Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong. Nikki Logan

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.

      ‘Is that what I have to do to get a smile out of you?’ he said at last, laughing shakily. ‘Unman myself?’

      Hardly. Fortunately, her snort was only internal. Showing vulnerability only made her more aware of him as a man. He was being intentionally flippant, but she sensed his embarrassment was genuine. Funny how she could already read him after less than a day.

      ‘It’s a common enough reaction to blood.’ She hoped he’d sense her understanding, recognise there would be no ridicule here. She was absolutely the last one to laugh at someone else’s neuroses. ‘Or maybe you’re experiencing delayed shock from hitting the reef?’

      ‘No, it’s the blood. Something I’ve done since I was a kid.’

      After a moment more of deep breathing, he nodded and sat up straighter and Honor kneeled up towards his stomach, scooting forward between his legs to apply the first aid.

      He straightened in the chair and pressed his lips together at the discomfort of stretching the wounds. Honor peeled open one of the iodine swabs and leaned in close. She mopped around the wound first, determined to clean off the blood so he didn’t have to look at it. Eventually, she had to wipe over the abrasions and knew it would sting. His left leg bounced fast but he didn’t make a sound. She dabbed as gently as she could, across each scrape and scratch, dousing the area in super germkiller.

      His groan brought her eyes up to his and stilled her hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s almost over. Coral’s full of micro-organisms that you really don’t want in your bloodstream.’

      His attempt at a return smile was more of a pained grimace and she stifled a laugh. He was trying very hard to be stoical. Then his eyes strayed from hers, down over her scars to where her barely covered breasts hung level with his belly. She became suddenly and vividly aware that she was kneeling—virtually in her underwear—between the splayed legs of a man she’d only just met.

      Instinct yelled move but pride kept her still, despite the furious hammering of her heart. It startled her to feel a prickle of awareness, for her fingers to tingle at the silky-hard smoothness of his muscled belly. The sensations were as foreign as that scent he had. She’d forgotten how a natural man smelled. Her heightened awareness made her movements a little rougher, more rushed. She opened some alcohol wipes and swabbed off the dark rust-coloured iodine stain from around the wound. She needed the area clean and dry for the surgical tape to stick. He didn’t move as her hands skimmed proficiently over his abdomen with the sterile pad.

      Her heart thumped steadily. The alcohol was taking longer to evaporate in the humid tropical air and she was desperate to get out from between his legs, convinced that she could feel the heat radiating off his thighs. She fanned the wound with the spare packets of wipes, with little effect. Gritting her teeth, she bent in to blow the damp area dry.

      ‘Okay!’ Rob lurched up out of the seat and stumbled backwards, knocking the chair on its side. Honor fell back onto her heels to avoid his rushed departure. ‘I think I’m good. I can do the rest.’

      ‘But I need to—’

      ‘Really—I can put on the cream and the gauze. Thanks for cleaning it up for me.’

      She returned to her feet, holding the first aid items out to him. Was he blushing? A bit more of her reserve slipped. If a man’s legs went to jelly at the sight of blood and he could still blush, how bad could he be? Then she remembered the way he’d been checking out her cleavage—her scars—and her back straightened. She handed him the first aid supplies.

      He took them without quite meeting her eyes. But his voice was conciliatory. ‘Thanks. You’d make a good mother.’

      Air sucked into Honor’s lungs sharply. It was just words. She knew it. Something to say in an awkward moment, but she wasn’t ready for the boot in the guts the words triggered.

      She stumbled back as though physically wounded and forced a tight smile to her face. ‘I have work to do. I’ll leave you to finish up.’

       Fix yourself up and go.

      Without looking back, she beat a hasty retreat, snatched up her logbook and marched past him back into the trees.

       CHAPTER THREE

       ‘Shh!’

      Honor could have heard him approaching during a monsoon. She looked back over her shoulder at him, irritated. Again. Robert Dalton certainly didn’t bring out the best in her.

      He slowed his approach, tiptoeing towards her hiding spot and crawled to lie next to her in the sparse scrub, taking care not to rub his patched up stomach on anything sharper than the island sand. Did he