A Wild Surrender

They walked for a while in silence. Rachel had expected to feel uncomfortable after what he’d just said, but she didn’t. In actual fact she enjoyed the sense of isolation, with only the cry of birds and the muted thunder of the ocean to disturb the peace.

And then he asked the question she’d been dreading.

‘Why did you come to St Antoine, Ms Claiborne?’

CHAPTER FOUR (#uec18f4d8-77c8-58ad-9bc8-419f41f38000)

MATT had halted and Rachel was forced to do the same.

She took a breath. ‘My name’s Rachel, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Okay.’ He was tolerant. ‘Why did you come to St Antoine, Rachel?’

She couldn’t tell him. Not like this. Not so baldly. She just couldn’t.

‘Um—why do people usually come to the island?’ she prevaricated lightly. ‘I needed a break and St Antoine seemed an ideal place to chill.’

‘To chill?’

Sceptical eyes drifted down over the defensive angle of her jaw to the creamy hollow of her throat.

And beyond.

Rachel was instantly aware of the disadvantages of not wearing a bra when his eyes lingered on her cleavage. The hard peaks of her breasts must be clearly visible, taut against the soft fabric of her top. And, short of covering them with her hands, there was nothing she could do about it.

‘You should have gone to the South Pole,’ he remarked mockingly. ‘I’m told it’s pretty chilly there.’

Rachel’s nostrils flared. ‘I think you know what I meant.’

‘Yeah.’

He conceded the point and started walking again. And Rachel was so relieved to be free of those scathing eyes she fell into step beside him.

But he wasn’t finished.

‘That doesn’t really explain why you chose this island,’ he persisted. ‘I mean, we’re not exactly on the tourist map.’

‘You get tourists here.’

‘They’re often recommendations,’ Matt informed her smoothly. ‘And usually from the States.’

Rachel managed a short laugh. ‘You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that you didn’t welcome new visitors, Mr Brody. If all your guests are subjected to this inquisition.’

‘Matt.’ He stopped again, his voice hardening with impatience. ‘And they’re not.’

‘Oh.’ Rachel made a moue of her lips. ‘Well, I’m here now.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry if I’m in the way.’

Matt studied her apparently innocent expression for another long disturbing moment, and then made a chopping movement with his hand.

‘Did I say you were in the way?’ he demanded. ‘You—intrigue me, that’s all. Put it down to simple curiosity, if you like, but I don’t think you’re being entirely honest about your reasons for being here.’

What did he know?

Rachel sucked in a breath. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Mr Brody?’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Ms Claiborne. There’s an expression I’ve heard that seems relevant. I think you’re being economical with the truth.’

Rachel turned away and started walking again. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head, but she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other.

‘I must say, you don’t pull your punches, Mr Brody,’ she threw back over her shoulder. ‘And here was I, thinking you’d enjoyed my company.’

‘Whether or not I enjoy your company has nothing to do with it,’ he retorted, overtaking her. He stepped in front of her. ‘And for God’s sake stop calling me Mr Brody.’

Rachel made an effort to appear composed. But it was difficult with approximately two hundred pounds of frustrated male more or less in her face.

‘All right. Matt,’ she said with assumed lightness. ‘You don’t have to humour me. I’m not what you expected and I suspect you don’t like me very much.’

He blew out a breath. ‘Now, where the hell did that come from?’ His eyes darkened. ‘But you’re right. You’re not what I expected.’

Rachel felt a twinge of disappointment. But why should he be any different from other men? And, more importantly, why did it matter? He was her mother’s problem, not hers.

‘I think we should go back,’ she said, concentrating on the unbuttoned neckline of his body shirt. Which wasn’t the most sensible place to look, bearing in mind the dark hair that was clearly visible in the opening. But at least it kept her gaze away from his. ‘It’s been very—enjoyable, but all good things must—’

‘You know, that’s part of the problem,’ he said, ignoring her suggestion completely. His voice had thickened to a sensual drawl. ‘You’re not like any woman I’ve known before.’

‘And I’m sure you’ve known many,’ Rachel retorted before she could stop herself. But, heavens, what was she supposed to say?

‘Some,’ he agreed, his eyes darkening with a predatory gleam, and Rachel couldn’t help herself. She started backing away. But he came after her. ‘Does that bother you, Ms Claiborne? The fact that I don’t want to like you but I do?’

Rachel’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you coming on to me, Mr—Matt? Because I think I should warn you, I do know how to defend myself.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ With a muffled oath, Matt strode past her. ‘Listen to yourself, will you?’ His long legs opened a yawning space between them. ‘Get your rucksack. We’re going back.’

‘It’s a backpack,’ muttered Rachel barely audibly as she hurried after him.

They’d walked a surprisingly long way, and she had to jog back to where her bag was lying before practically running to reach the place where they’d left the Jeep.

She was still muttering to herself as she struggled to climb the dunes, getting frustrated when the sand persisted in sliding away beneath her feet. She’d watched Matt navigate them without any apparent effort, and it was infuriating to see him standing at the top, watching her make an absolute idiot of herself.

‘You might have helped me,’ she panted when she got to the top, but Matt only lifted both hands, palms towards her.

‘What? And be accused of taking advantage of one of my guests?’ he mocked. ‘And besides, why should I deprive myself of such an amusing exhibition?’

Rachel’s lips pursed. ‘Moron!’

Matt shrugged. ‘Bimbo!’

Rachel gasped. ‘I’m not a bimbo!’