Caught In A Storm Of Passion

Eve’s heart lurched into her throat, threatening to cut off her air. She gasped for breath and clutched at her chest, where her heart threatened to punch its way through her ribs.

She sucked in another painful breath. This could not be happening. She’d fallen asleep and was still having a nightmare about the South Pacific and a flyboy from hell. But that was okay. Any minute now she’d wake up and—

“Fine? You call this fine?” Her voice rose to a hysterical squeak. “Oh, God.” Air whooshed in and out of her lungs a few times as she tried to calm herself, but she wasn’t getting calmer—in fact her vision was graying at the edges. “I...think...I’m having...a heart attack.”

“You’re just hyperventilating,” he said, with such masculine impatience she was tempted to whack him in the head. Oh, wait. He’d already been whacked in the head—which probably explained his abhorrent personality.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d been like that before the crash.

“Take a deep breath before you faint again.”

“I am not going to faint,” she snapped, trying to calm her panicked breathing. Oh, God, she was totally going to pass out. “I just can’t seem to...to take a deep...breath. My chest...feels...it feels like...you...punched...me.”

“That’s just bruising from the harness. Maybe you should let me check you out?” he offered helpfully. “Maybe you broke a few ribs.”

“And maybe you should back the hell off,” Eve wheezed, slapping at the hand reaching out to help unbutton her silk blouse. “You just want to gawk at the goods.”

Chase sat back with an exasperated huff. “Lady, I’ve already ‘gawked at the goods,’ as you so delicately put it,” he announced.

* * *

When she narrowed her eyes on him, as though imagining taking a scalpel to his intestines, he gave a careless shrug. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not my type. So I can be all professional without going insane with lust.”

Eve growled, and when Chase ventured a glance at her face she was—surprise, surprise—glaring at him, her lush bottom lip caught between pearly white teeth.

He groaned silently. Dammit. Now was not the time to be noticing her mouth. She was mad. He was mad. And they both needed medical attention. And since she was the doctor—yeah, well, maybe he shouldn’t think about her kissing anything better...

“But if you ask real nice...” he drawled, helping himself to a mouthful of bottled water and wishing it was expensive whiskey instead. Because, man, if there was ever a time for alcohol-induced mindlessness, it was now. “When we get outta here, I’ll help you with that little problem you were screaming about earlier.”

Large amber eyes blinked at him in confusion, and then he knew the instant she recalled what she’d been talking...screaming...about before they’d crashed. Her eyelashes flickered and her throat convulsed around an audible swallow. A faint blush crept into her cheeks.

Then her pink tongue sneaked out and slid over that bottom lip he was having such hot fantasies about and he was the one swallowing hard.

“Wh-what problem?” she rasped. “The only problem I have here is you.” Her gaze slid around the interior of the cabin rather than look at him. “And the fact that you crashed your plane.”

Ignoring her attempts to distract him, he held out the bottle and said, “Well...it was kinda hard to hear above all the hysteria, but I think you were babbling something about never having had a screaming orgasm.”

She snatched the bottle on a strangled squeak of horror. “I most certainly did not.” The blush had turned wild, staining her pale skin a rosy pink.

“You most certainly did,” he said, enjoying himself enormously now that her attention had been diverted from his plane and her panic attack.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m th-thirty. Of course I’ve had org—plenty of those.”

He pointed at her. “See? You can’t even say it.” He swallowed a chuckle when she made a growling sound in her throat. “You’re not my type, or anything, but I don’t mind admitting it took everything I had just to concentrate on flying. Which, come to think of it, was probably why we crashed.” His look turned accusatory. “So I guess it’s your fault.”

“You’re...you’re insane,” she spluttered.

He hitched a shoulder. “Anyway, I thought...being fellow survivors and all...” He clenched his jaw on a chuckle at her expression and turned it into a cough. Her face was a mix of relief, outrage and stunned disbelief.

Priceless.

And almost worth crashing his baby.

Almost.

“Besides,” he continued after clearing his throat, “not many guys get to be wrecked on a deserted tropical island with an exotic underwear model.”

Her eyes widened and her fingers gave a convulsive jerk. Water shot up the plastic neck of the bottle, spilling all over her hand and down the front of her shirt. For about ten seconds she spluttered, her mouth opening and closing several times. She looked ready to toss the water in his face. Or maybe smack him on the head with it.

Considering he already had the mother of all headaches, he carefully edged out of reach.

“Better not waste that water,” he warned, in case she gave in to temptation. “It’s all we have.”

* * *

Fighting the heat of embarrassment at being reminded of her temporary loss of control, Eve tugged nervously at her skirt and couldn’t help thinking about the fact that she wasn’t “his type.”

Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?

“Lingerie,” she said primly, wriggling around to pull at her narrow skirt. She didn’t know why she cared. Let him look. There was absolutely no way she wanted this...this rude, obnoxious heathen thinking she was his type. Thinking that she wanted to be his type—even if she did get a hot flash every time his gaze dropped to her legs.

She didn’t. Not even if he were the last man on earth.

“Huh?” The heathen gave her an odd look and she wondered for a mortifying moment if she’d spoken out loud.

“Lingerie—not underwear. Men wear underwear. There’s a difference.”

“Hmm...” he murmured, squinting at her chest as though he could see through her blouse.

She quickly glanced down and gave a sigh of relief when she saw that he couldn’t.

“So you do model lingerie?”

Of course he knew she didn’t. He was just baiting her. The jerk.

“Of course not,” Eve snapped, rising irritably to the bait, anyway. “What gave you that idea?”

“You did.”

“I think you hit your head,” she said, eyeing his bruised, battered face and the wet gleam of blood matting his dark hair with sudden concern. But despite the obvious pain around his eyes he looked... Oh, boy! He looked good. Like an irreverent, roughed-up pirate, ready to raise hell.

Her belly quivered. A really hot hell-raising pirate, darn it.

His mouth quirked, as though he knew what she was thinking. “Maybe you should let me check it out for myself. For educational purposes, of course,” he added innocently when she gave a muffled growl. “To show me the difference between lingerie and underwear.”

Seeing the wicked gleam, she narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. “You. Are. Evil,” she said through clenched teeth, and shifted farther away from him—which wasn’t far enough, given their cramped quarters. “And instead of focusing on my underwear you should be thinking about where we are and...and...” She sucked in a shaky breath as their situation hit her. “Oh, God, how we’re going to be rescued.”

He sent her a dirty look, as if she’d insulted his manhood, and gingerly lay down on the pile of towels he’d used to make a pallet. When he said nothing—even closed his eyes—Eve wondered if his head injury had affected his memory.