Capturing the Crown Bundle. Nina Bruhns

He told himself as he swept his hands over her wet skin, that his touch was impersonal. Nevertheless, his hands on the curve of her hips, her flat belly, felt as if they were touching forbidden fruit. When he accidentally brushed her full breasts and felt her nipples hard against his palm, his body responded, despite the cool water temperature.

      He concentrated on cleaning her up and ignored his libido’s bad timing.

      “I need you to put your head under the water,” he said. “Do you want me to dunk you or can you do it yourself?”

      Though she still shivered violently, when she looked at him he saw her gaze had cleared. “I can do it, if you hold on to me.”

      At his nod, she gulped air and dropped under. When she resurfaced, slicking her hair back from her face, his breath caught in his throat. Damned if she didn’t look like some primitive nymph, sleek skin gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The shreds of her wet clothing clung to her body and outlined every hollow, every curve.

      He was so hard he hurt.

      Self-directed anger made him gruff. “Good enough.” Helping her up onto the bank, he tried to ignore the way his hand cupped her rounded bottom. Once he was certain she’d be okay, he dived under himself, swimming with powerful strokes to the middle of the pond. Here, he trod water, reminding himself to come back later and explore the depth.

      As soon as he had his body under control again, he emerged. Sydney sat, huddled into a wet ball, shivering.

      “Let’s get you back into the sunlight to warm you.”

      Docilely, she allowed him to lead her back to the beach area, where he sat her on a huge boulder in full sun.

      Now, he needed to see what he could do to make them shelter.

      A large side section of the jet had landed on the rocky beach. It would make a decent roof, much better than any primitive thatch thing he might attempt to construct from leaves and sticks.

      He grabbed the section of metal and started dragging it toward the trees. It was heavier than he’d realized.

      As he moved it inch by inch, dragging it over rocky ground, he wondered how long they’d have to wait until rescue arrived. He refused to consider the possibility that someone else might get here first.

      Sydney opened her eyes to find Chase watching her closely, his hazel gaze unreadable. She licked her lips and he handed her a tin cup of water. “The cup is left from what remains of the jet’s galley. I found several of them—and a spring-fed pond—near the interior of this island.”

      She sipped gratefully, her throat still raw. “My baby…”

      He looked away, obviously ill at ease. Instead of answering a question that could not be answered, he tried to distract her. “I found your purse, too.” He held up the black Fendi. “Remarkably intact. Not even a scratch.”

      Throat aching, chest tight, she nodded. She really didn’t care about the purse, other than being glad to have her passport. She had more important matters to think about. Until she could get to a hospital, she had no idea if her baby was all right. “How long have I been out?”

      “You drifted in and out all of last night. I’ve been keeping watch. When you finally fell into a real sleep, I slept some. Now it’s morning.” Again he glanced at his wrist, then gave a wry smile. “Though I don’t know the exact time. Your watch is gone, too.”

      “That’s okay.” She sat up, waiting for dizziness and felt absurdly pleased when the earth didn’t spin. They were in some kind of small shelter, made of bits and pieces of the crashed jet. He’d piled sticks and branches near one side, no doubt for when they needed to build a fire. “Where are the pilots?”

      “They’re both dead. When the cockpit exploded, they burned.” A shadow crossed Chase’s rugged face. He had a good five-o’clock-shadow going, which had the effect of making him look even more dangerously masculine. He was so beautiful, looking at him made her chest hurt.

      Sydney shook her head. She’d survived a plane crash, minor injuries, and felt like her insides had been scrambled. Had the bump on her head permanently addled her wits? She focused instead on his words, remembering the blond man who’d flown the jet. “I’m sorry.”

      Chase looked away. “I wanted to bury them, but I couldn’t get them out in time.” His low voice was tight, controlled, but she thought she could detect an undercurrent of grief.

      Wincing, she nodded. “How long before someone comes for us?”

      Chase raised his head and met her gaze again. “I don’t know. The jet’s radio was broken. My cell phone’s gone. I have no way to contact anyone. All I can hope is the plane’s emergency beacon did its job.”

      Still woozy, she pushed to her feet, waving him away when he tried to steady her. “We can stand up in here.” The shelter he’d improvised for them was nothing short of amazing. He’d anchored pieces of metal from the jet between three trees, using the middle one as a brace. It looked, she thought, quite sturdy, considering.

      He saw her looking and shrugged. “It’ll do until we’re rescued.”

      She seized on his words, allowing them to give her hope. “I’m sure it will,” she told him. “Provided rescue comes soon.”

      She stepped out from under the shelter to brilliant sunshine. Shading her eyes with her hand, she glanced toward the beach, noting the way the sun reflected off the sea. “So we have water, but what about food? Would it be too much to hope some food survived the crash?”

      “A few packets of crackers. That’s it. But I’ve seen some small game in the woods. And of course, there are fish.”

      “Can you hunt?”

      He gave her a supremely male look of arrogance. “Of course I can hunt. I fish, too. We won’t starve, if it comes to that.” He coughed. “But my cooking is abysmal.”

      “Cooking’s no problem. I can cook.” Pushing her hair back from her face, she busied herself organizing the wood in a neat stack. “That is, if you can figure out a way to make a fire.”

      “You can cook?”

      “Yes.” She raised her head to look at him. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe Naessa is different than Silvershire. I would have thought you had your own army of chefs, ready to make whatever exotic dish you fancied.”

      “Not in my household. I live alone, and like it that way.”

      “Hmmm.” The sound he made told her he didn’t believe her. “I watch the news, read the papers. You grew up with every luxury money can buy. Your run with the elite upper crust.”

      “That was college.” She smiled, trying to pretend she cherished the memory. “We’ve lost touch since then.” The truth of the matter was, none of the wealthy friends who’d permitted her to hang with them could relate to her life now. Playing cello for the symphony was, as one jet-setting type had put it, boring. Endless practices and performances left no time for partying.

      “Still,” he persisted. “Your mother is in the news quite often. You grew up with chefs, maids and butlers. I find it surprising you know how to cook.”

      “Even cooks get a day or two off. My mother liked to keep me busy. Until she packed me off to boarding school, I was my mother’s personal chef.” The instant she’d finished speaking, she realized what she’d said. More than she’d revealed to anyone about her childhood, ever. Including Reginald. Especially Reginald.

      So why now? Why Chase, who was still a virtual stranger?

      He cocked his head, regarding her with a speculative look. “Still, you’re quite wealthy. You mentioned a trust fund earlier. Did your father set you up with that?”

      Common knowledge, especially for someone in public relations.