Master of the Desert. Susan Stephens

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      There was a moment of silence, and then he saluted her with the plastic tumbler. ‘Do your worst.’

      She saw the glint in his eyes. He was laughing at her, but she kept her temper under control. Apart from the lift she so badly needed, she was playing a very dangerous game with a man she didn’t know. There could be no mixing up of dreams and reality here. Placating him was her best, her only, option.

      Once she’d cleared up the mess, she faced him again. ‘I realise I haven’t exactly got off on the best foot.’

      She waited for him to contradict her. Any gentleman would. But this man wasn’t a gentleman, he was a barbarian, who angled his chin to stare at her with derision as if he were wondering how deep she would care to dig the hole before jumping into it. ‘Can we start again?’ she suggested, somehow remaining calm.

      The sight of one inky eyebrow peaking made her cheeks flame red, but with her lift in serious jeopardy she wasn’t about to take any chances. ‘I’m prepared to work my passage back to the mainland, if you’ll just tell me what you’d like me to do.’

      ‘You could leave me in peace?’ he suggested.

      Antonia’s jaw dropped. She was welcome everywhere. Except here, she concluded as the man directed a pointed glance at the companionway leading below deck.

      ‘Can I do anything more for you?’ he said pointedly.

      ‘Absolutely not,’ she assured him, spinning on her heels. She paused at the top of the steps to deliver her exit line: ‘You’ve done quite enough for me already.’

      But as she spoke she glimpsed the island behind him. It looked so desolate in the fading light. Did she really want to be stranded there? ‘Just for the record, I really am sorry I made such a mess of things and spilled a drink, but you shouldn’t have leapt out at me.’

      The man’s eyes narrowed threateningly.

      She tensed and went on, ‘I only brought you a drink because—’

      ‘You felt guilty?’ He suggested. ‘And I’m guessing that’s a first for you.’

      ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

      ‘I know all I want to know.’

      ‘How can you say that?’ Because he didn’t want to know any more about her, Antonia realised, heating up with embarrassment. ‘What have I ever done to you? Why do you hate me so much?’

      ‘I don’t hate you,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel anything that requires that much energy. Let me spell it out for you,’ he offered. ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with spoiled brats who march into danger with their eyes wide open, expecting other people to bail them out.’

      ‘It wasn’t like that.’

      ‘How would you describe it?’

      For once she was lost for words. ‘I’m going below.’

      ‘You do that.’

      She had never been dismissed by anyone before, and the thought that it was so unjust forced her to turn one last time and confront him. ‘Why should I sleep below deck where it’s hot and stuffy, while you’re up here enjoying the breeze?’

      ‘Have you never been told “thank you, we’ll call you” after one of your dramatic performances? No, I guess not,’ he said wearily. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess. Off you go,’ he prompted with a dismissive gesture.

      ‘I’m staying right here.’

      He shrugged, turned his back and walked away.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      HE WATCHED her out of the corner of his eye. She sat well away from him, glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. She reminded him of a newly caged animal taking account of its changed circumstances before making any rash moves. When she realised he was watching her, she quickly looked away.

      The light had begun to fade, cloaking them in shadows. The yacht was barely moving, and even the waves had grown lazy as they lapped against the side of the boat, as if the ocean was preparing itself for sleep. Night fell quickly in the desert, and he guessed she would want to freshen up before she had something to eat. Although she had annoyed him intensely, he had no intention of starving her. ‘Are you hungry?’

      She pretended not to hear him.

      She stirred, but refused to look at him. Instead, she stretched out on her back, staring up at the sky, her sunbleached hair dusting the deck. ‘What time is it?’ she said as if they were the best of friends.

      ‘Time for you to swim and freshen up, and then we’ll eat,’ he told her in a tone of voice that gave her no encouragement.

      Putting conditions on her chance to eat grabbed her attention. She sat bolt upright, still pretending unconcern as she twisted her hair into an expert knot, which she then secured with a band she wore around her wrist.

      Her delicate bone-structure held his interest momentarily. ‘Up,’ he commanded, shaking the sight of her long, naked limbs out of his head. ‘You’ve been lazing around long enough. What you need now is exercise.’

      ‘To get over the shock?’ she challenged him with a glare.

      ‘To stretch your limbs,’ he countered, refusing to be sucked in by her ‘poor little victim’ act. She had been through a trauma, but it wouldn’t help her to dwell on it—and he suspected she wasn’t as badly affected as she made out, if only because acting was something she could turn on and off at will.

      She stood up and stretched. ‘A swim?’ she said, slanting a blue-green gaze at him. ‘I could handle that.’

      Shaking his head, he turned away. What was it about this girl that drew him to her? She was a feisty bundle of trouble, and he should know better than to lead her on when he went for mature, gracious women—usually with a title, and always with a keen sense of what was and wasn’t correct. Something told him there was nothing remotely correct about this girl.

      He should not have suggested she go for a swim. He could count the mistakes he’d made in his adult life on the fingers of one hand and this was up there with the best. Did he need reminding that the girl who had insisted on scrubbing the whole of his deck after mopping up the original spill, and polishing every surface until it gleamed, had the frame of a young gazelle and the bosom of a centrefold, or that plastic surgery had played no part in her good fortune?

      He was on shore, preparing a cooking fire, when she walked out of the sea and strolled towards him looking like a nubile film-star in her too-short shorts and ripped top. He steeled himself not to look, but it was already too late when the image was branded on his mind.

      Apparently unaware of the effect she was having on him, she came to stand within splashing distance, and, twisting her hair to get rid of the water before flinging it carelessly back, she demanded, ‘What are you cooking?’

      He gave her a look. ‘What does it look like?’

      ‘Fish?’

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