The Italian's Forgotten Baby. Raye Morgan

spread out like a little navy fleet. The poor guy had got himself caught up in a mass attack of Portuguese men-of-war and he’d tried to fight back.

      “Ouch,” she’d said, wincing as she looked down and shaking her head as she noted the large red welts on his neck and shoulders—and even his face. “Didn’t you see them coming?”

      The look he cast was full of fury. He said something mean and menacing in Italian and she’d grinned. “It’s not going to kill you unless you’re allergic,” she told him sensibly.

      “Certo,” he said back through gritted teeth. “I’ll just wish I was dead, that’s all.”

      She shrugged. “I know it’s painful.” She tried to hold back her grin, knowing any signs of amusement would infuriate him. And she couldn’t really blame him. “Just remember, it’s only temporary.”

      She shook her head, looking at him now. If only she’d known who he really was at the time. But would it have made a difference? She really didn’t know.

      She remembered how her gaze had hovered over what she could see of his beautifully molded body. As she recalled it now, he’d been wearing swim trunks, but the rest was out there for anyone to stare at, and it was worth the look. She’d felt her eyes sparkle with appreciation. Who didn’t like a nicely formed male figure? Still, there were other concerns to consider.

      “Come on into the boat,” she’d told him. “I’ll help you.”

      He was still splashing around in the water as though he felt it his manly duty to battle these little attackers and she lost patience.

      “Look, do you want a ride in to shore or not? I’ve got things to do.”

      He didn’t wait for another invitation. In seconds he was hauling himself up over the side of the boat.

      “Water,” he’d grunted, writhing and grimacing.

      She knew he wasn’t talking about being thirsty. Looking like a man on the edge, he’d pointed at her canteen but she reached for a cup.

      “Not fresh water,” she’d told him crisply. “Salt water will help wash off the tentacles better and it acts to sort of neutralize the sting.”

      He gave her the sort of skeptical look strongwilled men often used when they didn’t think you knew what you were talking about, but he grudgingly submitted to the salt water she poured over his welts, wincing and biting his lip.

      “I’m going to rub your skin,” she’d said, trying to maintain a clinical facade. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to ignore the fact that this man had a body created to make grown women weep with gratitude and she was going to have to let herself react to it eventually. He was trying to take care of the sea creature remnant stinging his skin, and she’d stopped him.

      “You’ll just get it all over your hands,” she said, as he groaned at the pain.

      She searched the bottom of the boat and found a rag that was relatively clean. Turning back toward him quickly, she began working on the gelatinous blobs that littered his back, pouring out salt water, then rubbing away the residue.

      “How’s that?” she asked after a quick scrub.

      Turning, he gave her a look and then took the rag from her, working on his chest himself.

      “Thanks,” he said shortly. “I may not sound like it, but I really do appreciate this.”

      “You’re welcome,” she answered sweetly, then hid a smile as she watched him taking care of the last of the mess. Filling the cup with sea water again, she threw a splash over his shoulders, then another on his neck, and he gasped as the cool water hit his skin, then went back to work with the rag.

      She watched him, bemused. He was certainly gorgeous. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of anything extra on him. He looked fit and muscular, about thirty years old.

      Just right for me, she’d thought at the time with a silent chuckle. Getting to know a man like this was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid, but she had to admit, she tossed that idea away with a sense of regret.

      “I never want to go through that again,” he’d said once he’d removed most of the tentacles. “I felt like something was yanking a thousand hairs out of my flesh, one by one. I’ve never felt anything that seemed so simple to be so damn painful.” He frowned. “It was horrible,” he said, as though he was afraid he hadn’t convinced her.

      “So I’ve heard,” she said.

      He turned to look at her, and as she thought of it now, she realized he’d really been seeing her for the first time. His head went back and his gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her bare, tanned legs. “You’ve never been stung?”

      “Not me. I pay attention to what is going on around me.” She knew she sounded smug, but she couldn’t resist teasing him a little.

      “I was just…” He stopped himself, obviously realizing he was beginning to sound defensive. He narrowed his eyes. “This is new territory for me. It won’t happen again.”

      She’d smiled. She’d believed him then and she believed him now. He had the look of a man who didn’t usually do much daydreaming on the job.

      “They looked so pretty, like little blue balloons sailing toward me in the water. I didn’t realize they were even alive until they began to sting.”

      She nodded wisely. “Many of the most beautiful plants and animals in paradise hide a deadly poison,” she noted, talking more philosophy than biology.

      To her surprise, he’d laughed. “Is that meant as a warning?” he asked her, and she laughed, too, realizing how it could be interpreted that way. She liked the cast of his dark eyes as they warmed with amusement. And she thought—maybe he wasn’t such an aloof character, after all—once he wasn’t in pain.

      “Sit tight,” she said, moving to position herself to use the outboard motor. “I’ll take you back to shore.”

      She’d sensed him studying her again as they raced over the blue water. To her surprise, she found she rather liked it. She’d come to these islands almost a year before and in all that time, she had very carefully avoided inviting any male interest.

      She wasn’t here for romance. She was here for sanity. It was her intention to live modestly and attract very little notice from the locals. The tourists were a necessary nuisance, since she worked at Kimo’s, but she’d managed to make herself friendly in a reserved sort of way that seemed to work. She’d only had a few incidents where she’d had trouble getting rid of an overzealous male.

      All in all, living here had worked out great. No one seemed to question her presence. No one had actually accused her of being in hiding. Maybe that was because so many of the drifters who had made their way here were just like her, avoiding life somewhere else. No one asked too many questions. She’d hoped he wasn’t going to change that trend. She still had hopes along those lines, but if that were the case, why had he come back?

      She glanced at what she could see of the skin along his neck. There was no lingering evidence of weeks before when the men-of-war had stung him so badly. She remembered how, on that day, she’d brought him in to shore and tied her dinghy up to the little pier she used. Her small house was a bit back from the water, but it was visible between the coconut palm trunks, its bright yellow exterior and the riotous red hibiscus bushes around it standing out from everything else along the beach.

      “Are you staying at the hotel?” she’d asked him then, toying with the idea of offering him a ride back to town on her Vespa and then shrugging it aside. She didn’t want to give him ideas, and anyway, she’d figured a nice long walk would be good for him.

      “Is there really only one?” he’d asked, seeming to be amused by that thought.

      “Hotel?” She nodded. “We’re pretty remote,” she noted. “We don’t really get a lot of tourists.