Shipwrecked with Mr. Wrong - By Nikki Logan Page 0,2

birds? She hosted birding groups about twice a year. She glanced at his expensive field binoculars. It gave her pause. ‘A booby?’

He flashed those pearly whites again. ‘I believe it was—possibly a pair.’

Believe? Pulu Keeling was famous for its booby colonies. Three species. But surely he would know that if he was into...?

Oh.

Imbecile. Honor sighed and concentrated on not crossing her arms. Displeasure and impatience stained her voice. ‘Do you need a hand launching off? You must be eager to see the memorial. You’ll be able to spot it with binoculars from outside the reef.’

Time to go now.

‘Actually, I need to come ashore.’

‘Not going to happen. Not without a permit.’

‘The Player’s compromised. It wouldn’t be safe to set out without patching the breach.’

The Player—how very apt. The way he stroked the bright blue gunnel of his boat told her how important the vessel was to him. She knew all about men and their boats. ‘Then you’d better head back to Cocos—’

‘I’m coming in. If you want to stop me, knock yourself out. I’m not going to sea until I’ve made repairs.’ He crossed his arms, causing his sea-soaked T-shirt to mould to his broad chest. Honor retreated one pace. She couldn’t stop him, not if it truly wasn’t safe, but she’d never had cause to bring someone unauthorised onto the island in her many seasons on Pulu Keeling. She wasn’t certain what the procedure was.

‘So, are you sending me back out to drown or can I come ashore?’

She sucked in a breath at his choice of phrase and grabbed at the buoyancy sack to steady herself. He couldn’t know...

Her voice cracked slightly. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘Where can I enter the lagoon?’

‘You can’t.’ She fought to sound normal. ‘You’ll have to moor where you are.’

He scanned the lagoon. ‘Are you serious? What about the south side of the island?’

‘Everyone swims into Pulu Keeling. It’s an atoll, completely surrounded by coral reef. Why else would I be hauling all this stuff in by hand?’

Piles of technical equipment mounded in every spare inch of his boat. Honor wouldn’t risk leaving it all in a vessel with a damaged hull in the unpredictable weather of the Keeling Islands, and she knew he’d feel no different.

‘It’s not too late to change your mind, head for Cocos.’ Her tone was hopelessly optimistic.

‘No. I’ll come ashore. I have no choice.’

Neither do I, apparently.

They hardly spoke as they stripped The Player and Honor knew from his grumpy movements that she wasn’t the only one less than pleased with the circumstances they’d found themselves in. Then the sheer hard work of towing load after load of expensive equipment across the lagoon literally took her breath away, making conversation impossible.

He passed items to her one by one and she stacked each one along with her buoyancy sack into The Player’s inflatable dinghy, which bobbed in the protected lagoon. Some pieces were heavier than others, but she managed every one without complaint. Pretty Boy sealed the cabin, dropped the weather shields, started the engine one final time and motored a few metres away from the reef where he could safely drop anchor.

Honor waited while he added his spare anchor to the first he’d dropped and then he dived headlong into the frigid depths and swam towards her. The razor edge of the drop-off threatened, but on his second attempt those powerful arms pushed him up and over into the lagoon, guiding the inflatable from behind towards the beach. The water was warmer and gentler on the island side of the reef-break, and teemed with brightly coloured fish enjoying the protection the coral band afforded. They darted, kamikaze-like, around the giant two-legged predator who’d appeared in their midst nudging the dinghy to shore.

Honor’s weary muscles pressed her along, closer to the island, and then she stood in the calf-deep splash waiting for him, breathing deeply. They couldn’t drag the inflatable far onto the shingle beach; the rocks threatened to shred it in moments. It rested instead on the fine-ground sand closer to the waterline.

Her unwanted guest emerged from the small surf, his saturated clothes glued to every muscled plane. ‘I’ve got it. Take a break.’

Nothing he could have said would have moved her sooner. She dropped the tow rope and bent for one of the parcels in the little boat, trying to disguise her puffing. ‘I’m fine. What is all this stuff, anyway?’

‘Recovery gear, mostly. Photographic equipment, sonar, GPS.’

That stopped her in her tracks.

‘You’re a raider?’ She intentionally used the derogatory term for a