And Babies Make Four (4 page)

Noel stood transfixed, overwhelmed by the exotic sights, smells, and sounds of the Caribbean evening. Her usually sober restraint melted like winter snow in the incandescent glory of the sunset. She breathed in the darkening air, feeling something fiery and passionate fill her soul.

And how exactly do you feel about Donovan?

She shook her head, as if she could physically shake away the uncomfortable and pointless question. In two weeks this exotic island would be nothing more than a memory—a memory of gold-stained seas, fiery flowers, and of a blond giant who stirred her deep inside. She wrapped her arms protectively around her middle, feeling every inch of the miles between her and Miami. Suddenly ten days seemed an awfully long time.…

Her thoughts ended abruptly as a slight scraping sound behind her caught her attention. She turned, discovering that the sound came from her room.
Honestly, those computers were worse than rowdy kids, she thought as she walked back to the French doors, wondering what the two electronic hooligans were up to. “Okay, guys, what’s going on—”

She stopped dead in her tracks. Twilight filled the room, but there was still more than enough light to show her the dark shape struggling out from under the bed. Her bed. In her room. The room where she’d been … where he’d seen her …

Rage, embarrassment, and—oddly—disappointment boiled up inside her. The Italian temper she’d spent her life denying erupted from her core like a seething volcano. She barreled into the room, finally knowing the answer to her conscience’s annoying question.

She knew exactly how she felt about the despicable Sam Donovan. And she intended to tell him. In detail.

“You bastard!”

Damn, Sam thought as he turned to face the French doors—and his furious client. So much for a clean getaway. “Look, this isn’t what you—”

“How dare you?” she demanded as she tore into the room. She stopped in front of him, her nose inches from his breastbone, looking mad enough to stare down a tidal wave. “How the
hell
dare you?”

Sam rubbed his beard-roughened chin, feeling way out of his depth. He’d spent most of his youth on the water and could navigate the shoals and shallows of the island channels like any sailor born, but he hadn’t the first clue about how to steer clear of this lady. Bereft of ideas, he tried the truth. “You’ve got it wrong. I only wanted my fishing gear. Anyway, I could only see your ankles—”

“And that makes it all right?”

“Yes. No.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Listen, you’ve got this all wrong. I wasn’t—”

His explanation ended abruptly as she hauled off and socked him on the arm. His battle-toughened hide barely registered the blow, but the courage that drove it impressed him.

Until she hit him again. Harder.

To hell with this.
Making a battlefield decision, Sam released his gear, letting the steel box clatter to the floor. The loud sound momentarily distracted his assailant, enabling him to capture her wrists, and hold them effortlessly out of punching range. “Stop it. Just calm down and listen—”

She kicked him in the shin.

Now,
that
hurt. Cursing, he yanked her against his chest. “You want to play rough?” he asked with lethal softness, increasing the pressure on her wrists until she winced. “Because believe me, I can make it as rough as you want.”

He expected her to back down, or to dissolve into feminine tears. Instead, she raised her chin, glaring at him, eyes sparking with emerald fire. “If you were only getting your tackle box, why didn’t you speak up?”

“Because I knew you’d make a big deal of this. I knew you’d be unreasonable.”

“You spy on me while I’m dressing and
I’m
being unreasonable?” she sputtered. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Mr. Donovan. You haven’t begun to see how unreasonable I can be!”

She pulled back her leg, apparently aiming for a
higher location than his shin. Sam bit out a colorful curse, wondering what ancient island god he’d angered to deserve this little wildcat. Probably all of them, he thought as he deftly pushed her off balance and toppled her backward onto the bed. He easily pinned her down with his heavier body. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t tick me off if I were you.”

“I’m not your
sweetheart
,” she hissed through clenched teeth as she struggled to get free.

A reluctant smile tugged at Sam’s mouth. The lady had guts. She was outgunned, outweighed, and outmaneuvered, but she wasn’t giving an inch. In another time and place he might have appreciated her courage. But two hours before their meeting with the island’s most powerful shaman wasn’t the time. And pinned under him while trying to inflict semipermanent damage on vulnerable parts of his anatomy was definitely not the place.

“You’re whatever the hell I say you are,” he stated in a take-no-prisoners tone. “Let me give you a dose of reality. St. Michelle isn’t some tame little Paradise Island. It’s a port of call for some of the most ruthless characters ever to sail the Caribbean—and that includes the pirates. People who wander down to the waterfront at night don’t always live to see the morning sun. This is a tough, dangerous place for landlubbers who don’t know their way around. And sweetheart, you—with your tourist attitude and expensive computer hardware—fit that description in spades.”

She stopped struggling. Her eyes still burned with
the white-hot flame of distrust and suspicion, but at least she was listening. Relaxing his grip slightly, he continued. “The only thing standing between you and that pack of cutthroats is yours truly. So unless you want to end up as fish food I’d suggest you cut me some slack. Believe me, on this island I’m your best friend. Your only friend.”

She said nothing, but he knew his words had hit home. The icy sheet of anger melted from her eyes, revealing a well as deep as the azure sea outside his window. They were a surprise to him, those eyes. He’d figured that the one thing in the world he understood completely was a woman like her—a stiff-backed, spoiled snob who measured the worth of everything by the dent it made in her American Express Card. But those eyes told a different story. There was a passionate, vulnerable woman hiding beneath her porcupine exterior.
Her soft, warm and achingly seductive porcupine exterior.

Suddenly he was aware of the delicacy of her wrists, the smell of soap on her newly washed hair, and the fluttering beat of her heart against the wall of his chest. Her starched clothes would have done a nun justice, but the curves pressed intimately against him reminded him more of a cathouse than a convent. She was … sweet, he thought, the word evoking an all-but-forgotten tenderness in him. He’d had so little sweetness in his life. Not since Gina …

His mind shied away from the memory, but not the sensation. He was a passionate man in every sense of the word, but he’d never been more aware of the
difference between sexual need and a deeper, keener hunger. He’d have given ten years of his life to stay like this, breathing in the scent of her hair and skin, lingering over the feel of her yielding body under his. He’d have given another ten to kiss a smile from her uncertain, much-too-serious lips.

“So what happens now?” she asked softly.

He knew exactly what he wanted to happen now—in graphic detail.
This is nuts.
He had no use for women like her, and she thought he was a filthy beast. Yet his mind conjured up a photo spread so graphic that even
Playboy
wouldn’t have published it. Blood thundered in his veins. He stared down into her fathomless eyes, feeling something huge and primal shift inside him. Tempted beyond endurance, he brushed his rough finger across the delicate line of her cheek.
Say something, dammit. Anything
. “I—”

“Talk louder,” Einstein’s modulated voice requested. “We can’t hear you.”

Sam’s head shot up. Both E’s and PINK’s video cameras were pointed directly at the bed, apparently watching the scene with great interest. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Studying human mating behavior,” PINK replied with electronic innocence.

“Mating?” he repeated, a rare chuckle rising in his throat. He turned back toward Noel, but she’d slid out from under him with a magician’s grace, leaving him empty-handed and feeling strangely, unaccountably, betrayed.

“We were
not
mating,” she stated as she hurried to the equipment table. “We were … not.”

E’s camera lens swiveled from Noel, to Sam, then back to Noel again. “You sure? Body position, increased breathing levels, and decreased vocal volume suggest a seventy-two-percent probability of sexual foreplay, leading to—”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she interrupted, her back going poker stiff. “Anyway, it’s bedtime for you two. We’ve got to conserve your batteries. Power down.”

The computers’ simultaneous “awww” dwindled out as their power-supply lights faded to darkness. In a few moments Sam and Noel were alone again, without their electronic audience. Somehow, that only seemed to make things more awkward.

Noel fiddled with a dial on the now inactive computers. “I’ll wipe their databases,” she promised without turning around. “Tomorrow morning when they power up they won’t remember the last few minutes.”

“What about
your
database?” Sam asked gruffly.

She spun around, her eyes burning with fury and her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Don’t flatter yourself. Nothing happened. And even if it did, it doesn’t matter. I’m only going to be here for ten days. We have a business arrangement, Mr. Donovan. I think it would be wise to keep it that way.”

Wise? he thought. Maybe. Probably. But wise didn’t count for much when compared with the feel of her under him—and to the fierce, sweet fire that still burned in his gut. She stood several feet away from him, but he was aware of her every move, her every
breath. Energy flowed between them like a powerful undertow, unseen, yet strong enough to drag a man to his doom. Or his salvation. He stroked back his bright hair, watching her intently, hungrily. “It’s not that simple. Something just happened between us, something unbelievably powerful. Can you deny it, Noel?”

It was the first time he’d used her given name, and the shock of it brought her hand to her throat. For a moment he saw a flash of the sensuous, vulnerable woman she tried so hard to hide. Then she pulled her shoulders up in a rigidly correct posture, and her eyes frosted over like a secluded forest pond covered by a layer of winter ice—still beautiful, but cold, so very cold.…

“Nice try, Donovan. I suppose that line works on most of your clients.”

He stood up slowly, until he towered over her. “It wasn’t a line,” he told her in a voice so bitter, it made hers sound like a balmy island breeze. “But if it were, I wouldn’t waste it on an old-maid scientist with ice water in her veins.”

He spun away before she could answer, grabbing his tackle box like a consolation trophy as he stalked out of the room. He’d meant to hurt her. She was everything he despised, everything he hated about the “civilized” world that was so unforgiving to the people who didn’t fit. He’d watched that world destroy his generous-hearted, hard-drinking, shrimp-boat captain uncle, whose fierce love for his nephew wasn’t enough to convince social services to let the boy stay on his trawler. He’d watched “civilized” Western reporters
reduce the suffering people of the warring third worlds he was stationed in to statistics for the nightly news. And finally he’d watched supposed friends turn their backs on him when his fledgling computer security company needed money to survive, though at that point he’d hardly cared, since he’d already lost his only reason for keeping it going.

The civilized world had left him bleeding and battered, and the wounds still ached. It had showed him no mercy—so why should he show any to the uptight scientist who was the embodiment of its cold, judgmental heart? He tightened his fist around the tackle-box handle until his knuckles went white. Any insult he’d given her was more than justified by her sharp tongue and patronizing attitude. Then he recalled his last sight of her, how she’d winced at his “old maid” comment as if he’d physically struck her.

He’d meant to hurt her. He just hadn’t known it would be that easy.

The trip to Papa Guinea’s meeting that night was far from silent. Donovan’s Jeep rattled like a complaining old woman as it climbed up the rocky mountain road. Night birds called in the distance, their silhouettes merging into the deep indigo shadows of the dense midnight forest. Horns and bells from the still-busy harbor mingled with the evening noises. The whole night was filled with sound—except for the front seat of Donovan’s Jeep. Neither Sam nor Noel had spoken a syllable since the trip started.

Noel shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying vainly to keep her eyes from straying to the man beside her. He’d changed into loose-fitting pants and an ivory-colored, long-sleeved shirt whose cotton material had been washed to the suppleness of silk. All things considered, his outfit was a great deal less revealing than the one he’d worn last time they’d ridden together, but there was something about the way the soft, well-worn material draped his skin that made Noel feel like she’d swallowed a handful of Mexican jumping beans.

She gripped the Jeep’s roll bar, trying to still the turmoil inside of her. She’d have had more luck calming a hurricane. Too clearly she remembered the feel of his body against hers—his heat, his weight, his rich, masculine smell. She recalled the gentle strength of his long-fingered hands, and the way he’d stared down at her, as if he was staring straight into her soul. And she remembered what he’d called her just before he’d left the room.
An old-maid scientist with ice water in her veins.

Her grip tightened on the roll bar. Of course it didn’t matter what he called her—she didn’t give a damn what he thought of her. Insulting her was probably his way of compensating for his own deep-seated feelings of inadequacy. Yes, that’s it, she thought with a satisfied smile. He felt threatened by her successful career and superior intelligence, so he resorted to adolescent insults to prove his own masculine—