Swept Away (7 page)

“What?” she snapped, eyes brimming with disbelief.

“You know, food? I’m hungry. I’ve had a hell of a day.” He pushed to his feet, then grabbed
her hand to pull her up next to him.

She failed to look appreciative. “Brock—tell me what’s going on and who those madmen were.
Now.” She stomped one pink flip-flop in the dirt.

“I was thinking of doing that over dinner.”

She remained incredulous. “Dinner? You actually think I’m going to eat dinner with you?”

He shrugged his shoulders, spread his arms, and pointed out to her what she clearly hadn’t quite grasped yet. “We’ve got five days and nights together here, kitten. Looks like you’re
gonna be doing a lot of things with me you hadn’t planned on.”

Kat didn’t like how she’d felt when she’d seen Brock lying on the ground after that explosion.
Her heart had sunk to her stomach, and her whole body had gone weak—she could have
collapsed on the spot. She stole a glance at him, standing at the grill now, flipping a steak with
a long pair of tongs, as she set the picnic table outside the little island bungalow.

You’d react that way with anyone in that situation. It has nothing to do with him, for God’s
sake. He was a stranger to her now. He always had been, really, when she thought about it.

She couldn’t believe someone had blown up her boat, that some stark, mysterious danger had come so close to her—and that she’d truly let Brock talk her into not discussing it until they sat
down to dinner! They’d actually walked back here and gotten the steaks from the fridge and
started cooking, like they were normal people on a normal beach preparing for a normal meal—
and she still had no idea what had brought him here or why her boat had been obliterated. She
could only attribute her acquiescence to the fact that she was utterly shell-shocked by the whole
event.

Great, I’m probably going to end up with post-traumatic stress syndrome. She sneered at him
behind his back. And it’s all your fault.

Trying to think more pleasant thoughts, she retrieved two bright, flowered place mats from
inside. Setting plastic plates of hot pink on the mats, she decided to pair them with lime green
glasses from the multicolored picnic set her mother had brought out to the island last summer.

It wasn’t until she caught herself folding a napkin to make it pretty that she dropped it to one of
the plates, then gasped. Already it had begun. The transformation.

Only maybe it didn’t feel so awful. Which was good.

Until another glance up at the expanse of Brock’ s broad shoulders and tanned back told her that
maybe, just maybe, it didn’t feel so awful because she was with him. Stranger or not.

It was an unthinkable thought. Not to mention impossible.
So she decided to ignore it.

If it were Ian standing there grilling those steaks, I’d be anticipating this meal just as much.
Because I’d still have a boat. And I wouldn’t be stranded. With someone who might turn out to
be a madman. A really hot madman, but a potential madman just the same.

A blip of memory flashed in her brain. She’d once been attracted to Brock because he’d
seemed just a little bit dangerous. Now he seemed a lot dangerous.

But that does not mean I’m a lot attracted to him.

God, stop talking to yourself about him already. She needed a distraction that went beyond
napkins and plates. “How are those steaks coming?” Of course, she took a few steps toward
him as she spoke, and putting herself physically closer to the long-ago object of her desire made the distraction aspect of the question a little less than effective.

“Almost ready. You want to check the baked potatoes for me, kitten, and see if they’re done?”

As she grabbed up a fork and leaned over the grill to poke into a foil-covered potato, she eyed
the two juicy steaks sizzling alongside and voiced the thought in her head. “You realize you’re
eating one of my meals.”

“One of your meals?” He didn’t get it.

“I didn’t exactly expect or bring enough food for company.”

He shifted his eyes to hers, his generally jocular manner draining away instantly. “How much
food don’t we have? Because if this is a legitimate problem, I’ll skip the steak and let you
reheat it another day.”

His response left her stunned. She hadn’t anticipated him dropping into serious mode over this —more than anything, she’d just been trying to point out that he was an interloping nuisance.
“What would you eat?”

“I could get by on a potato.” She must have looked doubtful, since he added, “Trust me, I’ve gotten by on less.” He sounded so matter-of-fact, like it was nothing, and she couldn’t help
wondering again just what he’d been up to for the last ten years. Or maybe he was talking
about when he was younger—she knew he’d grown up poor.

Her voice came out smaller than she’d planned. “No, you can have the steak.” She cleared her
throat and tried to speak more normally. “We just can’t have a meal like this every night. But
I have cold cuts and snack foods—and there might even be some canned stuff in one of the
cabinets, I’ll have to check.”

“Only if you’re really sure there’s enough.” He still sounded so serious. “The last thing I
would want, kitten, is to leave you hungry.”

She lifted her gaze to his, thinking he’d just said a mouthful, considering their past—even if he
hadn’t heard the double entendre in his own words. Despite herself, she could still feel just
how very hungry he’d left her once upon a time.

Only the slow heat that invaded his eyes indicated that her look had drawn the double meaning
to his attention. He leaned toward her ever so slightly, but enough that she could soak in the
musky scent of him, as his voice came deep. “I wouldn’t, you know. Leave you hungry. In any way. If I had it to do over again—that night—I’d make sure you left completely satisfied.”

The burning warmth that rose to her cheeks wasn’t from standing next to the grill because it
was accompanied by a lump in her throat. “Oh,” she said thinly, then forked the two potatoes
onto a plate and walked away to the table as fast as she could.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she added, then scurried into the house. While Brock had been
starting up the grill and putting the food on, she’d taken a few minutes to unpack her bag, so at
least now she knew where to find her clothes, scant bits of them that there were. Yanking open
a bureau drawer, she drew out a long cotton sarong of fuchsia and white and tied it around her
waist.

Because she found herself suddenly feeling a little naked. Because things were getting sexual
here. Which shouldn’t surprise her—things between her and Brock had always been sexual,
from the very first moment she’d met him. She just wasn’t prepared to be face-to-face with him
again. And she wasn’t used to him being smooth, or seductive. She definitely wasn’t used to
being trapped on an island with him all alone, where anything could happen. For five freaking
days. And nights. Right before her wedding.

Deep breath. Deep breath. In. Out. You can do this.

Yet as she exited the bungalow, she glanced up at a dusky purple sky and sent a silent message to God: You have rotten timing! Do you hear me? Rotten!

Or maybe this was God’s humorous way of paying her back for being a little wild in her
earlier days. And her later days, too, actually—until recently. Until she’d agreed to marry Ian
last Christmas.

“Come and get it, kitten,” Brock said, which in her current frame of mind forced her thoughts
to the many things “it” could refer to, so she smirked heavenward once more before heading to
the table.

“Looks good,” she said, being sure to focus on the steaks and not him.
He eyed her sarong as she sat down. “What’s with the skirt?”

“Nothing’s with it,” she said, dropping her gaze to the saltshaker, then reaching for it. “I was
starting to get chilled.” Not really, but the late May evening had cooled off the tropical air, so it wasn’t inconceivable. Even if he looked amused by her answer.

“A little late for modesty,” he said.

She cut into her steak, refused to let herself look into those darkly provocative eyes or to even notice that familiar lock of hair drooping carelessly onto his forehead, and decided to ignore the
remark. But speaking of what she was wearing “By the way, my friend Nina’s boyfriend
came out here with us for a weekend last summer and left some clothes behind that might fit you.”

He arched one brow. “Why did he leave them?”

“Actually, he’s her ex-boyfriend now. They had a nasty breakup that very weekend, and I think
she’s sort of holding them hostage, along with some other stuff.”

He gave a short, dry nod. “Sounds the same as I remember her.”

Kat was surprised he recalled Nina at all. “How do you remember her?”

“Erratic. Vindictive. Maybe slightly hysterical.”

Unfortunately, Kat couldn’t really dispute any of that. “But she’s a lot of fun. Surprisingly
sensible on her good days. And as loyal as the day is long,” she said in her friend’s defense. “Anyway, the clothes are in there, if you want to, uh”—she glanced at his bare chest, then
motioned toward the house—“put something on.”

“I’m fine for now, thanks.”
Swell. That makes one of us.

Well, if she couldn’t get him to cover up those muscles, she could at least force him to get down to business. “All right then. Start talking. About why my boat was blown up today. And
who those scary men were. And why they wanted you dead and why you let them think you
were.”

“It’s a long story.” He offered up a light grin, as if this was fun, casual chitchat.

“As you pointed out earlier, we’ve got some time.” No smiles from her, no way—she was
getting the truth out of him if she had to beat it out. No more weak, flimsy, lusty Kat.

His grin faded as he released a long sigh. Looked like he was ready to start taking her
questions seriously—and it was about time.

“All right, kitten.” He met her gaze as a salty breeze wafted over them. “I didn’t want to tell you
this, not only because I’m not allowed to, but for your own safety. Yet you’re right, I owe you
an explanation. So here it is. I’m an FBI agent.”

Kat raised her eyebrows, lowered her chin, and cast a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “And
I’m a nun.” She forked a bite of steak into her mouth.

He leaned forward, eyes widening a bit, mouth hanging slightly open. “You don’t believe me.”
Then he laughed, as if that were funny. “I guess I don’t blame you in a way, but sorry to tell
you, Sister Katrina of the Tiny Bikini, it’s true. Special Agent Brock Denton, Federal Bureau
of Investigation, at your service.”