Teresa Medeiros - Once An Angel

Justin would discover only a fragile weave of calico bound her nakedness from his own.

He already knew. He betrayed himself by the downward flicker of his gaze, the faintest shift of his hips, the barely perceptible wince of his chiseled mouth. A buoyant wave rocked against his back, and her

body cradled his with an artless skill as primal as the sea itself. She had never been more aware of a man's strength or a woman's vulnerability. Heat stung her cheeks.

Justin gazed down at her, already beginning to regret his brief lapse into kindness. He should have let Penfeld bring her to the beach. His own peace of mind was too hard won to surrender without a fight. Half wishing he were a more ruthless sort of man, he rested his hands against her ribs, his thumbs a ticklish inch from her breasts.

Emily's heart rocked into a shuddering slam as Justin's palms rode to her hips, easing the coat down to cover her. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and turned her away from him, cradling her back against his chest.

"Relax, Emily," he commanded in that husky lilt of his.

He guided them past the place where the waves crested and broke. Emily poked her toe toward the

sea floor but met only a chill current of deeper water. Damp hairs clung to the bronze skin of Justin's forearm. How easy it would be for him to push her under, she thought. To hold her head beneath the water with exquisite gentleness until her struggles ceased.

She shivered, and Justin wrapped his other arm around her. "Don't be afraid. I won't let you go."

The shiver that rocked her at those words was so deep, he never felt it. It filled her with both a terrible fear and an insatiable longing that sharpened her loneliness to an unbearable edge. Her eyes stung. She blinked, swearing it was only the salt.

His breath warmed her ear. "Close your eyes, Em, and let the water take you."

She couldn't fight the sensation that she was being saken by something far more potent than the water. She fct her eyes drift shut, surrendering to its seductive pull. Her head fell back against his shoulder.

Her feet drifted up antil her lower body was floating, rocked in the rhythmic cradle of the sea. The

sunset faded to a warm spatter of gold against her eyelids. The water caressed her with liquid fingers, deliciously cool against the heat of his chest.

"Why would anyone live in London when there's such a place as this?" she murmured, licking the salt from her lips.

He guided her around to face the shore. "Some say New Zealand is God's own paradise, that after He created the rest of the world, He made this Eden for His own pleasure, then destroyed all the land

bridges so it could belong to only the boldest adventurers."

Emily wondered if he, like her, was thinking of three bold young men who had dared the sea to come here.

He rested his chin on top of her head. "Look at it, Emily. Can you really see it?"

Her gaze swept the shore. She wanted desperately to see it through his eyes. Glittering stars punched holes in the fading fabric of day. Night shadows melted across the swaying palms. The plaintive cry of

a bellbird lifted the tiny hairs at her nape.

His long, elegant fingers curled over her collarbone. She studied them, dazed by their grace. They were saved from effeminacy by their tensile strength and the dusting of dark hair along their knuckles. "God banished every deadly creature here. There are no dangerous animals, no poisonous bugs, no snakes.

He molded the mountains with His fists and blew roaring blizzards down the slopes. He sculpted icy fjords and smoothed the pristine beaches with His loving fingers." His voice grew soft, wistful. "Then

He sprinkled the hills and streams with gold."

His love for this country was palpable, but Emily sensed that running through it like a thread of gold through a gurgling stream was a deep sadness. What had his love cost him? New Zealand might be a paradise, but for him it had become a paradise lost. Her heart ached.

Before she realized it she was cupping his hand and bringing it toward the comfort of her lips. She gently kissed his fingertips. He drew in a ragged breath and Emily stiffened, horrified by what she had done. How could she have fallen so quickly beneath the sway of his charms. Had her father succumbed as easily?

"Let me go," she whispered, pleading for far more than her physical release.

His grip tightened for an implacable instant. "Who are you, Emily? What are you running from?"

"You!" She began to struggle, afraid panic might force her to blurt out more than she intended. She worked her fingers up between them and shoved at his arms with all her strength. "I've met men like

you in London. You take a girl out in the moonlight, relax her guard with soft words, then play your

little game of seduction."

Before she could wiggle away, he caught her arm in a steely grasp and jerked her around to face him,

his eyes dark-lashed orbs of brandy fire. "Is that what you think this is about? Seduction?"

Emily hung in his grip, accusing him with her silence and the sullen set of her jaw.

"I might remind you, Miss Scarlet, that you were the one who just kissed me. I live on a bloody island, for Christ's sake. I'm surrounded by hundreds of miles of coastline." His voice rose to a roar. "And you had the sheer audacity to wash up on my beach stark raving naked." He pulled her tight against him, molding her like a wet glove to the lean curves of his body. His voice softened to a dangerous purr.

"I'm warning you now-this isn't England. We don't deal in seduction here. If I decide I want you,

I won't need any flowery words or moonlight swims."

Braced in the powerful cradle of his thighs, Emily knew his words to be true. A helpless shudder rocked her.

He shoved her away from him. She didn't dare look at him. A little thrashing and a few awkward strokes and she felt sand beneath her feet. She lurched forward until she could crawl up on the shore. She

wanted to run, to flee far away, where his mocking anger could not find her, but her ruse of an injured ankle forced her to sprawl in the sand like some wounded fish. If she jumped to her feet and sprinted for the shelter of the bush, would he follow?

A furious splashing came from behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see Justin emerge from the waves-a smoldering Poseidon, magnificent in his fury. Water streamed from his chest, plastering his dungarees to his hips and thighs like a second skin. Emily lowered her shocked gaze.

She needn't have worried. Justin strode past her as if she were no more significant than a sand crab.

"Justin?" she said tentatively.

He moved down the shore, slowing only long enough to scoop up a shell and hurl it into the sea.

"Mr. Connor?" she said louder.

He was rapidly fading into the darkness. Emily cupped a hand around her mouth and yelled, "You lied! You said you wouldn't let me go!"

She flopped to her back and let her fist fall over her eyes. "Damn," she whispered. "Damn. Damn. Damn."

He had opened up to her, given her a glimpse of the ticking works of his mind, spoken of New Zealand and adventurers and gold. And what had she done? Behaved like a galloping ninny.

The surf tickled her toes. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched the moon drift like a weightless pearl over the horizon. The night wind caressed her cheeks. She wondered how long it would take to crawl back to the hut. Justin was probably lurking somewhere in the brush, laughing at her. She considered limping up the path sprinkling her performance with a pathetic stumble or two. But maybe it was time she taught him that no one could be as stubborn as Emily Claire Scarborough when she set her mind to it.

She was still glaring at the stars when Penfeld marched down to the beach, threw her over his stalwart shoulder, and carried her back to the hut.