Caught In A Storm Of Passion

Almost instantly another appeared, holding a string bag of fish. And then, with both large hands planted on the dock, the rest of him followed—all six foot plus of him—emerging from the bay like a sea god visiting lesser land mortals.

Eve’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. Her eyes were locked on the gush of water lovingly tracing all that tanned masculine magnificence as it rushed south. Waaaay south.

She licked her parched lips, following the streams of water that cascaded over his wide chest and the almost perfect lines of his shoulders and biceps as though lovingly caressing the hard planes it traversed. Moving down spectacular pecs, racing over delineated abs toward the happy trail that disappeared into the waistband of his low-riding board shorts.

Eve sucked in a stunned breath—holy molasses—his legs were just as long and tanned and perfect as the rest of him. She blinked as the image wavered and wondered if she was hallucinating. But when he remained, bathed in sunlight that cast his ripped physique in bold relief, she sighed. One of those stupid girlie sighs that would have appalled her if she hadn’t been on the very edge of exhaustion.

Wow...just wow!

Unaware of her fascinated gaze, the sea god shook his head like a dog, water flying off in all directions, before stooping to retrieve the string bag in one effortless move. He turned and headed up the dock toward her, his free hand wiping water from his face.

Eve knew the instant he saw her. His body stilled for just a heartbeat, and if her gaze hadn’t been locked on him like a laser she would have missed that barely perceptible pause. Without breaking stride, he resumed that loose-hipped lope up the dock, his expression dark and hooded.

Feeling suddenly nervous, Eve rose to her feet and smoothed her hands down her skirt—whether to smooth out the wrinkles or to dry her damp palms, she wasn’t sure. Almost instantly there was a loud buzzing in her head. Her vision swam alarmingly, and as if from down a long, hollow tunnel she heard herself say, “I’m Evelyn Carmichael and I’m looking...for...I’m looking for... Ch—”

* * *

If there was one thing Chase Gallagher hated more than the IRS, it was big-city career women with big-city attitudes. But even he had to admit that the sight of long shapely legs ending in a pair of elegant heels was sexy as hell, and something that he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

And because he’d missed it he scowled down at the woman responsible for that unwelcome flash of yearning. He didn’t miss the city, or the hectic hours and traffic, and he certainly didn’t miss the big-city career attitude. Especially not the kind that made people put career before family. Hell. Career before anything. Except, of course, when something bigger and better came along.

He’d done that once and it had cost him more than a huge chunk of change.

So even though the sight of his visitor, all her prim tidiness beginning to fray at the edges, had sent his pulse ratcheting up a couple notches, he’d studied her coolly, determined to get rid of her as soon as possible. But that had been before she’d decided to sway on her feet and take a header into the ground, forcing him to leap forward and catch her before she fell.

Medium height, nice curvy body and scraped-back tawny hair that would probably glitter a hundred different colors in the sunlight—if she ever relaxed enough to let her hair down, he thought with a snort. Then a close-up of her face had him sucking in a shocked breath, because for one instant there he’d thought he was staring at his future sister-in-law.

But that was ridiculous, because not only had he left Amelia behind at the resort, with his brother, Jude, this woman had big-city impatience stamped all over her and none of Amelia’s sunny sweetness.

This had to be Amelia’s sister. The evil twin, he told himself as he slid one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees.

Lifting her into his arms, Chase ascended the stairs, cursing his bad luck. He’d taken one look at the woman and recognized trouble.

And these days Chase Gallagher avoided trouble.

At least of the feminine variety.

He shook his head at the prim skirt, long-sleeved button-up shirt and nylon-clad legs. Oh, yeah—heat exhaustion just waiting to happen. If not for those things, this woman was a dead ringer for his brother’s fiancée.

With the parrot leading the way in a flurry of feathers, Chase carried her into the waiting room and laid her down on the rattan sofa that had seen better days. He adjusted a cushion beneath her head and stood back.

He knew he had to do something. What, he didn’t know. He knew only that the long-sleeved blouse was still buttoned at her wrists, and in this heat that was a sure-fire way to get heatstroke.

After a brief internal battle Chase cursed and reached out to slip the small buttons free, jolting as the parrot landed on his shoulder, crooning, “Ia ora na e Maeva,” in Chase’s ear.

“Yeah, welcome to you too, buddy,” he said in relief.

Ignoring the flashes of lace and silk was easier with the bird’s talons digging into his shoulder, reminding him that tugging the damp shirt and camisole from her waistband was for medical purposes. And not for whatever his mind was suddenly conjuring up.

He shook his head as much at the woman as at himself. No wonder she’d passed out. She was dressed like a school librarian heading for Congress. And then he couldn’t resist a little smile tugging reluctantly at his mouth.

Okay, maybe not a librarian, he thought, hurrying off to find water and a cloth. More like a sexy lawyer hoping to disguise herself as a librarian. He shook his head. No disguising all that creamy skin, or the curves beneath those prim clothes.

He sighed. The nylons would have to go. As would the blouse, or the under-thingy. But first he had to revive her and get some fluids down her throat.

She was moaning softly when he returned with a huge wad of paper toweling and an opened bottle of water. Tearing off a section of paper towel, he soaked it with cool water before wiping her clammy forehead.

The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly; her breathing was rapid and shallow.

Great. Just great. Maybe he should just take her to the hospital and let them deal with her. Maybe he should just fly outta here and tell Amelia her sister hadn’t shown.

Yeah, and maybe he wouldn’t do any of those things, he thought as he envisioned the scene that would follow. He shuddered. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to see Amelia’s big blue eyes shimmering with hurt and know he was the cause.

Soaking another handful of towels, he roughly bathed the woman’s clammy skin, careful not to let his eyes wander to those tempting mounds of creamy flesh barely contained in silk and lace. If she suddenly woke up he didn’t want to be caught eyeing the goodies.

First, she wasn’t his type—so not your type, Chase—and second his mother had made sure her sons knew how to treat women with respect. Or else.

His mouth twisted as an unpleasant memory arose. Pity his ex-wife hadn’t had the same upbringing. Maybe then she wouldn’t have had a long-term affair with her boss and blamed Chase’s job and his family for the alienation of her affection.

He snorted. Yeah, right. As if making mounds of cash trading stocks and bonds was remotely alienating. He was the one who should have sued the damn lawyer, but by the time he’d recovered from the shock of betrayal he’d realized he didn’t care enough.

He’d survived the unpleasant discovery that his wife loved his money more than she’d loved him. But discovering that Avery had knowingly tried to pass off the Mercer Island shark’s baby as his had been like a gut punch.

Fortunately he wasn’t as stupid as he looked, and when he’d demanded a paternity test the whole ugly truth had come spewing out. What had really sickened him was the fact that whenever he’d previously brought up the subject of starting a family she’d always claimed that she wasn’t ready, that a baby would ruin her career and her figure.

After that he’d left Seattle and moved out here to the islands. He still ran his brokering business, from what his brother called his “bunker”—a windowless, climate-controlled room that housed his huge bank of computers. It was from there that he kept in contact with the financial world and the rest of his Seattle-based family.

But his marriage was in the past and really not worth dwelling on. If he did, he might just dump Amelia’s sister in the ocean, head off to his island retreat and pretend none of this had happened. But he really liked his almost sister-in-law, and he was fairly certain Jude wouldn’t be happy if he ditched her twin.

In the meantime, what the hell was he supposed to do with an unconscious woman heading for heat exhaustion? Other than strip her and toss her in the bay, that is.

Shoving a hand through his hair, he was contemplating his options when she moaned again. His gaze whipped upward in time to see the long, lush fringe of her dark eyelashes flutter and then lift, exposing glassy eyes the exact color of the five-hundred-dollar bottle of single malt whiskey he kept for special occasions.

Holy—

Air whooshed from his lungs as if he’d been punched in the head. He’d only ever seen eyes like that once before. Twice, actually. Once on an ancient amber Viking ring he’d seen in a museum and the second time...his friend’s eyes. But looking into Dr. Alain Broussard’s eyes didn’t normally leave him reeling like a drunken penguin.

Maybe he was the one in need of medical assistance.

She blinked and murmured a husky, “Hi,” her expression so softly sensuous that for an instant Chase was startled. Okay, stunned. Because...jeez...that look had reached out and grabbed him in a place that hadn’t been grabbed since his ex. Maybe even before.

In the next instant the sleepy expression cleared and any resemblance either to Amelia or Alain vanished. Soft and sensuous was replaced by razor-sharp intellect. And outrage.

“What...what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, the formerly husky voice full of indignation as she slapped at his hands, which had paused in the task of sponging her down.

Water dripped off the wad and soaked the silk camisole right over her left breast, drawing his fascinated gaze. She must have followed his eyes because she squeaked, shoved at his hand and lurched upright. Unfortunately he didn’t move back fast enough, and her head smacked into his cheekbone with enough force to rattle his brain.

She gave an agonized yelp, slapped a hand to her head and sank back against the cushions, moaning as if he’d gutted her with a dull spoon.