In Mcgillivray's Bed. Anne McAllister

tossed it back to her. “It’s all yours.”

      She caught it, wiped her face, then met his gaze over the top of it. “Thank you,” she said with exaggerated politeness.

      Still grinning, he dipped his head. “Anytime.”

      She looked away then and began drying off. Hugh stood there watching, fascinated, as she rubbed her arms and legs to dry them, then tried to sop up as much water from the beaded dress as she possibly could. It was a losing battle.

      “You could take it off,” he offered helpfully.

      “Yes, I could,” she reflected aloud.

      And damned if she didn’t!

      Right then. Right there.

      Well, actually it took a few moments for her to get the dress off. Palm-dampening, mouth-parching, body-hardening moments as far as Hugh was concerned. Soaking-wet and clingy beaded dresses were obviously not easy to shed.

      But as he stood there gaping, the crazy woman peeled the silvery straps of her beaded dress right down her arms and wriggled and shimmied and squirmed until the dress pooled at her feet and she was wearing a strapless bra and a pair of itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bikini panties and nothing more.

      Hugh’s mouth went dry. His body got hot. He gaped, then tried to speak, but all he could manage was a croak like a frog’s. Abruptly he shut his mouth.

      The woman didn’t seem to notice. She gave a huge sigh as she stepped neatly out of the pool of dress. “Thank God. You have no idea how heavy a wet beaded dress is.”

      No, he didn’t. And if he tried to think about it, his mind whirled. All the blood that ordinarily made his brain function was far too busy elsewhere.

      Without thinking, he sat down. Belle came and put her head on his knee, but her gaze was still on the crazy woman.

      So was Hugh’s.

      “If we’re going to be polite,” the woman told him firmly, “you shouldn’t stare. My father always told me it wasn’t polite to stare.”

      Hugh swallowed, but he didn’t stop staring. The ability to move his eyes was beyond him. His brain was still in neutral. Certain parts of his body, however, were on high alert.

      “Huh?” he managed to croak at last, his gaze still impolitely roving over her slim but decidedly curvy form.

      “What?” he said, aware that she had spoken yet unable to find the sense in her words.

      “Whoa,” he murmured as his brain finally engaged and he managed to both avert his gaze and shut his mouth at the same time. Major accomplishment. While his blood was otherwise occupied, the beer seemed to have gone to his head.

      Now he tipped his head back and took a couple of deep, desperate breaths.

      “Can I use this?” the crazy woman asked.

      Her words made him jerk his head up, and he saw her holding up the quilt that Belle normally slept on. Belle was wagging her tail and grinning, apparently quite willing to share.

      “Do you have to?”

      He wasn’t thinking, of course. He was just saying what came into his head. And what came into his head was how much he was enjoying the sight of all that lovely female flesh. And he was loath to lose sight of it, even when she gave him a seriously disdainful look.

      “Then perhaps you could lend me your shirt.” She looked at it pointedly. “Please,” she added with more than a hint of irony.

      He could. But leaving it flapping over his baggy shorts, thus hiding the evidence of his unfortunate arousal was probably a better idea.

      “Use the quilt,” he said gruffly.

      She blinked, taken aback. But when he didn’t change his mind, she shrugged and wrapped it around her shoulders, then clutched it over her middle, giving the impression that she had turned into an overstuffed chair.

      Or she would have if Hugh hadn’t had a good imagination and an even better memory. He knew damned well what was under the padding. He could still see it all in his mind’s eye.

      He was definitely glad he’d kept his shirt.

      “So,” he said, determined to focus on her less appealing characteristics, “tell me about this proactive jump of yours.”

      She glanced over her shoulder toward where the running lights of the yacht were still barely visible. “Could we, um, just get moving first?”

      “Catch up with them, you mean?” Hugh said doubtfully. It would be a hell of a ride in the dark.

      “No!” The word burst out from her, surprising him. Then she gave herself a little shake. “I mean, no, thank you,” she said with extreme politeness.

      But even spoken with politeness, the words were still surprising. Hugh cocked his head and lifted a brow. “No, you don’t want to catch up with the boat?”

      “No!” Pause. Moderation. “I don’t. In fact, I would very much like to head in the other direction.”

      “I’m not going in the other direction.”

      “Where are you going, then?” She looked suddenly apprehensive.

      He jerked his head toward the lights of Pelican Cay. “There.”

      She turned to see where he’d indicated, and her apprehension faded a bit. She nodded her head. “That’ll be fine,” she said, glancing back at the lights of the yacht, then added, “Just let’s go, okay?”

      Interesting. And odd how she could swim in shark-infested waters with complete aplomb and then freak out when she was perfectly safe. Unless she wasn’t perfectly safe.

      “Did you steal something?” Hugh demanded, gaze narrowing.

      “Steal something?” She looked shocked. “Whatever for?”

      “How the hell should I know? You jumped off a bloody boat. Why the hell else would you run away?”

      “I’m not running away!”

      “Oh, right. I forgot. You were just proactively jumping into shark-infested waters miles from shore.” He kept his tone conversational. It was easy enough to call her a liar with his eyes.

      For an instant her gaze slid away, but then she brought it back and met his squarely and Captain Ahab was back. “I needed to leave. That’s all.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Look, will you just go?” she said. “I’ll tell you. I promise. I haven’t done anything wrong. I just need some space and a little time.” She wasn’t quite begging, but there was a definite urgency in her tone. She met his gaze steadily. “Please.”

      There was, even now, a sense of self-possession about her. As edgy as she was, it was a polite please not a frantic please.

      Cripes, maybe it had been a proactive jump.

      He nodded and moved to start the engine. She stepped out of his way. He got it going but didn’t let out the throttle.

      “What are you waiting for?” she demanded.

      “You.”

      She looked blank.

      “Can’t go too fast,” he explained. “I won’t be able to hear you when you tell me why you jumped. And it better be good,” he warned her, “to make up for my record catch that got away.”

      “I DON’T believe it,” the scruffy fisherman said flatly when Sydney told him what had prompted her to jump overboard.

      She glared at him. Who gave him the right to pass judgment, for heaven’s sake? “Well, believe it or not, it’s true.”

      “Let me get this straight. You jumped off a yacht in the middle of nowhere