Shipwrecked with Mr. Wrong (3 page)

With a well-practised manoeuvre, Rob dropped over the boat’s side, diving once again into the cold waters of the Cocos Trench. Seven and a half thousand metres at its deepest point and here was he, nothing more than an amoeba splashing around right at its highest. Where the ocean bottom broke the surface and became land. This century, anyway. The shoreline on remote islands was as changeable as their sovereignty. Two hundred years belonging to Ceylon. One hundred as Britain’s. Fifty as Australia’s. Next century maybe Indonesia would get its turn. If there was anything left to claim sovereignty over. Cocos and everything on it would be underwater with his shipwrecks the way the sea levels were heading. Nothing was for ever.

Isn’t that the truth.

Rob shook his head. The earth had a way of giving back to itself. Ore ripped deep from its guts became metal. Metal became a ship. A ship became a shipwreck. A wreck became reef and a reef eventually compounded and silted up to become earth again. Oceans rose and retreated, froze over and defrosted and finally retreated enough to push the island-that-once-was-reef-that-once-was-a-shipwreck up above the surface where who knew what life would evolve on it.

His life—with all its dramas—took place in ultra fast-forward by comparison and had no bearing whatsoever on what the rest of the planet did. That thought had a way of keeping a guy humble. Keeping a guy from being too much like his father.

Despite that father’s best efforts.

The water kissed his bare skin as he sank below to assess the damage. The sun had shifted to the other side of the boat slightly, changing the light and making the fracture easier to see. He ran his hand over the hairline crack in the hull, got a feel for the injury. Angry bubbles raced him to the surface. He’d need an oxy-welder and he knew without looking that there wasn’t one amongst the mountain of equipment he’d brought on this short voyage. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t
something a pretty female hermit generally kept handy.

He surfaced and climbed back into the boat, his heart heavy.
The Player
hadn’t taken on water yet—as far as he could see—but, given time and the relentless pounding of the ocean, that could change. It was too risky to take her back out to sea without repairs, even heading for Cocos’ Home Island. He’d have to wait for equipment or a ship to shepherd him back to dry port. Ideally, both.

Looks like this field trip just got extended.

Honor had to have a radio in camp. He hoped he could use it to contact the maritime authority to communicate his predicament.

Anger at his own stupidity made him careless as he swam back to shore, and he rushed his first attempt at boosting onto the reef. Sharp coral shards lacerated his exposed belly in several places. He fell back into the deep water of the drop-off, waited for the swell and used nature’s hoist to push himself onto the reef. The mix of saltwater and fresh air stung like crazy in the welts already forming on his stomach but he’d endured worse.

Not as bad as Honor,
his mind reminded him as he dived into the calmer lagoon and stroked carefully across, tugging on the fresh wounds with each muscle flex. Her scars. He was no expert, but the damage didn’t look like
burn marks. The skin wasn’t puckered enough. It was more like … patchwork. As if someone had done some kind of Frankenstein number on her.

He frowned. That wasn’t a kind comparison. There was nothing monster-like about Honor. Something very nasty had happened to his little mermaid and not too long ago. The scars still bore the red-edged look of a new injury. How much of her brittleness was caused by her damaged flesh? Maybe they still caused her pain.

His chest tightened. How much pain?

She may be hard work but she was still a human being. And though their lives took place in fast-forward by continental drift standards, they still had to live them. And living with pain was not something he’d wish on anyone.

No matter how ornery they were.

Back in camp, with his T-shirt back on, he spotted the radio immediately. Honor had been in such a flurry to get out of his presence she hadn’t taken it with her. Lucky for him. He grabbed it up and checked the frequency. It was preset to the emergency channel. Not that bumping into a tropical island full of supplies qualified as an emergency, but it was a notifiable event.

‘AMSA Base Broome, this is primary vessel VKB290. Over.’

He waited, then repeated his call to the maritime safety authority in Australia’s far north-west. Indonesia’s capital city, Jakarta, was technically closer but it was Australia who had the last word on who went where in these particular waters.

If they said go, he’d go. If they said stay.

Rob’s eyes trailed around the tiny camp. If they said
stay,
he’d argue with them.

A lot.

Broome answered and they both switched to a free channel, leaving the emergency frequency uncluttered. With the practice of years and in as few words as possible, Rob communicated his location, damage and condition.

Base were straight back.
‘Are you aware that’s a restricted area, VKB? Over.’

Thanks to Honor. ‘I didn’t have much alternative.’

There was a pause and Rob waited for instructions.
‘Our log shows there’s a researcher from Parks Australia based at Pulu Keeling currently with full supplies, VKB. Recommend you make contact over.’

Rob had a sudden flash of Honor standing on the reef, all dripping and fired up, those self-righteous fists planted firmly on her curvy hips.

He smiled. ‘Roger, Base. Contact established.’

‘Standby, VKB …’

More silence. Rob held his breath.

The radio crackled back to life.
‘VKB, we have a Priority One oil rig situation about eight hundred clicks to your north. All available services will be tied up on that for a few days. Suggest you stay put. Over.’

Rob closed his eyes and cursed, his finger hovering over the transmit button. This was where Robert Dalton Senior would play the
son, do you know who I am?
card. Make a scene. Have some kind of evac chopper sent out for him, especially. He wouldn’t think twice to throw his weight or his wallet around, even with guys with the security of Australia’s massive coastline on their shoulders.

Moments like this were prime opportunities for Rob to prove how
not
like his father he was.

But then he looked around again at the tiny camp and imagined himself and Honor trying to avoid each other for days on end. She’d made it pretty clear what she thought of him and his job. If he wanted that kind of judgement, he could have stayed home.

He swore again, pressed ‘transmit’ and played the only card he had.
Academia.
‘That’s a negative, Base. I have a museum posting to
be at and an important paper to deliver—’ he cringed at how much of a poser he sounded ‘—people who’ll miss me. Request alternative.

Over.’

He let the button go and shook his head. He sounded exactly like his father …

Not surprisingly, the operator’s friendly voice was decidedly chilly when it finally returned.
‘VKB, that suggestion just got upgraded to an instruction. Remain in your present location and await further instruction. We’ll make the necessary advice to your family. Repeat, do not move off that island until instructed. Over.’

And that was what you got for being a moron.

Rob’s gut tightened. These guys held his boating and salvage licences in their hands. Neither things he wanted to mess with. ‘Estimated time for assistance, Base?’

The
log shows regular deliveries to your Parks Australia contact,’
the voice said.
‘Find a nice patch of beach to study, Professor. Looks like you’re on vacation. Over and out.’

‘T
ELL
me you’re kidding.’

Honor stood, notebook in hand, by the edge of the camp clearing staring in open-mouthed horror at him.

Rob struggled not to smile. ‘When’s the next supply drop?’ he asked calmly.

‘It came this morning! Can’t they come for you any sooner?’ Her voice had a slightly hysterical note to it and his smile broke loose.

‘What’s funny?’

‘You are. You’d think I was Jack the Ripper the way you’re carrying on. When’s the supply boat due back?’

‘Ten days. More than a week!’

‘But less than a month.’
Hi, I’m Rob Dalton and I’m an eternal optimist.
He took a deep breath and sobered. Ten days. That meant two things. One—he was going to have to find a way to live with this woman for ten long days until the supply boat could bring him the
equipment he needed to weld-repair his hull. And two—he was going to miss Tuesday’s meeting at Dalton family headquarters. Robert Senior was
not
going to be happy.

Honor didn’t look much happier. What she did look, he realised, was completely gorgeous. Her wheat-blonde hair had almost dried and hung in loose segments around her face, showing off fantastic bone structure he’d not seen since an unexpected detour on a European holiday had dumped him in Iceland. Escaped from its ponytail, her locks draped over her damaged shoulder in a way that almost made him forget the patchwork damage beneath it.

Almost.

Women at home would pay hundreds of dollars to achieve that just-bedded look, but she stood there in her yellow bikini, a sheer blue shirt tossed casually over it, entirely clean-skinned and with laceless tennis shoes, looking as if she’d stepped straight off the pages of a magazine.

A much classier one than he was used to looking at.

She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d seen—Lord knew he’d met some absolute stunners in his time and dated half of them— but she easily took the award for the most naturally attractive. Healthy, toned and tanned with bright, clear eyes and perfect teeth. He
had to guess at that last one. It saddened him to realise he had yet to see her smile, but she must because he could see life lines etched into the corners of eyes that somehow reflected the green of the trees above them and the blue of the ocean at the same time. Right next to the lingering sadness that permanently shadowed her gaze.

His usual type was younger and leaner and a good deal more manicured than the curvy, windswept woman standing before him, yet he recognised in himself the unmistakable echo of sexual appreciation.

Interesting.
He moved his mind to something less evocative before he gave himself away. Her scars …

‘Ten days!’ Honor crossed towards him purposefully. ‘You can’t stay here ten days.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’

Her mouth opened and closed like an angry little fish. He rather enjoyed the flush of pink that streaked up along her cheekbones.

‘I … You just can’t. I have work to do!’

He ignored that, determined not to have this argument. He had no intention of staying
anywhere
ten days if he could think of an alternative, but when he left it would be on his terms, not hers. He was belligerent enough to stay for
the duration just to prove the point. He turned and walked towards her tent.

‘Can I borrow your first aid kit?’

Honor watched him tug his T-shirt up with his left arm and toss it onto the nearby chair. She’d got a good idea of the strength and breadth of his shoulders and back when he’d hauled himself up the boat ladder earlier, but seeing it in the flesh—very tanned flesh—threatened to steal the words right out of her mouth. She forced her mind to focus and stepped closer to tell him exactly what he could do with the first aid kit …

Then he turned around.

She clamped her mouth shut and stared, transfixed, at a tiny dumb-bell bisecting one perfect pink nipple on one perfectly formed male pectoral muscle. Her mouth dried and failed to function further.

God help me!

She’d fantasised for years about a man with a nipple piercing. Someone wilder and more assured than any man she’d ever known. Like some kind of dream manifestation of a part of herself she never revealed. Or acknowledged. A delusion she kept safely bottled down deep inside where it belonged.

Great—this just completed the nightmare.

‘Honor?’

She forced her focus back to his and then
followed his glance down to his navel where nasty abrasions marred his perfect skin. ‘Oh, God!’

She immediately stepped closer, appalled to see the damage. She caught herself just short of touching him, knowing his stomach would be rock-hard and feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Then she berated herself.
He’s injured …

She forced herself to be practical, exploring the worst of the wounds with two careful fingers and ignoring the little metal dumb-bell that glinted so close in her periphery.

‘Not too deep, but we need to get something on it.’ She raced for her first aid kit and started babbling as he followed her, closer to the tent. ‘Saltwater’s the best thing for it. Make sure you soak it regularly, then dry it off well. A bit of sun can’t hurt either, for good measure. But we’ll have to disinfect it first …’

She turned back to him with a large tube of disinfectant cream, some Betadine wipes, a roll of tape and an acre of gauze padding.

‘This is going to sting, isn’t it? ‘ His voice was tight.

‘I’m sure you can take it.’

‘I think I’d better sit down.’

She looked up at him.
He’s serious,
she suddenly realised. ‘It’s just abrasion—’

‘Too late.’

He glanced down to his abs, where the blood prickled through in the places her fingers had explored, then he staggered towards the camp chair, the colour draining from his face. ‘Not good with blood.’

He sank onto the canvas chair, breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling like the swell of the ocean. Controlled breathing— Honor recognised the signs at once—she’d done it enough in the last four years to call herself a master. She crouched in front of him and rested back on her heels, her eyes steady on his, waiting for his anxiety to pass.

She disliked him a little bit less.

Finally, he blew out a steady breath and half smiled. She matched him, trying to be supportive.