It Happened In Paradise: Wedded in a Whirlwind / Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex! / His Bride in Paradise. Nicola Marsh

protection.

      She used her hands to protect herself, landing painfully on palms and knees.

      Dust showered down on to her, filling her eyes and, as she gasped for air, her mouth. For a moment she was certain she was about to suffocate and in sheer terror she let rip with a scream.

      That was when, out of the darkness, fingers clamped tightly about her arm and a gravelly voice said, ‘For pity’s sake, woman, give it a rest…’

       CHAPTER THREE

      JAGO appeared to have the hangover from hell, which was odd. Getting drunk would have been an understandable reaction to the discovery that Fliss had been using him and he’d certainly had the means, thanks to Rob. But he was fairly certain that, on reflection, he’d decided he’d taken enough punishment for one day.

      Or maybe that was simply wishful thinking because there was no doubt that right now he was lying with his face pressed against the cold stone of the floor. Not a good sign. And he was hurting pretty much everywhere but mostly inside his head, where an incompetent but unbelievably enthusiastic drummer was using his skull for practice.

      He would have told him to stop, but it was too much trouble.

      That was the problem with drinking to forget. While it might seem like a great idea when you were swallowing the hot local liquor that offered instant oblivion, unfortunately it was a temporary state unless you kept on drinking.

      He remembered thinking that as the first mouthful had burned its way down his throat and then…

      And then nothing.

      Dumber than he’d thought, then, and come morning he’d be sorry he hadn’t made the effort to make it as far as the camp-bed, but what was one more regret? He’d scarcely notice it amongst the pile already waiting to be sifted through.

      Right now, what he needed was water and he groped around him, hoping to find a bottle within reach. Aspirin would be good too, but that was going to have to wait until he’d recovered a little.

      His fingers encountered rubble.

       Rubble?

      Where on earth was he?

      His forehead creased in a frown which he instantly regretted, swearing silently as the pain drilled through his skull. It didn’t take a genius to work out that if a simple frown caused that kind of grief, anything louder than a thought would be unwise.

      He closed his eyes and, for the moment, the pain in his head receded a little. But only for a moment. The ground, it seemed, had other ideas, refusing to leave him in peace, shaking him like a dog at a bone. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, there was some woman having hysterics practically in his ear.

      Oblivion was a lot harder to come by than you’d think.

      He turned over, reached out and, as his palm connected with smooth, firm flesh he wondered, without too much interest, who she was. Before growling at her to shut up.

      There was a startled yelp and then blissful silence. And the earth had finally stopped making a fuss too.

      A result.

      He let his head fall back against the floor.

      It was too good to last.

      ‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice, now she’d stopped screaming, was low, a little bit husky, with the kind of catch in it that would undoubtedly ensnare any poor sap who hadn’t already learned the hard way that no woman was ever that vulnerable.

      It wasn’t that he was immune. Far from it.

      He might be feeling awful, but his body still automatically tightened in hopeful response to the enticing warmth of a woman’s voice up close in the dark.

      It was over-optimistic.

      A grunt was, for the moment, the limit of his ambition but he forced open unwilling eyelids and lifted his head an inch or two to take a look.

      Opening his eyes didn’t make much difference, he discovered, but since light would have only added to his pain he decided to be grateful for small mercies. But not that grateful. Women were definitely off the agenda and he said, ‘Clear off.’

      Having got that off his chest, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back to the floor.

      ‘Wh-who are you?’ She might be nervous but she was irritatingly persistent. ‘Are you hurt?’

      ‘Terminally,’ he assured her. ‘Body and soul. Totally beyond saving, so do me a favour. Go away and leave me to die in peace.’

      No chance. She was a woman so she did the opposite, moving closer, finding his shoulder, feeling for his neck. She was checking his pulse, he realised. The stupid female had taken him seriously…

      Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t, despite his protestations, about to expire on her, she slid her hand up to his cheek, laying long cool fingers against it, soothing his pounding head which, if he were honest, he had to admit felt pretty good.

      ‘Who are you?’ she persisted, her voice stronger now that she’d satisfied herself that he was in one piece. In fact, she had the crisp enunciation of a woman who expected an answer. Without delay.

      Her touch wasn’t that good.

      Delete vulnerable and caring, replace with bossy, interfering, typical of a particular type of organising female with whom he was very familiar. The ones he knew all had moustaches and chaired committees that allocated research funding…

      He didn’t bother to answer. She didn’t give up but leaned over him so that he was assailed by the musky scent of warm skin before, after a pause, she wiped something damp over his face.

      ‘Is that better?’ she asked.

      He was getting very mixed messages here, but provided she kept the volume down she could carry on with her Florence Nightingale act.

      ‘Were you on the bus?’ she asked.

      Jago sighed.

      That was the trouble with women; they couldn’t be content with just doing the ministering angel stuff. They had to talk. Worse, they insisted you answer them.

      ‘Don’t you understand simple English?’ he growled, swatting away her hand. The price of comfort came too high.

      She didn’t take the hint, but laid it over his forehead in a way that suggested she thought he might not be entirely right in it. The head, that was. Definitely one of the moustache brigade, he thought, although her hand had the soft, pampered feel of someone who took rather more care of her appearance. Soft and pampered and her long, caressing fingers were giving his body ideas whether his head was coming along for the ride or not.

      Definitely not yet another archaeology student looking for postgrad experience, then. At least that was something in her favour. Not even Fliss, who had lavished cream on every part of her body—generously inviting him to lend a hand—had been able to keep her hands entirely callus-free.

      But she was female, so that cancelled out all the plus points. Including that warm female scent that a man, if he was dumb enough, could very easily lose himself in…

      ‘Read my lips,’ he said, snapping back from temptation. ‘Go away.’

      ‘I can’t see your damn lips,’ she replied sharply. The mild expletive sounded unexpectedly shocking when spoken in that expensive finishing school accent.

      And she didn’t move.

      On the contrary, she dropped her head so that her hair brushed against his cheek. He recognised the scent now. Rosemary.

      It was rosemary.

      His mother had planted a bush by the garden gate. Some superstitious nonsense was involved, he seemed to remember. It had grown