The Billionaire's Beautiful Intruder (Billionaire Knights Book 3) (5 page)

She wasn’t disappointed. Far from being attracted to the dark forest below, she was glad they were moving away from it. Though she had to admit the sheer ruggedness of the area and its untamed aspect were awe-inspiring. This was where man hadn’t messed with nature. Where everything was still as it was at the beginning of time, at the start of creation. And suddenly she was reminded that she and Steve were like the Adam and Eve of Tyler Island. The only people in a sea of primeval forest, the only humans inhabiting this uninhabitable place.

Once again she felt a tremor of awareness travel through her at the notion that it was just her and Steve. She and this imposing, powerful alpha male. The thought of what could happen when a man and a woman were stranded on a deserted island together suddenly produced a stream of images that were quite unwanted and disconcerting. She and Steve on that tiny strip of beach, making love as the waves crashed around them. Or in each other’s arms in that clearing, surrounded by those noble animals. Traversing the island dressed in loincloth, taking every opportunity to make love, voraciously and insatiably. She gulped a little at the sheer eroticism of her fantasies, and tried to eradicate them. She hadn’t come here to make love to this man but to save him, she reminded herself, even though Steve seemed to be doing a pretty good job at saving himself.

They were walking along in silence, like before, sunlight occasionally flickering through the foliage, its bright light filtered and dappling the forest floor where they stepped. Birds fluttered high above, twittering excitedly, and as she looked up, shielding her eyes from a piercing beam of blinding light, she suddenly tripped over an exposed tree root and went down—hard.

H
e heard
her cry of distress and instantly whirled round to see her crashing down to the earth, her head on a collision course with a sharp rock. In a flash he was by her side, holding her up and preventing her from crushing her head.

She glanced up at him, her eyes large and surprised, and licked her lips.

She felt soft in his arms, soft and pliant and delightful, he decided. He hadn’t had the luxury to pick and choose where he grasped her and inadvertently his hand had closed on her breast, his fingers molding the soft flesh. He should have replaced his hand, found a more appropriate spot, but realized that he couldn’t. She felt too damn good. And that’s when it happened. It was that look in her eyes, he later decided, and the feel of her soft warm flesh beneath his fingers. And of course the way her lips parted. Pink and wet and entirely too kissable.

So he did the only thing that seemed to make sense: he lowered his head and covered her lips with his own, brushing against all that softness. To his surprise she didn’t pucker her lips in affronted anger but opened them, inviting him to probe deeper.

And then her lips were moving against his, hot and urgent, kissing him right back, her head twisting to accommodate his touch. He cradled her in his arms, slowly and deliberately penetrating her mouth, seeking and finding her tongue in a soft stroke that invoked sensations inside him he hadn’t experienced in the longest time.

When Steve’s lips brushed against hers, first tentative, then insistent, she knew she should have turned away in annoyance and abhorrence, but she found that his kiss felt too right—too good. Too much like what she needed. So she invited him to take his kiss deeper, invited his tongue to discover, to lap softly against her own. And as she sank deeper into surprised bliss, she felt his hand on her breast, his fingers digging into her flesh, and as his thumb caressed her nipple, raising it into a yearning peak, she was ready for him to explore her body and the sudden heat that churned at her core a whole lot further than propriety allowed.

God she felt good in his arms, Steve thought. And as he darted kisses along her neckline, tracing and finding that magic spot behind her ear, she arched her back to press herself more firmly against him, shaping herself against his body. The feel of her beneath his touch sent his desire skyrocketing and then he was devouring her tender flesh, her satiny skin, with the hot caresses of his lips. His hands cupped her ribcage, then moved over her breasts, and as he relished in the feel of her soft flesh through the fabric of her shirt, he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked it eagerly, the pink flesh tautening beneath the wet material.

And then, as his hands moved beneath her shirt, tugging it up, she suddenly, unexpectedly, was fighting him—struggling to be released from his hold, wrenching away his hands. And even as he removed his lips from her breast, he found that she was frantically shaking her head, her hands pushing him away.

“No!” she was crying, first on a whisper, then louder. “No, no, no, no!”

It was enough to curdle the blood in his veins and douse his desire as if with a bucket of ice water. Immediately he rose, and stared down at her as she was still wrestling with the attacker she must assume he was. He shook his head, dazed, and anger suddenly lanced through him. She’d wanted him to kiss her—had even cooperated in the kiss, her lips as eager for his touch as his had been for hers. And now this? And as his mood darkened, he recognized what this was. She must have become aware of who he was—what kind of man he was.

She’d seen his scars, and as her hands had slipped beneath his shirt she must have remembered—remembered the monster he was. Perhaps she’d even become aware of the scars he’d hidden beneath his beard, and the thought of making love to him had filled her with sudden horror. He was a man to abhor, not to yearn for. He was a monster, and she’d rightfully discovered this and had abruptly responded with the revulsion she should have felt from the first.

He strode away, his mouth a hard line. This would never happen again, he promised himself. What had he even been thinking? Groping a woman like an adolescent schoolboy? He knew better than that. He was better than that.

Molly watched him stalk off with angry strides and felt her heart constrict. She’d been all right when he’d first kissed her, filled with roseate notions of them being the last people on earth, Adam and Eve in the forest of creation. And momentarily she’d forgotten who she was, what she looked like beneath her clothes. And as she now lifted her shirt gingerly, knowing he was safely out of sight, her fingertip traced the ugly red scar tissue that covered her belly. And she remembered. Remembered that terrible day. The explosion had sent debris flying all over the place, and a piece of flaming metal had hit her in the belly, puncturing the skin and searing the flesh all around the impact wound. There had been substantial damage to her inner organs, most importantly her womb, which had left the surgeons no other option than an emergency hysterectomy.

Not only was she scarred for life, the scar tissue reaching up to just below her breasts, but she would never have children, something which would make most men turn away from her in disgust and horror, she knew.

Only just in time she’d realized that Steve had almost seen her—seen her shame. His fingers had been on the verge of discovering the hideous reality of her body when she’d stopped him.

This must never happen again, she vowed. She knew that the fantasy was strong—she’d wanted him at that moment—she’d yearned for his touch. For once in her life she’d wanted a man to touch her lovingly and maybe even make love to her. But fortunately just in time she’d remembered. Remembered who and what she was. It could simply never be, she recognized with a desperate sob.

W
hen she finally returned to
the house, Steve was nowhere to be found. It took her a while to recognize the thudding sounds as coming from the back, and she wandered over to see what was going on. When she stepped out of the house, she saw that it was Steve, hacking away at a pile of wood, chopping the logs into small chunks. He was bare except for his jeans, and the powerful muscles of his body worked, sweat coating his magnificent torso in a film of sweat, his tan skin stretched taut over undulating muscle. Inadvertently her hand reached up to her lips, her fingers touching the spot where he’d kissed her passionately, so full of fire and hunger, a hunger she’d felt within herself as well.

She warned herself, as her eyelashes swept down, that she must be careful. She might be tempted by Steve, by his sheer male potency, to allow him to kiss her again, even to take her to bed, but it could never be. The moment he discovered the true nature of who she was, he’d recoil in horror and then she would be even worse off than she was now. She would have to live with the pain of his rejection, and she simply couldn’t bear it—couldn’t bear the agony.

So she quickly turned away from him and returned indoors.

Steve glanced up. He’d been sure he caught a glimpse of Molly watching him, and his lips tightened in an expression of disapproval. She’d come to take a look at the monster, he decided. Look at the hideous freak he’d become.

Those days when he was laid up at the hospital had been hard on him. And when Camille had broken up with him he’d known he would never be the same again. He would never again be that happy-go-lucky bachelor, serial-dating women because he had nothing else to do.

He’d taken after his father in that sense. And why not? He’d been the youngest, the one least likely to succeed. His brothers had everything under control. They ran the company, the family business. Nothing was expected of him but to show up from time to time to cash a check. But that had all changed when Grandpa died. He’d loved the old man. In fact had felt closer to him than his two brothers ever had. There had been a kinship that was like a bond, and when he’d seen Grandpa dying, it had shaken him to the core. His carefree life had suddenly seemed shallow, and his grandfather’s final words, admonishing the three men to choose wisely when they considered matrimony, had struck a nerve. He’d been going down the same road as his own father, drinking and drugging and partying and bedding women who were only interested in him because his last name was Knight and he had a substantial fortune to spend.

The shock the realization had given him had been enough to send him reeling, and when Stu had suggested he join the military, he’d decided his brother was right. And like Stu he’d gone through training hoping to do something for his country, to serve a purpose greater than himself, for his life to have meaning and not be the quagmire of drink and drugs and sex it was.

And he found the clean-living ways he’d sought, and he found the enduring friendships and the comradeship he’d hoped to find, and he changed his ways and made his brothers and his country proud. And then his whole life had turned into an inferno of fire and death, and it had very nearly ended him.

He couldn’t share his horrors with a woman, and he wasn’t in the market for casual sex either, and neither was Molly, he knew. She simply wasn’t that kind of person. So he told himself to back off from her. The army had taught him self-discipline and self-control. Those qualities were going to come in very handy right now, he thought as he sent the axe crashing into another chunk of wood.

T
he nights were cool
, just like Steve had told her, and the duvet he’d given her came in handy. Molly couldn’t find sleep, however, and kept staring out the window at the full moon as it rose against the night sky. There were so many sounds outside, of animals moving about and claiming the terrain humans had encroached during the daytime, and she kept expecting the wild boar Steve had told her about to suddenly invade this small house and charge inside.

There was no reason for alarm, of course. They couldn’t get in, or else Steve would have warned her. She closed her eyes, and allowed her fingers to trace beneath the nightshirt she was wearing, deftly covering the whorls and ridges of the tattoo terror had etched across her belly. It was a habit of hers, worrying that deformed and inelastic skin over and over again. She’d discovered that those scars had come to define her, as they had the many people who’d suffered the same burns as she had. She wondered if Steve also lay awake right now, touching his own scars and wishing his life hadn’t turned out the way it had.

And as she thought about Steve, the same fire that had consumed her that afternoon suddenly came roaring back to life, and she felt her lower belly roil with heat, a different heat than the one that had caused the scars. This heat was life-giving, not life-taking, and involved the hot hands of a man who was shaped like a Greek god, and whose kisses had blazed life into her, a life she hadn’t even known her body possessed. A yearning and a need that was beyond anything she’d ever known. Like everything else on this island Steve Knight was a force of nature, she decided, and not to be trifled with.

Steve sat up in bed. There was a dull rumble in the air, the clear warning of an impending storm, but all he could think about were Molly Grayson’s warm lips and soft curves. And he knew that she was going to haunt his every dream from now until a long time into the future. The rumble persisted and became more pervasive, as the wind picked up speed outside. He tried to remember if he’d closed Molly’s window. He’d opened it to allow the room to air a little that afternoon, to make sure she would enjoy a pleasant sleep, but now, with the wind starting to howl around the house, he knew that soon rain would come, along with the violence of the storm, and scare her sleep away.

So he quickly padded to the door and walked across the small corridor into her room, making sure he was quiet. He moved over to her window which, as he’d assumed, was still open, and closed it. And he was just walking back to the door when he bumped into her in the darkness of the room. Automatically he reached out to steady her, and as his hands clamped down on her upper arms, there was a crashing sound, immediately followed by a flash that lit up the room. The thunderous noise had the worst effect on Molly, who cried out in terror and fear and suddenly clung to him, as if her life was in mortal danger.

Instinctively he clasped his arms around her, his fingers curling into her hair to press her head into his shoulder, his other arm enveloping her. And as he found her warm and soft curves molding against him, the telltale hardening of his arousal was once again in full force, ignoring the violence of the storm.

Harshly, he grated out, “It’s all right, Molly. It’s just a storm.”

Just then, as if to confirm his words, another flash lacerated the sky, and thunder roared through the house. Molly curled her body into his, uttering another panicked cry, and then he carried her to the bed, and let them roll into it, wrapping her in the blanket of his arms and rocking her against him.

And that’s how they remained while the storm raged outside, lashing the house and unleashing its demons on the island. There was another bang and a flash, and as he held Molly’s shivering body close, he frowned. Something terrible must have happened for her to be so afraid of a mere storm, but then he figured she was simply one of many people who were terrified of storms. He cursed as her proximity in this very non-sexual embrace was threatening to devour his self-control, his erection quite painfully present throughout. Luckily she would never know, and wouldn’t think he’d imposed himself on her.

“Is it gone?” she finally asked, daring to peek from beneath the safety of his arms. She’d never been so scared in ages, she recognized, but the storm had brought back painful memories of the terror attack. The crashing thunder and lightning skidding across the ceiling had sent her right back to the shopping mall, straight into the line of fire. Now, as the storm’s violence abated, quickly dispersing itself, she chided herself for acting so foolishly.

“Yes, it’s quite safe now,” his low voice told her, and he began to release her from his grasp. The sudden removal of his arms from around her was almost like a physical blow, the deprivation unbearable, and instinctively she burrowed into his chest, like a little girl in search of comfort and protection. He responded by drawing her into the warmth of his embrace once more, and then, as her fear waned, those same unwanted sensations were roiling in her lower body again.

The same sensations of desire and need took possession of her, as his closeness affected her powerfully. She could feel his arousal against her thigh, and it told her he was experiencing the same need. She told herself once more to be strong, and not allow this madness to go any further. For she knew that if she allowed herself to be swallowed up by her need now, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She’d allow him to undress her, to allow his hands to roam her body freely, his hands on her skin, his lips on her breasts… No! She must put a stop to this madness, she knew, before it destroyed her. So with a small voice she told him, “I’m fine now, Steve. I’m—I’m so sorry. It’s just that—”

“You’re afraid of the storm,” he finished gruffly.

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Yes, I am. It reminded me—” She shook her head. “It simply reminds me of some bad things that happened, that’s all.”

“That’s all right,” he told her huskily as he allowed her to roll from his arms. And then he was rising, the warmth of his embrace quickly fading, and she felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes as she realized that she would never experience this—would never experience a man loving her—making love to her.

So she turned away from him, rolling onto her side, and brokenly told him, “Thank you—thank you for comforting me.”

He just stood there, staring down at her as she rolled away from him, and the grim line on his face was back. Of course. She yearned for comfort and protection, until the danger had passed. Until she remembered who it was who was holding her. The beast. The monster that lurked in the darkness. Grim-faced, he strode from the room. He did a quick check of the house, to see if the storm had done any damage, but soon had to recognize that not the storm was raging through his mind, but the memory of the soft sweetness of the woman he’d briefly held in his arms, before she’d turned away from him again…

And when finally he returned to his own bed, he found it cold and empty, and wondered how it could be that a woman he’d only known for two days could already take up so much space in his thoughts. Why after living alone for months he suddenly yearned for her with a feverish longing that was uncalled for and unwanted. Because he was a man, with manly needs, and suddenly this beautiful woman had entered his life and she was causing havoc to his emotional life, stirring up needs and wants that were simply part of his biological makeup.

Yes, of course. That was all this was. The simple needs of his biology. Once she was gone he’d soon forget all about her, and go on with his life as he had before. But then why was the last thing he remembered before sleep took him the feel of her body against his? Her softness against his hardness? And her lips on his?