Mira finally managed to recover her manners. "I'm Mirabel Rivers. Mira." She held out a hand.
"Mira," Dane repeated. He reached out a hand slowly, as if he was having to remember what handshakes were, and clasped her hand in a firm grip.
Mira had strong hands for a woman; people commented on it. That was only to be expected when you worked with your hands for a living. But Dane's hand all but swallowed hers. There was a restrained power and strength to his fingers that she could sense from the care he took with hers. Mira might be strong, but Dane, she suspected, could have picked her up one-handed and not broken a sweat.
It was impossibly sexy. With nothing but that single touch, and the careful restraint of his handclasp, she was all but swooning in his grip.
Unbelievable, she thought. She was a forty-year-old Army veteran, not a schoolgirl drawing hearts in her diary. But something about Dane made her feel just like that—a teenager with a crush.
Mira cleared her throat, trying to get herself back on track. Dane was still holding her hand. She didn't want him to stop, and yet at the same time she felt as if she needed to retrieve her fingers in order to think clearly again. She gave her hand a little tug, and Dane immediately released it.
"Where are your, um ... facilities?" she asked. "I'd like to clean up."
"Right," Dane said. "I'll show you." But then he paused for a moment and tilted his head to the side. Mira gazed at him, fascinated, trying to look no lower than his collarbones—but there was plenty to see on his face as well, with all its subtle micro-expressions. She could tell he was listening; she just didn't know what he was listening to.
"Is everything all right?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "It's quiet outside. The storm has stopped."
With that, he turned abruptly and went to the door. Mira swung her legs off the bed and found herself distracted by the play of muscles in his lean back. From here, it looked as if there were scars as well, puckering and pulling as he moved. Before she could get a good look, he opened the door and sunlight streamed into the cabin.
"Yes," Dane said. "It's over."
He turned back and blew out the candle on the table.
Mira stood up and then wobbled, weakness washing over her. The next thing she knew, Dane was there, catching her elbow and supporting her until she could stand on her own. He took his hand away as soon as she seemed to be standing on her own. She gave him a small nod of thanks, accompanied by a regretful twinge at the loss of his support. Dane started getting some things down from the shelves.
"Where am I, anyway?" she asked.
"You're in my cabin," he said. "Oh, you mean—uh—it's called Dead Man's Island. I found you yesterday."
"Yesterday," she murmured. Her hazy memories of the storm resurfaced, dizzy and confusing. She pushed them down again. That wasn't so long. "Can I use your phone, please? I radioed for help before my boat went down, but I don't even know if it went through. I need to let everyone know I'm alive."
"No phone," Dane said.
Mira rested a hand on the edge of the table as she looked around. That was a good point. Everything in the cabin was low tech. She didn't even see any signs of electric lights.
"What about a CB radio?" she asked hopefully. "Do any of your neighbors have phones?"
"No CB. No neighbors."
Mira stared at him. "Is it just you here?"
"Only me," he said. "And you, now."
"Oh. Well ..." She patted at her T-shirt, and abruptly realized that she had no idea where her life vest was. "Uh, I should have had a vest with an emergency beacon clipped to it."
"Your vest is behind the stove," Dane said. He hesitated very slightly. "No beacon."
The clip must have come off; the sea had been very rough. She reallywascut off. The absolute isolation began to hit her.
"How do you send messages when you need to?" she asked. "Is there at least mail service?"
"No mail, and the answer is—I don't." He handed her a bundle of fabric. "Here, there's a towel and some things you can wear while your clothes dry. I'll show you where to take a shower."
"Thank you," she said, a bit surprised that a shower was even an option. She felt self-conscious in just her underwear, but Dane wasn't looking—in fact, he seemed to be very scrupulouslynotlooking at her bare legs. She found herself wishing very much that he would take a peek.
Instead he led her to the cabin door. She followed him, and for the first time got a look at the place where the storm had washed her up.
