Cinderella's Desert Baby Bombshell by Lynne Graham, Louise Fuller

CHAPTER TWO

SHIFTINGAGAINSTHISPILLOW, Arlo rolled over onto his side and opened his eyes reluctantly. There was a pale frame of light around the heavy curtains, so he knew it was morning. It just didn’t feel like it.

He stretched his arms over his head. As he did so, his lurcher, Nero, sat up in his basket and looked wishfully at the four-poster bed.

‘Stay,’ Arlo warned as he sat up groggily.

Frowning, he rubbed a hand over his face. He’d wanted more than anything to sleep, and normally he didn’t have any trouble—particularly during a storm. For some inexplicable reason he’d always found it oddly restful to lie in bed and listen to the weather rage like an impotent warlord against the house’s thick walls.

Only last night had been different. He had spent most of the early hours of the morning twitching restlessly beneath the sheets in time to the drumming rain.

But then not much had been normal about last night.

His pulse stumbled. For starters, it had been a long time since he’d come home to find a woman in his bed.

He felt his throat close up. As for a woman wearing next to nothing and brandishing a cricket bat... That would be never.

Reaching over, he picked up the bat, weighing it in his hand. He’d been hit by worse before. The last time had been six months ago, on a field trip to the Yamal Peninsula. He’d tried to break up a fight in a bar in Murmansk, between a couple of roughnecks celebrating payday, and had had his nose broken with a pool cue for his trouble.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had his nose broken, but it had still hurt—a lot. As had the cracked ribs. And yet if he had to choose, he’d almost rather be hit any number of times with a pool cue than have to remember Frankie Fox’s parting words.

Some hero.

His jaw tightened.

Maybe he wasn’t a hero to look at, but he had the medals and the scars to prove his heroism—scars that had come from bullets, not pool cues. Yet those words and the expression of disdain on Frankie Fox’s face were what had kept him from sleeping. Oh, and the faint scent of jasmine that still clung to his pillow.

Irritably, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked into the bathroom. Turning on the tap, he ducked his head under the flow of cold water.

Why was he letting some ridiculous, utterly irrelevant ‘social media influencer’make him question himself?

Straightening up, he stared at his reflection. She hardly knew Johnny and she knew nothing about him. He gritted his teeth. But Frankie Fox had been right about one thing. His little brother idolised him.

They had always been close. It hadn’t mattered that there was an eleven-year age gap or that they were very different people. Arlo was the difficult one. The brilliant high achiever with a double first from Cambridge and a doctorate in geology and earth science. Whereas Johnny...

His throat tightened. Everyone loved Johnny. It was impossible not to. He was beautiful, sweet-tempered, generous...

Too generous, he thought, stalking back into the bedroom. Yanking back the heavy curtains, he glared down at the turbulent grey sea outside. And some people—unscrupulous, self-serving people, like Frankie Fox—took advantage of that generosity.

He swore softly. Why was he even still thinking about that woman?

But he knew why.

He flexed his fingers, remembering the moment when their hands had touched. It had been more than skin on skin. It had felt oddly intimate. As if it had been their lips touching. There had been a charge of something electric.

They had both felt it...

Felt what? An imbalance of protons and electrons?

He scowled. It had probably been that silk thing she was wearing.

Great.Now he was back to thinking about her semi-naked.

Gritting his teeth, he reached down and stroked Nero’s head, as if the action might erase the way her touch had jolted through his body.

Last night he’d been exhausted...disorientated.

Look at how it had taken tripping over her suitcase for him even to realise someone was in the house. If he’d been even halfway up to speed, he would have sensed that the moment he’d walked in the front door.

He ran a hand across his face, registering the slight resistance as his fingers grazed the scar on his cheek.

It wasn’t just tiredness playing tricks with his mind. The truth was that since his marriage had imploded, he’d spent way too long on his own—and by choice.

He should never have got involved with Harriet in the first place.

Love, relationships, women...all of them came under the heading of ‘Random, Imprecise, and Illogical’. In other words, everything he distrusted. So, aside from the occasional dalliance, he’d kept women at arm’s length since.

And then, boom, out of nowhere there was Frankie Fox. Not just in his house but in his bed.

No wonder he’d got momentarily knocked off-balance. But whatever he’d imagined had happened in those few seconds had been just that. A figment of his imagination.

His lip curled.

Frankie, though, was real, and she was here in his home. And, despite her capitulation last night, he wasn’t totally convinced that she would leave without a little persuasion.

Remembering the look she’d given him as she stalked out of the room, he felt his shoulders tighten.

Maybe if what had happened hadn’t happened, he might have let her stay. There was obviously room and it wasn’t as if he was in any danger. She might look like a living flame, but he’d put his hand in the fire once and that was enough for him to learn his lesson.

But he was here to work, and he didn’t need any distractions. He didn’t need to spend any more time with Frankie to know she would be a distraction with a capital D.

Constance could book her into a hotel for a couple of days and he’d offer to drive her to the station...

There was a low rumble of thunder and, glancing up at the darkening sky, he frowned.

He’d best get on with it.

This storm was going to be a big one.

Exactly six minuteslater, he strode into the kitchen. He stared with satisfaction at the cream tiled walls and limed oak worktops.

After his father had retreated from the world much of the house had fallen into disrepair. The kitchen had been the first room he had renovated and, despite lacking the glamour and opulence of the drawing room, in many ways it was still his favourite.

‘Good morning, Constance.’ He glanced into the pan on the hotplate. ‘Porridge—good! I’m absolutely starving.’

Constance swung round, her eyes widening. ‘What are you doing here?’

Arlo felt a stab of irritation. First Frankie...now Constance. Why did everyone keep asking him that?

Turning towards the table, he frowned. ‘Eating breakfast, I hope. Is that yesterday’s paper?’

Constance ignored his question. ‘I thought you were with Frankie.’

With Frankie!

Two small words. One big implication. Bigger than was necessary or welcome, he thought, as a tantalising image of what being with Frankie might encompass popped into his head.

Keeping his tone even, he shook his head and replied. ‘I haven’t seen her.’ He glanced up at the window. ‘Storm’s picked up.’

The wind sounded like a trapped animal whining and the rain was hitting the window with great wet smacks.

‘She said you were taking her to the station...’

The cheeky little...

His jaw tightened. ‘And I will. After breakfast.’

‘But she left twenty minutes ago.’

It took two strides for him to reach the window that overlooked the causeway. The sky was the colour of a twelve-bore shotgun now, and it was raining so hard that it was impossible to see clearly. But he didn’t need to see clearly to spot the blur of red inching along the raised cobbled road.

Gritting her teeth, Frankie gripped the handle of her suitcase more tightly and gave it a small, sharp tug.

Arlo Milburn had to be the rudest, most loathsome man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet, not to mention the most hard-hearted. What kind of host turned a guest out of their bed in the middle of the night? she asked herself angrily, for what had to be the hundredth time.

And as for his accusations—

She felt her heart scrabble inside her chest as her memories coalesced. Her shocked realisation that he was Johnny’s brother... His cold-eyed disdain... That moment when the key had caught in her pocket and he’d tried to help her...

She replayed it silently inside her head, her fingers flexing involuntarily. His hand had been warm—warmer than she’d expected—the skin rough like sandpaper, and there had been a tiny but definite jolt of electricity.

Her mouth twisted. Arlo had been so tense with fury he could probably have single-handedly powered the entire coastline from here to John O’Groats.

She had no idea how he could be related to Johnny. But, then again, look at her and her super-high-achieving siblings. The twins had both been super-academic, sporty, and had won every prize going. Harry had been head-boy at school, and Amelie was practically a saint. With her blonde hair and sweet smile, she’d looked like an angel. Everyone had always been so surprised to find out Frankie was a Fox...

And now she was the only one left.

But this was not the time to go there. Right now, all that mattered was getting back to the mainland.

Screwing up her eyes against the rain, she stared down the causeway, trying not to give in to the panic rising in her chest. The wind was blowing so hard she could hardly keep hold of her suitcase and the rain felt more like hailstones. Worse, the waves were starting to slop over the cobblestones.

Was that supposed to happen?

Her lower lip trembled. This whole trip had been a disaster. Basically, she’d spent five hours on a train to get shouted at and soaked to the bone. Twice. And to top it all, she’d overslept.

This was all Arlo’s fault.

If he hadn’t got her so wound up last night she wouldn’t have slept through her alarm, and then she wouldn’t have bumped into Constance, and Constance wouldn’t have insisted that Arlo take her to the station...

Obviously she hadn’t been about to hang around to be insulted again, so she’d pretended Arlo was waiting and sneaked out through the front door.

And it had seemed fine at first...

Her case slipped sideways again and, scowling, she gave the handle a savage jerk.

No, no, no, no... This could not be happening.

One of the wheels had popped out of its socket and was spinning away from her across the cobbles. She watched in dismay as it was swallowed up in a rush of water. Now she’d have to carry her case.

But as she turned to pick it up she felt something change amid the chaos.

Darkness.

As if the sky had turned black...

Looking up, she felt her heart slam into her ribcage, panic strangle her breath.

A huge, curling grey wave was rising out of the sea, towering over her.

For a moment, the air around her seemed to thicken and slow. And then the wave was falling, and the earth shifted on its axis, and then she was falling too, her feet slipping beneath her, her scream drowned out by an infinity of water...

From an immense, unfathomable distance, as though it had reached through the storm clouds, a hand grabbed her shoulder. Suddenly she was on her feet again.

Spluttering, gasping like a landed fish, she squinted up at her rescuer.

Arlo.

Water was sloshing around his feet, swirling and foaming across the cobbles. She caught a glimpse of dark, narrowed eyes, and then he scooped her into his arms as if she was made of feathers.

‘Don’t let go,’ he shouted into her ear.

He turned back into the storm and the scream of the wind felt as if it was vibrating inside her bones like a shrieking banshee. Ahead, she could see nothing. The rain was like a curtain of water.

Her fingers tightened around Arlo’s neck and she felt his shoulders brace. Then he bent his body into the gale, pushing forward, the only solid object in a swaying world. Dragging in a shallow breath, she turned her face into his chest, felt the heavy curve of his arm muffling the noise and the pounding rain.

Salt was stinging her eyes, and it hurt just to breathe, but she was not alone. Arlo was here. And she knew that, whatever happened, he would keep on going until he reached where he wanted to be.

A dark shape loomed out of the rain. It was a car, and as her chest hollowed out with relief, Arlo yanked open the passenger door, tossing her and her case inside.

He wrestled with the door and for a moment the roar of the storm filled the car. Then the door closed, and he was clambering into the driver’s seat, and turning the key in the ignition.

‘Hold tight,’ he muttered. ‘This could be tricky.’

They inched forward, the furiously swinging windscreen wipers having no impact on the rain thundering against the windscreen.

She clenched her hand around the armrest as a gust of wind sent the car staggering sideways, and then the car stopped and Arlo jumped out. Seconds later her door opened.

‘Take my hand,’ he yelled over the howl of the wind, and then he was pulling her forward.

They stumbled into the house. The huge front door crashed shut behind them and the high-pitched shriek of the storm faded like a whistling kettle taken off the heat.

Constance was standing in the hallway, her face pale with shock. Arlo’s dark dog was beside her.

‘Oh, my dear... Thank goodness you’re all right. Come with me. There’s a fire in the drawing room.’

Arlo glanced away, over his shoulder, his profile cutting a broken line against the cream panelling. ‘I’ll get some towels.’

Frankie let the housekeeper lead her through the house. She was shivering so hard her chattering teeth sounded like an old-fashioned typewriter.

‘Here, sit down. I’m going to make you some tea,’ Constance said firmly.

Frankie sat down obediently on a large, faded velvet sofa and as the dog jumped up beside her lightly, she pressed her hand against his back. He felt warm and solid and, blinking back tears, she breathed out unsteadily.

Outside, in the screaming power of the storm, she had been robbed of the power of thought. It had been all she could do to cling to Arlo. Now, with the flames warming her body, her brain was coming back online.

Her fingers curled into the dog’s fur as she pictured the scene on the causeway, her guilt blotting out any relief she might have felt at having been rescued. How could she have been so stupid? After everything that had happened. After all the promises she’d made to herself. To her family.

‘You need to get changed.’

Her head jolted up at the sound of a deep, male voice. Arlo had walked back into the room, holding a pile of towels. Folded on top were a green-and-blue-striped rugby shirt and some sweatpants.

‘Here.’ He held out the pile. ‘These are some of Johnny’s clothes. Your suitcase got drenched,’ he said, by way of explanation.

He was staring down at her intently, and the flickering flames highlighted the hard angles of his face. He was soaked right though to his skin too, she thought guiltily. His shirt was sticking to his arms and body, and water was pooling in little puddles at his feet.

Picturing how he’d swept her into his arms like a knight without armour, she felt her heart beating too hard for her body. He’d saved her life. But, more importantly, he had risked his own.

She was about to apologise, to thank him for what he’d done, but before she could open her mouth, he said abruptly, ‘They might be a little big, but they’re clean and dry. I’ll leave you to get out of those wet things.’

Glancing down at the dog, he frowned, moved as if to say something else, and then seemed to change his mind.

She watched him walk back out of the room, and then she stood up shakily. Her fingers were clumsy with cold, and it seemed to take for ever to peel off her jeans and sweatshirt, but finally she managed to get undressed and into Johnny’s clothes. As she was rubbing her hair with a towel there was a knock at the door and Constance popped her head round.

‘Oh, good, you’ve changed.’ She was carrying a tray. ‘I’ve brought you some tea and biscuits.’ Leaning down, she picked up the pile of wet clothes. ‘I’ll just take these and run them through the washing machine.’

Frankie shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please...that’s really not necessary—’

‘It is.’

Arlo was back. He had changed into faded chinos and a dark jumper that moulded around the contoured power of his arms and chest, and she had a sudden sharp memory of how it had felt to be pressed against his body.

‘The salt will rot them if you don’t wash it out.’ He turned towards the housekeeper. ‘Constance, could you give us a few moments? I need to have a couple of words with Ms Fox.’

As the door clicked shut, Frankie said quickly, ‘Actually, I wanted to—’

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

Her chin jerked up as Arlo spun round, his eyes blazing. She stared at him, dry-mouthed, her heart pounding fiercely. Last night she’d thought he was angry, but now she saw that had been a warm-up to the main act.

‘I’m not playing at anything—’

But he wasn’t listening. ‘So what was that little stunt of yours about?’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Let me ask you something. Do you know what that is out there?’ He gestured to where the rain was slicing horizontally across the window. ‘It’s a storm with a name. Not all storms have names, but if they do that means there are winds of over fifty miles an hour.’ His lip curled. ‘There’s also this thing called a tide. And twice a day there’s a high tide. That means the sea is at its highest—’

‘I know what a high tide is,’ she snapped, her shock switching to anger at the condescension in his voice. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘Then why were you out there skipping down the causeway like a pre-schooler?’ His cold gaze was fixed on her face, the pale line of his scar stark against the dark stubble. ‘Did you think you could influence the weather? Make the sun shine? Stop the wind blowing?’

Stomach twisting, she struggled against a surge of humiliation and fury. ‘I was doing what you told me to do. I was leaving.’

‘What I told you to do—?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I might have known this would be my fault.’

‘I didn’t say that’

‘But you thought it.’ His eyebrows collided in the middle of his forehead. ‘Of course you did—because nothing is ever your fault, is it, sweetheart?’

Her ribs tightened sharply at the memory of a different room on another rainy day. Not her fault officially, no. But the coroner’s verdict hadn’t changed the facts. She knew it had been her fault. All of it. That if she hadn’t been so selfish, so insistent about getting her own way, then her family would still be alive...

Tears stung her eyes and the effort of not crying made her throat burn. Only she was not going to cry—not in front of him.

‘Actually, Mr Milburn—’

The calm, bland expression on his face made her pulse shiver. ‘Why so formal? I think we went past the “Mr Milburn”stage when you decided to get all warm and cosy in my bed.’

Her jaw dropped. She felt heat in her face, in her throat. Oh, but he was a horrible, horrible man.

Folding her arms, she took a deep breath. ‘It’s not my fault, Mr Milburn, that you’re some boorish oaf who throws his guests out into the rain.’

He gave a bark of laughter. Only she knew he wasn’t amused.

‘Boorish oaf?’

The air crackled between them, and the snap of current mirrored the lightning forking through the sky outside.

His eyes narrowed and he stalked towards her.

Standing up, she held out a defensive hand. ‘Stop—’

But he kept on coming as if she hadn’t spoken, and she was struck again not just by his size, but by the sense of purpose beneath the layers of muscle and sinew and skin and by the intent in his eyes.

He stopped in front of her. ‘Boorish oaf...’ he repeated softly, his expression arctic. ‘I just saved your life. Or have you forgotten how close you came to drowning?

Of course she hadn’t.

For a few half-seconds she replayed the press of his hard chest against her cheek and how his arm had shielded her from the storm raging around them.

Her skin felt suddenly hot and tight. He had been so solid, so large. And, as ludicrous as it sounded now, he had seemed as implacable as the storm. As uncompromising and unyielding. She had wanted to burrow beneath his skin. To stay in the endless stretch of his arms with her head tucked under his chin...

Her heart bumped against her ribs. It was because he was implacable and uncompromising and unyielding that she’d been out on the causeway in the first place.

‘You wouldn’t have had to save my life if you hadn’t been so horrible.’

His gaze raked her face like the lamp from a lighthouse.

‘I think the word you’re looking for is truthful,’ he said coldly.

He ran his hand over his face, as if he wanted to wipe her out of his eyes, and her breath caught. She hadn’t noticed it before but three of the fingers on his left hand looked too short, the tips oddly flattened.

She shivered inside. What kind of man was she dealing with?

‘You know...’ he spoke slowly, his dark gaze locking with hers ‘...I thought you were just some clueless airhead who was hoping to get her claws into my soft-hearted brother.’ His hard voice echoed around the room. ‘But you are a child. A wilful, reckless child who wants everything her own way and when that doesn’t happen throws a tantrum.’

The expression on his face made her skin sting. ‘I—I’m not a child and I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I made a mistake—’

‘And mistakes cost lives.’ His voice was cold, each word more clipped than the last. As if he was biting them off and spitting them out. ‘You’re lucky it wasn’t your life.’

Frankie blinked, tried to breathe, to swallow, but it was as if her heart was blocking her throat. She felt sick. It was true, and part of her had wanted, needed, to hear the truth for so long. Only it hurt so much more that she could have imagined.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and even though she was warm she was shivering again.

For months she’d been trying to hold it all together, but now she could feel her control starting to unravel—here in this room, with this stranger.

‘You’re right. I wasn’t thinking about anyone but myself. I just wanted to go home. Only I can’t—’

Not back to London. Home, home. But she could never do that again.

He was staring at her with those unyielding grey eyes and she took a shaky step backwards. What was she thinking? Had she really been about to tell Arlo the truth? Him, of all people? A man who clearly thought she was not worth saving.

And the trouble was, he was right.

Hot tears stung her eyes and the room blurred. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She gave a sob. ‘I’m really, really sorry—’

Arlo watched inhorror as Frankie stumbled across the room. He hadn’t meant to upset her that much. It wasn’t something he did: make women cry. Make anyone cry. Even with Harriet he’d been polite—courteous, even. It was only after they’ve broken up that he’d felt angry.

But that anger had been nothing in comparison to the head-pounding fury that had swept over him as he and Frankie had stumbled into the Hall.

How could she have done something so stupid, so reckless?

Worse than her recklessness, though, was the knowledge that he had driven her to it.

He’d wanted to scare her as she had scared him, so that she would think twice before she did something so foolhardy again.

His heart contracted as he thought back to the moment when he’d looked out of the kitchen window and seen her red suitcase bobbing jauntily along the causeway.

Those few minutes driving over the cobbles had been some of the longest in his life. Even now, the thought of her slipping beneath the swirling grey waves made his stomach lurch queasily.

‘Frankie—’

She had reached the door and her fingers were tugging helplessly at the heavy brass handle. Before he knew what he was doing he had moved swiftly across the room. He thought she would tense as he pulled her against him, but she seemed barely to register him, and he realised that shock at what had so nearly happened out in the storm was finally kicking in. Or perhaps she had been in shock the whole time, he thought, as for the second time that day he scooped her into his arms.

‘Shh... It’s okay...it’s okay.’

He carried her over to the sofa and sat down, curving his arm around her, holding her close as she sobbed into him.

Finally, he felt her body go slack and she let out a shuddering breath.

‘Here.’ He handed her a handkerchief. ‘It’s clean. And, more importantly, dry.’

She wiped her swollen eyes. ‘Thank you.’

The wobble in her voice matched the shake in her hands as she held it out. He shook his head. ‘No, you keep it.’

He watched as she pleated the fabric between her fingers, and then smoothed it flat, so that his initials were visible.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said shakily. ‘For putting you in danger—’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ He frowned, wondering why it was so easy to say that now, when earlier herds of wild horses couldn’t have dragged those words from his lips. ‘If I hadn’t kicked off at you last night you wouldn’t have felt like you had to take that risk.’

Gazing down at her blotchy face, he felt a prickle of guilt. And he certainly shouldn’t have kicked off at her just now—not when she was in such a state.

‘I was tired, and annoyed with Johnny, and I took it out on you.’

‘He did try and get in touch with you to tell you I was coming,’ she said quickly.

Possibly...Johnny always had good intentions, and usually he found it easy to overlook his little brother’s faults, but for some reason Frankie’s defence of him got under his skin.

She looked up at him and the blue of her irises was so bewitchingly intense against her dark, tear-clotted lashes that he almost lost his train of thought.

He shrugged. ‘I’m sure he did. Look, when the storm dies down a bit, I can take you to the station.’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry for making such a fuss. I’m just a bit tired. I’ve been working stupid hours...’

He understood tiredness. Sometimes out on the ice fatigue was like lead in his bones. But there was something more than tiredness in her voice...a note of despair, almost.

His jaw clenched. He understood that too, but Frankie was too young to feel that way.

He felt a stab of anger. Someone should be looking out for her.

Not him, though. Not after Harriet.

Her fingers smoothed out the handkerchief again and he felt her take a breath. Then she said quietly, ‘I just want to say that it was really brave, what you did out there. Heroic, actually. So, thank you.’

She hesitated, and then he felt the flutter of her breath as she kissed him gently on the cheek.

The movement shifted her weight and she slipped sideways. Without thinking, he touched his hand against her hipbone to steady her. He heard the snap of her breath as she looked up, and when he met her soft blue gaze suddenly it was as if he’d run out of air. His head was spinning.

A minute went by, then another, and then she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

A voice in his head told him to stop her. That this was a mistake. That he didn’t know this woman and what he did know he didn’t like.

But then her fingers clutched at his shirt, drawing him closer, and he was lost.

It was like walking into a white-out.

There was nothing but Frankie. Nothing but the soft contours of her body and her mouth fusing with his.

His hands skimmed over her back, sliding up through her hair, and he knew that this was not so much an exploration as an admission of his driving need to feel her, to touch every part of her.

He felt her soften in his arms and hunger jackknifed through him as she leaned closer, so that her breasts were brushing against his chest. Blood pounded through his veins as he teased the upper bow of her mouth with his tongue, tracing the shape of her lips, and then he was guiding her onto his lap, pulling her restless hips against the hard press of his erection.

She moaned softly and, parting her lips, deepened the kiss.

He shuddered, heat flooding his limbs. Her mouth felt like hot silk and, groaning, he spread his hand over her back—

The sharp knock on the door echoed through the room like a gunshot and, peeling Frankie off his lap, he tipped her unceremoniously onto the sofa as he got to his feet.

What the hell was she playing at?

More to the point, what was he playing at?

Aside from the unspoken assumption that Frankie and Johnny were involved, this was a road he needed to travel less—not more.

His entire relationship with Harriet had been humbling and short—just under three months from that first kiss to the day she moved out—and he didn’t need any more reminders of the idiocy of his behaviour.

Or maybe he did.

She stared up at him dazedly, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses.

Tearing his gaze away, he answered, ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Douglas just called.’ Constance’s voice floated serenely through the door. ‘They’ve issued an orange weather warning. I just thought you’d like to know.’

So the weather was causing road closures, interruption to power, and an increased risk to life and property. In other words, chaos.

Tell me something I don’t know, he thought savagely.

Running his hand through his hair, he swore under his breath as his dazed brain finally registered the full implication of Constance’s words.

An orange warning also meant being prepared to change plans. In this case, his plans to get Frankie off the island.

Jaw clenching, he glanced over at her.

‘Looks like this storm is going to get worse before it gets better. Unfortunately for both of us, that means you’re stuck here for the foreseeable future.’

Her eyes climbed up to his, a flush of colour engulfing the freckles on her face. ‘Wow, you’re a real Prince Charming.’

He held her gaze. ‘What? A lovestruck fool chasing after a woman who can’t keep her clothing on? You’re in the wrong fairy tale, sweetheart.’

She gave him a look that could have stopped global warming in its tracks. ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Let me explain to you how this is going to work, Ms Fox,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you or talk to you. And above all I don’t want to kiss you.’

‘I don’t want to kiss you either.’

She gave him an imperious smile that made him want to instantly eat his words.

‘Good.’ Stalking across the room, he yanked open the door. ‘Stay out of my way. In fact, do us both a favour and stay in your room. Otherwise I might just be tempted to lock you in there until the storm passes.’