“Help!” she screamed. Her cottage wasn’t that far from the main house. And there were other cottages near hers. Someone might be walking on the beach. Someone…
This was ludicrous. A black-clad figure in a ski mask on a Caribbean island—attempting to attack her!
“Help!” she shrieked again.
The figure lunged for her.
“No!” she cried, beating her fists against his chest, kicking him. He grunted as one well-aimed kick connected, then seemed to find his own spurt of fury. He grasped one of her arms, and she was drawn, still kicking and screaming, against his body. He struggled to force the cloth over her face. She kept struggling to keep it away. She tried not to breathe. She could already smell the sickly sweet scent of the drug that soaked the cloth.
“Help!” she shrieked again, still kicking. The cry cost her what little breath she had left. She had to breathe. Had to inhale….
The scent was awful. Filling her nose, her lungs, seeping into her blood, deadening her limbs. She couldn’t keep fighting, couldn’t force her arms to move the way she wanted them to. She tried to claw, to scratch his eyes with her fingers.
Oh, God, she was losing her strength. She was being attacked…assaulted….
Murdered?
She still couldn’t believe that an intruder had come here for her. This was her damned island!
Blackness…stars…weakness…
That awful, sickly sweet smell, closing in around her, filling her…
She was starting to go limp in the fierce hold of her attacker.
Suddenly the arms that held her were wrenched away. She was dimly aware of a thudding, crunching sound as a blow was thrown and connected with flesh and bone. She heard a groan, footsteps taking flight….
All in a matter of seconds.
“Sit!” someone snapped at her. “I’ll be back.”
She reached out blindly. “Ca—can’t!”
She lacked the strength to stand, yet she couldn’t manage to tell her limbs to set her into a sitting position. She was going to fall against the unforgiving tile.
“Damn it!” she heard someone say. “He’s going to get away.”
She didn’t fall, she was swept up. She blinked furiously against the effects of the drug, trying to fight again.
“Damn it, Sam, I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself!”
Her vision started clearing. It was Adam. Right in front of her. No, holding her. She was still so dizzy. The room was spinning. No, he was walking. Carrying her. Laying her down on her bed.
He left her for a minute and the darkness began to recede. She drank in the fresh, salt-tinged night air that whispered over the island. She tried her fingers. They moved. Her toes. They wiggled.
There was a sensation of weight as he sat down at her side. Cold, as he pressed a washcloth rinsed in cool water over her face.
She inhaled through the cloth and felt her temper reviving the rest of her.
Adam was in her room—and she was stark naked.
He lifted the cloth from her face. His eyes were burning and sharp, his features tense, yet his lips seemed to curve in a mocking smile.
She struck out wildly, her palm swinging toward his cheek.
“Stop it, Sam! It’s me. Adam!”
The Ray-Bans were gone. She could see his face clearly, if she could only focus. She blinked, making the attempt. She saw the silver glitter of his eyes against the striking, angled lines of his profile and tried to strike out again. He caught her hands, leaning over her, his weight bearing her down, preventing her from attacking him.
“Sam, damn it, it’s me!”
“I know perfectly well who it is!” she cried out. Still struggling furiously, she managed to free a hand and tried again to strike him.
Once again, before her blow could land, her wrist was captured.
And she realized that she was lying naked and completely vulnerable…with Adam O’Connor not just back on her island, but lying on top of her in her bed.
3
“Fine! Next time a stranger is trying to drug you, kidnap you, maybe even kill you, I’ll remember to keep my distance,” Adam said evenly. His tone was husky. Angry.
His eyes were directly on hers, gleaming. A knife-like silver. Not giving away an iota of emotion.
Only his voice hinted of his feelings.
She stared at him. Not moving, not breathing. Not daring to, because the slightest motion would bring her bare flesh into closer contact with him.
He’d aged nicely over the years. He was even more attractive in his mid-thirties than he’d been in his late twenties. His voice had deepened; his chest had broadened. Even the lines in his face gave it the character that men seemed to achieve so easily, while women battled the ravages of age with expensive creams and potions. His dark hair was longish, collar length. It was tousled now from the fight he’d put up. One dark wavy strand had fallen over his forehead, where it looked too damned good. Sexy, sensual. Very masculine. It was great hair. Very thick. She knew, because once-upon-a-very-long-time-ago, she had run her fingers through it. She was tempted to touch it right now.
She would like to touch it and yank it right out of his head.
He’d changed clothes for dinner, making her current, uncomfortable situation seem all the more ludicrous. He was dressed in casual evening attire, black pants, jacket, bone and crimson vest over a dress shirt. He was in absurdly good condition. He wasn’t breathing hard—only his hair had been mussed. Even his tie had remained straight, helping to maintain his look of casual elegance.
She was going to die, she realized, if she didn’t breathe soon.
She might have died! She’d never been afraid on the island, never even thought to be afraid. What might have happened if…?
She inhaled, trying not to gasp too deeply for air. She couldn’t gush out a thank-you-for-my-life. She just couldn’t do it.
“He—he shouldn’t be a stranger anymore,” Sam gasped, rallying. “You should have caught him. You should be after him right now rather than humiliating me.”
“You’re humiliated?” he demanded, silver eyes cool.
“Adam—”
“Humiliation has never been your strong suit.”
“What would you know about my strong suit? You don’t know me at all. You passed through my life years ago. Hundreds of people have passed through it since.”
“Hundreds with whom you’ve had affairs? In this day and age? Shame on you, Samantha. Really.”
She stared at him with all the careful restraint she could manage, eyes narrowed. “Get off me and get out of my bedroom. Now.”
“Yeah. You’re welcome. But please, don’t deluge me with any more gratitude. I can’t deal with it. It would just go straight to my head.”
“God forbid. If anything else went to your head, it might explode.”
“Oh, really?”
“Damn right!”
“In contrast to the Queen of the Seven Seas here, eh?”
“O’Connor!”
He rose—carefully, ready for her to start swinging again.