hadn’t even been missing a week yet. If anyone was looking for her, and she was sure her family was, she figured she had at least a few more days before a search would be scaled back. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Forcing the panic to the recesses of her mind.
When her nerves somewhat settled, she wondered what was taking Max so long. Her mind raced from one distressing scenario to another. She worried that he’d broken his leg or fallen off a cliff. She should have gone with him. What if he needed her?
Wait, she thought to herself, this was Max. A man who could take care of himself and anyone else he’d happened to commandeer. If he broke his leg, he’d just whittle himself a splint and get on with things.
She picked up Baby and scratched his chest. She’d known Max for such a short period of time, how had she come to know him so well? How had he become so important to her life? She’d never needed a man before. Wanted, yes. Needed, no.
If for some reason Max weren’t on the island, she and Baby could figure out how to build a fire and roast an iguana. So why did the thought of losing him give her palpitations? Why did it feel as if he were so important to her existence?
She looked down into her dog’s watery eyes and the answer shone back at her. Stockholm syndrome. Both she and Baby suffered from a bad case of it.
The brush behind her rustled and she looked over her shoulder. Baby let out three barks, then Max appeared through the foliage. “That’s not much of a watchdog,” he said as he stepped from the brush and moved to stand in front of her. A strange little glow warmed her next to her heart and traveled to the pit of her stomach.
As she looked up at him, she was almost embarrassed at how glad she was to see him. He reached for the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the little glow spread across her flesh and tightened her breasts. He wiped the perspiration from his temples and rubbed the T-shirt across his chest. The fine black hair curled, and she stared, fascinated by a bead of sweat that slid down his belly to the waistband of his jeans.
“Did you find a beacon?” she asked, and looked away. She did not believe in love at first sight. Or second sight, or even after a few days. Especially if two of those days had been spent in fear of the object of her infatuation. Her sudden attraction to Max was illogical. It made no sense at all. But she supposed Stockholm syndrome did not make sense.
“No.”
That one word brought her gaze back to his. “What do we do now?”
“We build a huge fire. Somebody ought to see the smoke,” he answered. “On the west side there are quite a few birds’ nests,” he said, and let his eyes travel to her lips. “A few hundred probably.”
“What?” While she’d been worried sick about him, envisioning disaster, he’d been bird-watching? “While Baby and I have been sitting here, you were off counting birds?”
He lifted his gaze once more. “That’s not what I said.”
“Don’t you think that’s just a little bit inconsiderate?”
One brow lifted up his forehead. “What?”
She set Baby on the ground and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Did it even occur to you that Baby and I might be worried that something bad had happened to you?”
“No.” He tossed his shirt on the duffel bag, then knelt in front of her, one thick forearm resting across his thigh. The tree overhead shaded his face and bare shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a bandage around his ribs today, and the fading black and blue bruises were visible on his tan skin. “I don’t think your dog worries about much beyond his next meal.”
“That’s not true,” she defended Baby as he hopped up on the duffel, made three tight circles on Max’s shirt, then settled in for a nap. “He’s sensitive.”
Max shook his head. “You know what I think?”
“No.”
“I don’t think Baby was worried one little bit.”
“He was.”
“I think
She shrugged. “Well, there are a lot of bad things that could have happened to you.”
Smile lines appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Like what?”
“You could have tripped and broken your leg or fallen off a cliff.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
“You wouldn’t mean to,” she sighed, “but it could happen.”
“No, it couldn’t.” He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek and pushed it behind her ear. “Do you know what else I think? I think I like the idea of Lola Carlyle worrying about me.” He slid his knuckle along her jaw to her chin and she held her breath. “You look real pretty.”
Her voice sounded a little breathy when she confessed, “I plucked my eyebrows.”
“I didn’t notice your eyebrows.”
“And put on some lip gloss.”
His thumb brushed her bottom lip, then he dropped his hand to his side. “Now, that I noticed.” He sat and leaned his back against the tree, and she felt the acute absence of his touch. He brought his feet close to his behind and hung his wrist over his knee. The thin branch of a lignum vitae tree brushed his cheek, and he pushed away the thick green leaves and tiny purple flowers. “There’s a lot about you that I notice.”
“Like what?”
The vine hit his cheek again, and he pulled the fish knife from his boot and hacked it off. Then his eyes met hers once more as he returned the knife to his boot. He slid his gaze from the top of her head, paused a moment to examine the buttons closing her dress, then continued down her legs to her toes.
“That first night, I thought your toes were as sexy as hell.” He took a hold of her ankle and set her foot on the ground before him. “I couldn’t see shit for shinola, but I noticed your red polish.” He glanced up at her, then loosely wound the lignum vitae around her ankle as if she were a Polynesian dancer. The tips of his fingers brushed her bare skin, and she felt it at the back of her knee. “And when I was tying you up with your skirt, I noticed your pink panties.” He smiled and pulled off a few leaves as he twined the thin branch around itself. “I have a real fond memory of that.”
Lola did her best to suppress her reaction to his touch and to the sight of him, Max Zamora, snake eater, tying purple flowers around her ankle. But no matter how unwanted or confusing, the sudden butterflies in her stomach and the answering flutter next to her heart refused to go away or be ignored. “Funny, but my memories of that night aren’t so fond.”
He laughed. “Go figure.”
“Do you want to know what I thought about you that first night?”
“Honey, I think that flare gun pointed at my chest said it all.” He wrapped his hand around her lower calf and tugged. Before she knew how it happened, she was on her back and he was over her, his hands planted on the ground on each side of her head. “And despite you having tried to kill me, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman.” He lowered his face to hers. “But I think you know that,” he said right before he kissed her.
The touch of his naked mouth on hers instantly sent a ripple of desire across her skin. His lips gently pressed and coaxed. His tongue lightly caressed, and she let go and gave in to her hunger. Or perhaps, as with most of her dealings with Max, she really didn’t have a choice. He eased onto his side next to her and took his time exploring her mouth. Her lips parted further, and the kiss deepened into a lush fondling of mouths and tongues. He tasted of dark passion and the promise of explosive, curl-your-toes, head-banging-against-the-headboards sex.
The languid kiss seduced and teased until her every thought narrowed and focused on the liquid warmth of his mouth. Heat flushed her breasts and stomach and pooled between her thighs. She ran her hand up the taut flesh of his arms, over his shoulder, to the side of his neck. She slipped her fingers through his short fine hair and he groaned into her mouth.
Max pulled back from the kiss and looked up into her face. His harsh breath caressed her cheek as his blue eyes burned into her. The way Max stared at her, all dark intensity, made her feel beautiful and desired and alive with anticipation.
His gaze drifted past her mouth and chin to the front of her dress. A smile of appreciation curved the corners of his lips, and she looked down at herself, at the buttons lying open, exposing the tops of her breasts and her Cleavage Clicker bra. His quick smooth hands had been busy again, and she grasped the front of her dress.
