Ignoring the dark fears in her mind, that she was indeed stranded on the unluckiest island in the entire Aegean, she began to traipse along the sand, figuring she could start tracking a perimeter, looking for both signs of life and some kind of shelter. Whichever came first. Dark clouds were rolling over the island, which, combined with the pouring rain, made it impossible to see too far in front of her.
It took a monumental effort to hold onto hope, but more than an hour after crashing onto this island, while the storm continued to rage and her body was exhausted and covered in goosebumps, she finally saw something to give her hope. Even just the tiniest flicker of it. The storm felt like a metaphor for her whole freaking life. One thing after the other, and just when she was at her lowest ebb, bam. Something worse.
Some way in the distance, high up on a hill, was a light. Warm and golden, and not a trick conjured by her desperation. She changed direction immediately, picking her way across the sand and onto the grass behind it. Dense forest followed, which flooded her with terror. Because here, she heard animal noises, and she couldn’t help but imagine she’d gone from the frying pan and into the fire. She might have escaped death at sea, but between herself and the golden light stood miles of forest, and it was not implausible to imagine being mauled by whatever animal was making that persistent call.
With the same determination she’d employed in her marriage, to ignore her husband’s affairs and the cold brutality with which he treated her, she went on, one step after the other. There was no path to follow, and she slipped, many times, cutting her leg and badly hurting her arm, but eventually she came to a clearing and saw, to her immense and all-consuming relief, that the golden glow was indeed a dwelling. A house! Well, a house of sorts. Four walls and a roof, and it clearly had electricity. She didn’t stop to think about who might be inside, but rather rushed gratefully towards it and lifted a hand, banging on the door as though her life depended on it.
Which, come to think of it, it did.
Silence met her thumping. She kept knocking. And minutes later, with the rain still gushing over her and the sky lighting up every few minutes with blades of white, as thunder rolled right into her ear canal, she knew she had little choice but to push open the door. After all, the cabin could well be empty, the light left on by whoever had last occupied it.
Either way, she wasn’t going to stay standing out here, getting more and more sodden by the minute, all but inviting lightning to fry her innards.
She pushed the door tentatively at first and then all the way, stepping in with a small grimace at how much water she was dripping onto the rustic timber floor. But there was a fire across the room, glowing warm and golden, so she knew two things immediately: firstly, she wasn’t alone. Secondly, she was too cold to care.
Walking quickly across the room, she made it to the hearth and turned her back on it, still dropping huge amounts of water on the ground, as she let the heat wrap around her, comforting and reassuring. She’d been standing there only a moment when another door, on the other wall of the cabin, opened, and a man strode from what her brain quickly suggested must have been a bathroom. Why? Because he was as naked as the day he was born, and every bit as rugged as the forest she’d hiked through to make it to his cabin.
She could only stare as he stopped walking and stared right back. Stare at his height and breadth, at arms that were muscular and a broad, hair-roughened chest that was rippling with abdominal muscles, wide shoulders that almost seemed to suggest he could carry the weight of the world on them. His hips were narrow, compared to his broad chest, but his legs were as muscly and sinewy as his arms, all strength and formidable power in those limbs. He was tall—easily six and a half feet—and handsome in a raw, animalistic sort of way, with features that were chiselled and rough, symmetrical and completely pleasing. His eyes were a dark grey, like the stormy ocean that had tormented her hours earlier, and his hair wasn’t cut fashionably short—it might have been, once upon a time, but now it caressed his neck, though it was wet and brushed back from his brow.
As for his very masculine anatomy, her cheeks flushed pink at the way he stood before her, glorious, uncaring, and huge all over.
The thunderous expression on his face should have given her cause for concern, but it was all so shocking and confronting, so confusing, that she could only stand there and drink in the sight of him.
‘I—you’re—’ She tried to speak, to explain, but she was still shivering, and her mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
Grimly, he walked towards her, the thunderclouds in his expression growing, if it was possible, even darker.
‘We will deal with the pleasantries later. You look as though you are about to pass out. Are you?’ His accent was unmistakably Greek, but his English was fluent.
‘I—don’t—’ She closed her eyes then as, indeed, a wave of exhaustion and nausea hit her, combining with the icy chill in her veins. ‘I’ll be okay,’ she said, but slowly, softly, the words lacking conviction.
He grunted and then, to Genevieve’s absolute shock, he was lifting her up and cradling her against his naked chest, carrying her across the sparsely furnished cabin, towards the door he’d emerged from a moment earlier. It was almost as large as the other room, though it had only a shower, a basin and a toilet. He placed her down on the tiled floor of the shower and began to run the water. Then, to Genevieve’s further shock, his hands curled around the fabric of her shirt and began to lift it.
‘D-don’t,’ she stammered, feeling she must protest. It didn’t occur to her to fear the man, despite the notable differences in their size and strength. He was rugged, yes, but there was nothing about him that screamed ‘violent’. Her protestation then was all about modesty. Her ex-husband was the only man who’d seen her naked. It was strange to contemplate letting a stranger see all of her bared. And yet, it was also exhilarating. James, for one, would hate it—and that thought was infinitely appealing.
‘You need to get out of these clothes.’
‘I can manage,’ she said, finally finding her voice, and hoping that she wasn’t lying.
‘Can you? Show me.’
‘I’m not going to get undressed in front of you.’
‘And I have no intention of leaving you here to pass out on your own. So?’
‘I’m not going to—’
‘We can argue later, as well,’ he said, lips forming a grim line. ‘All I care about, right now, is that you do not die on my watch. Whoever you are, and wherever you came from, is not my concern. What you do after leaving here is also of no interest. But for now, I intend that you stay alive. If not least because the inconvenience of having to report your death is the last thing I want.’
She was so shocked that she did reach for her shirt then, but before she lifted it off she turned her back on him so her breasts were shielded from his sight. Her shorts followed, but she kept her briefs on.
The water, in contrast to the rain outside, was scorching and with each moment she stood beneath it, she felt a little strength return. Though her legs felt like jelly after what must have been a ten-mile hike, most of it uphill and over uneven terrain. Fear had made her run much of the way.
He reached past her, his thick, strong arm brushing her side as he flicked off the water and then seconds later wrapped a large, coarse towel around her shoulders. ‘Can you walk or do you need to be carried?’
There was no way she was going to admit even a hint of weakness to this man, even though her legs felt as though they were impossibly trembly. ‘I can walk.’
‘Show me.’
