wafted from the resort. He stared into the darkness, looking down the beach, probing the foliage near his cabin. Who was out there? Where were they hiding? What predators prowled the night?
Somewhere, someone was looking for the woman who lay on his bed. Someone who meant her harm. The familiar adrenaline of a case rose inside him, making his heart pound, sharpening his senses. No one would hurt her, he vowed. He would make sure of that.
He picked up his cellular telephone and dialed a number he had memorized. After two rings a voice said, “Devane here.”
“This is Waters,” Marcus said. “Have you heard anything about a missing woman?”
“No.” Marcus could hear the interest sharpen in Russell Devane’s voice. “What do you have?”
“I’m not sure. I found a woman washed up on the beach about a half mile from the resort. There wasn’t anyone else around, and she didn’t have any identification. She’s still unconscious.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait until she wakes up, then find out what’s going on. I hoped you or one of the others might have heard something.”
“Not a word. But we’ll keep our ears open.”
“Let me know if you hear anything.”
Marcus closed the phone and went into the
