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CHAPTER ONE

LAUREN frowned. ‘Do you mean it’s impossible to get to this village?’

The receptionist hesitated before saying cautiously, ‘It is not impossible, ma’am, but it is difficult.’

‘Why?’

Anxious brown eyes avoided Lauren’s in a respectful manner. ‘The road is too dangerous, ma’am.’

On Sant’Rosa the word road was used loosely; the memory of the minibus juddering violently sent a reminiscent twinge through Lauren’s body. And that was on the road from the airport to the resort.

The prospect of tackling an even worse route wasn’t pleasant. So what, she thought grimly, was new? Nothing about this side trip had been easy.

Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t promised to check out Paige’s favourite charity. In London it had seemed simple, a mere matter of breaking her journey to a New Zealand holiday with a couple of days on a tropical island.

Ha! Her flight to Singapore had been delayed so she’d missed the connection, and as she hadn’t got to Sant’Rosa until after midnight she’d had to wait for the early-morning plane to the South Coast.

After only a couple of hours’ sleep, her head was aching, her eyes were gritty, and her smile was hurting her lips. And now this! She pushed a stray strand of damp black hair back from her cheek. ‘What about public transport?’

Still avoiding her gaze, the receptionist stopped shuffling papers to adjust the scarlet hibiscus behind one ear. ‘Ma’am, there is nothing suitable for you.’

‘I’m perfectly happy to go on the local bus,’ Lauren said crisply.

The woman looked harried. ‘It is not suitable,’ she repeated. ‘And that village is very alone—apart.’

The village had set up an export venture that involved a factory, so it couldn’t be too isolated. A steely note running through her words, Lauren persisted, ‘In that case, where can I hire a car?’

From behind a hard masculine voice drawled, ‘You can’t. There are no car-hire firms on the South Coast.’

Lauren stiffened, every sense sounding alarms. The new arrival’s voice—deep, subtly infused with irony—oozed male confidence.

Slowly she turned. Although tall, she had to look up to meet half-closed topaz eyes between lashes as dark as her most forbidden desire. Her stomach—normally an obedient organ not given to independent action—lurched, then dropped into free fall.

Inanely she repeated, ‘No car-hire firms?’

‘Lady, the closest car-hire firm is in the capital, and that, as you already know, is an hour’s flight away over a mountain range.’

He infused the word lady with a slow, purring sexuality that fanned over her skin like the warm breath of a lover. And where did that thought come from? Clutching her tattered dignity around her, she asked crisply, ‘Then how can I get to this village?’

Because she couldn’t pronounce the name she thrust out the slip of paper Paige had given her.

His expression altered in some subtle way as he examined it, but his tone didn’t change. ‘I doubt if you can. The last rains brought down half a mountain onto the road.’

‘Surely they’ve fixed it.’

One dark brow—his left, she noticed—lifted in sardonic amusement. ‘The locals walk it, and as you may have noticed, Sant’Rosa hasn’t yet flung itself headlong into tourism. It’s still trying to get over a civil war.’

‘I know that.’ Someone should tell him that the purpose of designer stubble was to emphasise boldly chiselled features, not blur them. And his black hair needed cutting.

A second glance convinced her that the shadow across his jaws and cheeks wasn’t for effect—this man hadn’t shaved because he didn’t care what people thought of him. From the corner of her eye she catalogued the rest of his assets, admitting reluctantly that the overlong black hair had been well cut, and stubble couldn’t hide strong bones and a mouth that combined sculpted beauty with a suggestion of ruthlessness.

An elusive flash of memory teased her brain. Somewhere she had seen him…or someone who looked like him?

Startled, she pinned a brief, dismissive curve to her lips. Of course she didn’t recognise him! An unkempt expatriate on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean was as far out of her ken as an alien. The men she met as a junior executive wore suits and strove for worldliness. This beachcomber, clad in an old black T-shirt and trousers, looked as though neither the word sophistication nor the concept existed for him.

She took a deep breath and spoke clearly and carefully. ‘Can I fly in? Ms Musi—’ she indicated the receptionist, who was gazing at the newcomer as though he’d saved her from a shark ‘—tells me that the local public transport isn’t suitable.’

‘She’s right.’

‘Why?’

His eyes glinted. ‘Would you be happy to travel on the back of an elderly, bullet-holed truck with no shelter from the sun and no seats?’

‘If I had to,’ she said curtly.

‘And cockroaches.’ No malice coloured the words as he said, ‘Big, black ones. If you go to sleep they chew your toenails.’

Hoping he couldn’t see her skin crawl, she snapped, ‘I can cope with the local fauna.’

‘I doubt it,’ he drawled. ‘If you’re really determined to get there, you could try walking.’ He inspected her without haste before adding gravely, ‘But if you go like that you’d better invest in some sunscreen.’

Who was this sarcastic newcomer with mocking eyes and far too much presence? The manager? Hardly, but it was typical of this trip into the wilds of the Pacific Ocean that she should be confronted by a scruffy dead-beat with an attitude—and a bewildering, raw sex appeal that set every treacherous nerve in her body jangling into awareness.

Her composure evaporating under the impact of his lazily appreciative smile, Lauren stiffened. All right, so the pretty sarong in her favourite shade of crimson revealed an uncomfortable amount of white skin, but she wasn’t an idiot! Forcing her voice into its usual confident tone, she asked, ‘How long would that take me?’

‘It depends how fast you walk. Don’t stop for long or leeches will bite you. Do you know how to take a leech off your skin? Remove the small end first—’

The receptionist broke in. ‘Mr Guy is making a joke, ma’am, because it is too far for you to walk.’ She gave him a shocked look, as though this wasn’t what she expected from him. ‘It takes two days to come by walking, ma’am.’

Mr Guy didn’t exactly tell her who this man was, but at least his name gave her a handle.

In a voice that blended satire with long-suffering, he said, ‘Your travel agent should have warned you that this region is pretty much without civilisation.’ He paused a fraction of a second before finishing, ‘As you’d know it, anyway.’

‘As you know nothing about me, I’m going to ignore that remark!’ Furious with herself for letting him get to her, she reined in her temper.

Fortunately the receptionist burst into the local language and the newcomer turned to listen, obviously understanding every word.

Skimming a cold grey glance over the T-shirt and trousers moulded lovingly to long, powerful legs and lean hips, Lauren was forced to revise her first impression. This was no loser. His thrusting bone structure—high cheekbones and a chin that took on the world—spoke of a total lack of compromise.

And now that he’d dropped the mocking veneer, neither old clothes nor villainous stubble could hide his formidable authority. Beneath the beachcomber persona was pure alpha male, testosterone and arrogance smoking off his bronzed hide like an aura. Untamed, certainly, but—intriguing, if you fancied men who looked as though they could deal with anything up to and including marauding Martians.

In other words, she thought hollowly, just the sort of man to take her to Paige’s pet village—if she could ignore the instincts that warned her to run like crazy in the opposite direction.

He looked up, meeting her sideways glance with a coolly speculative survey.

Lauren’s self-possession crumbled under an awareness as steamy and ruthless as the tropical heat. Not my type! she thought fiercely. She preferred men with at least basic social skills. More colour stung her skin, fading swiftly at the note of desperation in the receptionist’s tone.

Black brows meeting above a nose that hinted at Roman gladiators, the newcomer posed several staccato questions, to which the woman responded with increasing reluctance.

Feeling like an eavesdropper, Lauren examined a rack of postcards. Fans hummed softly overhead, sending waves of sultry air over her bare arms. The small resort promised total relaxation, and what it lacked in modern luxuries it made up for in exquisite beauty and peace. Until this man appeared she hadn’t missed air-conditioning a bit.

Now, in spite of the heat, she wished she’d slung a shirt over her shoulders before leaving her cabin.

Eventually the receptionist’s lengthy explanation—punctuated by worried glances at Lauren—wound down to a conclusion.

Something was clearly amiss; a chilly emptiness congealed beneath Lauren’s ribs, but she hadn’t come all this way to be fobbed off.

The man turned to inspect her. ‘Why do you want to go to this village? It has no accommodation for tourists, nothing to do. The only bathroom is a pool in the river. They are not geared for sightseers.’

He had a faint trace of an accent, so elusive Lauren wasn’t sure it existed. Exasperated by the beads of moisture gathering across her brow and top lip, she evaded his question. ‘I know that, but I’m not planning to stay. All I want is to spend an afternoon there. In fact, that’s why I came to Sant’Rosa—specifically to go there.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.’ Lauren didn’t try to hide the frosty undertone to her words.

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Whatever your reason is, it’s not good enough,’ he said flatly, and forestalled her instant objection. ‘Come and have a drink with me and I’ll explain why.’

Was this merely a pick-up? Obscurely disappointed, Lauren glanced at the receptionist, who hurried into speech with an air of relief. ‘Mr Guy will help you,’ she promised, indicating the man with a wave of one beautiful hand and a smile that paid tribute to his potent male magnetism.

OK, so he wasn’t a rapist or serial killer. Not here, anyway.

‘In that case, I will have a drink, thank you,’ Lauren said calmly, wishing that she’d worn something cool and well-cut and sharply classical—and a lot less revealing.

And it would help to have some make-up to shelter behind; sunscreen and a film of coloured lip gloss were flimsy shields against the hard intimidation of his gaze.

The man beside her walked as silently and easily as a panther, his controlled grace hinting subtly of menace. Lauren resented the way he towered above her, especially as each inch of powerful, honed male exuded a potent sensuality.

So his name was Mr Someone Guy. Or Mr Guy Someone. And she wasn’t going to tell him who she was; if he didn’t have the manners to properly introduce himself, she certainly wasn’t going to make the effort.

As though he felt her survey, he shafted a glance her way. A high-voltage charge sizzled between them, part antagonism, part heady chemistry. Tension jolted her heart into overcompensation.

Turning her face resolutely towards the small bar, she decided wildly that he was wasted here. A man who gave off enough electricity to melt half the world’s ice caps should head for some place where his talents could be really appreciated.

The North Pole, for instance.

Who was he? The local layabout, angling for a wild holiday fling? Or perhaps looking out for a rich, lonely woman to rescue him from all this tropical heat?

No. Disturbingly sexy he might be, but instinct warned her he was more buccaneer than gigolo.

In the voice her half-brother, for whom she worked, referred to as Patient but Friendly Executive, she asked, ‘Do you own the resort, Mr Guy?’

Winged black brows lifted. ‘No,’ he said briefly. ‘It belongs to the local tribe.’ Without touching her, he steered her across to a table beneath a large thatched umbrella. ‘This is probably the coolest spot around, and it’s got a good view of the lagoon.’

Grateful for the shade, she lowered herself into a chair and persevered, ‘But you live here? In this particular area of Sant’Rosa?’ she amended, when his brows lifted in saturnine enquiry.

‘Off and on.’ He nodded to a waiter. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Papaya and pineapple juice, thank you.’

He ordered it for her, and a beer for himself. A tiny gecko scuttled across the table; smiling, Lauren watched it disappear over the edge. When she looked up, Guy was watching her.

‘You’re not afraid of them?’ he asked.

A subtle intonation convinced her that he wasn’t English. ‘Not the little ones, although some of the big ones have a nasty predatory gleam in their eyes.’

He laughed outright at that—another slow, sexy laugh that brushed her taut nerves with velvety insinuation.

‘They won’t bite, not even in self-defence,’ he said, stressing the first word just enough for Lauren to immediately wonder if he bit—and when…

He finished, ‘But you’d be surprised at the number of women who are terrified of even the tiny ones.’

‘Men too, I’ll bet. It makes you wonder why some people come to the tropics.’ Was the stubble soft to touch—or bristly? She’d never kissed a man with that much—

Whoa!

He leaned back in the chair, his pose utterly relaxed, but his level, cool gaze held her prisoner. ‘So why are you here? More specifically, why are you determined to find your way to one of the more untamed spots on Sant’Rosa?’

She parried, ‘Is that untamed as in dangerous?’

‘As in without conveniences,’ he told her, his keen gaze steady and intimidating. ‘But it’s in the border area, and the border between Sant’Rosa and the Republic has always been tense.’

‘I thought the treaty after the civil war stopped the threat of an invasion by the Republic.’

Wide shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. ‘A new player—a charismatic preacher—seems to have got together a ragtag following on both sides of the border. He’s preaching part religious revival, part cargo cult. Which is—’

‘I know what a cargo cult is,’ she said crisply. ‘Its followers expect a saviour to bring them the benefits of western civilisation. I’d not realised they could be violent.’

‘So far they’re not, but over the past couple of days there have been rumours that someone is supplying them with weapons.’

Not that anyone had actually seen the rifles and explosives that were being talked about. Guy suspected they didn’t exist. However, every islander was taught to use a machete from a very early age, and he’d seen the damage the long blades could inflict. If—and it was a big if—any hyped-up converts decided to go on the rampage, they could kill.

He watched her slender black brows draw together. What the hell was she doing here? And why was she so evasive? Women like her—sleekly elegant from the shiny top of her black head to the polished nails on her toes—demanded more from their holidays than a tiny resort with little social life and a heavy emphasis on family groups.

She looked up sharply, the eyes that had been ice-clear now silvery and impossible to read. ‘Only rumours?’

‘Almost certainly. Rumours—most of them false—run hot through Sant’Rosa. The people are barely coping with the aftermath of a bloody ten years of civil war, and in spite of the peace treaty they still don’t trust the Republic over the border.’ He paused. ‘The receptionist comes from the village you want to visit, and she’s just told me that the preacher has disappeared.’

‘And that’s bad?’

‘Almost certainly not,’ he said, hoping he was right.

Because it was too easy to watch her face, he switched his gaze to a family, parents shepherding two small children. Armed with beach toys and a couple of inflatable rings, the children dashed into the improbably turquoise lagoon, yelling and laughing as they splashed each other and their parents.

That itch at the back of his neck sharpened his senses to primitive alertness, a fierce, feral reaction to stimuli his rational brain couldn’t process.

Which was why he was resisting the compulsion to bundle up these helpless family groups—and the woman opposite with her cool touch-me-not air—and get them out of here on the next plane.

He didn’t dare follow his impulse because the local tribe had sunk every bit of cash they had into the resort; a false alarm, with the resultant bad publicity, could see them lose it all.

The woman opposite was watching the group too, her mouth curving as one of the children shrieked with delight. Grimly, he cursed his unruly loins for responding to that smile with piercing hunger.

Lauren Porter frowned. ‘So are this preacher’s followers likely to turn violent when no saviour turns up with all the blessings of western civilisation free for the taking?’

‘I doubt it. They’ve seen what fighting does, so they’ll almost certainly drift off through the bush to their native villages.’

But they were edgy and frustrated. Peace hadn’t brought the people the benefits they’d longed for, and many were ripe for unscrupulous manipulation. When the promised saviour didn’t eventuate the preacher might try to salvage his slipping authority by suggesting they collect the material benefits from the nearest place that had them.

They wouldn’t go to the mine, which had its own private security force; they’d choose easy pickings. In other words, the resort.

All ifs and buts, with absolutely nothing to base it on. Guy shrugged, trying to banish that needling premonition.

‘But they might not,’ she said shrewdly, and echoed his thoughts with uncanny accuracy. ‘Perhaps they might decide to come and get the goodies for themselves.’

‘It’s unlikely, and even if they did, the police are watching the situation very closely. The resort would be notified in time to get you out.’

‘And everyone else too, I hope.’

‘Trust me,’ he said with a smile he hoped was reassuring.

The arrival of the bartender with their drinks silenced her; Guy eyed her from beneath his lashes, controlling the sharp appetite her presence roused. The combination of thoroughbred lines and the gentle curves of her breasts and hips packed an explosive impact. Mix all that with silky black hair and eyes of cool, translucent grey, and you had trouble.

He wasn’t even going to think about her mouth; it did serious damage to his objectivity.

Lifting his beer in silent salute, he said, ‘At the moment it wouldn’t be sensible to go into the mountains.’

‘What about you?’ she asked abruptly.

‘What about me?’

‘Would you go there?’

‘If I had to,’ he said warily, watching her.

‘So you could take me with you to the village?’

Even softened by femininity, her jaw was combative. God save him from stubborn women, and this one in particular. ‘I’m not taking you there,’ he said curtly.

‘Of course I’d pay you.’

‘Lady,’ he said, angry in a way he’d never experienced before, ‘I am not going, and neither are you. If you want to see how the third world lives, the resort will organise a tour to the local village.’ His voice was scathing.