‘Go to hell,’ she murmured, turning away.
In the marina, with Kane having paid off the taxi, Shannon shrugged aside the assistance he offered, making her own way beside him along the quay.
‘Which is yours?’ she quizzed sarcastically, glancing at some rustic-looking fishing tubs that made up the line of moored vessels, along with small masted craft and compact cabin cruisers, built for speed but with very little comfort.
She was lagging behind him, finding it increasingly difficult to match his stride.
He stopped beside one of the small cruisers, cutting an impressive figure against the sleek, gleaming lines of an oceangoing motor yacht that caught Shannon’s attention just ahead of them, waiting for her to catch up.
Now, that would suit you more, Kane, she fantasised, dragging her weary eyes from what had to be over fifty feet of sporty-looking, unadulterated opulence. That’s more your style. Fast. Powerful. Expensive.
‘Are you all right?’
She had suddenly become the subject of his hard assessment and knew, as she drew level with him, that those shrewd eyes had seen the dampness that beaded her forehead, the way her chest was lifting a little too rapidly, making her breathing shallow.
‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t, though. She was feeling exhausted.
‘Is it the bang on the head?’
‘No, I’m OK,’ she uttered, moving past him so as not to draw attention to herself. Just not as well yet as she had thought.
‘Like hell!’ he muttered, moving to catch her, lift her, and then, as if she were weightless, to step with her onto the gleaming yacht.
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU didn’t have to carry me on,’ she breathed, when he had made short work of the teak-laid steps to the covered aft deck and set her down in front of the yacht’s sloping glass patio doors. ‘I was perfectly capable of managing on my own.’
‘Were you?’ At the press of a button, the doors glided open on to an interior of pure luxury, cream leather settees contrasting with polished maple, soft carpeting complementing a ceiling panelled in suede. ‘For one thing,’ Kane said, ushering her down the few steps that gave the low-level saloon complete privacy from the quayside, ‘you’ve been dazed. For another you looked on the verge of collapse. You’re pale. You’re dark under the eyes. On top of which, you’re far too thin. In fact, you look an absolute wreck!’
‘Thanks,’ Shannon sent back over her shoulder with a rather pained grimace. ‘Remind me to return the compliment sometime.’
He guided her up more carpeted steps into what comprised a beautifully appointed dinette and galley.
Back in the city, sirens wailed—police vehicles racing to control the disturbance.
‘Sit down,’ Kane commanded softly.
As much as she resented taking orders from him, in this instance Shannon was grateful to sink down onto the soft cream upholstery of the semicircular settee, rest her arms on the gleaming oval table around which it curved.
‘I’m serious, Shannon. You look dreadful,’ he reiterated, dumping her bag down on the table. ‘What have you been doing for the past—what is it? Two, two and a half years?’ Censure burned in the eyes that raked disapprovingly over her. ‘Playing too hard, as usual?’
Broodingly she watched him move around the marble-topped counter in the galley—as well-equipped as any modern kitchen—and fish for something in a cupboard before turning on one of the sparkling chrome taps over the sink.
‘If you know, why ask?’ she challenged, humouring him, because, after all, he knew it all, didn’t he? ‘I think it’s called “burning the candle at both ends”, but then you never do that, do you, Kane? Or are you just so big and strong that you can deflect all that hard living?’ An involuntary glance over those broad shoulders and unquestionably fit physique made her blood race, increasing the ache at her temples as he strode back to her.
‘Let’s take a look at that,’ he said, without answering her.
Disconcertingly, he caught her chin, his touch surprisingly gentle as he inspected the injury she had sustained to her forehead.
‘The skin’s not broken, but I don’t think you’ll escape without some bruising.’ Deftly he applied a cold compress to the wound with the moistened lint he had taken from the cupboard, causing Shannon to suck in her breath.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘No,’ 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