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Temperatures Rising LOVESWEPT Sandra Brown -- Temperatures Rising NEW YORK, LONDON,
TORONTO, SYDNEY, AUCKLAND All of the characters In this book are fictitious, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental LOvESWEPT~ Published
simultaneously In hardcover by Doubleday and in paperback by Bantam which are divisions of Bantam
Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc,, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103 LOVEsWEpt,
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of the wave device are registered trademarks of Bantam Doubleday
Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Temperatures rising by Sandra Brown. 1st hardcover ed. ISBN
0-385-26294-9 Title. PS3552.R718T46 1989 8l3'.5~cI9 88-31450 Copyright 0«1989 by Sandra
Brown All Rights Reserved Printed in the United States of America First Hardcover Edition July 1989
OG
Temperatures Rising Sloe-eyed. Sleek hair. Slender figure. Scout Ritland mentally summed up his first
impressions of the woman he spotted across the ballroom. She was a stunner, a definite standout.
Between the two of them milled a crowd of blacktie-clad celebrants getting drunk on self-congratulations
and a tropical fruit punch that made even the stuffiest imbiber feel loose enough to skip naked through the
Pacific surf. Scout wasn't quite that far gone, but he was experiencing a pleasant buzz. It was as loud as
the calls of the night birds in the jungle surrounding the landscaped grounds of the Coral Reef, the
spectacular resort that was enjoying its official grand opening tonight. The potent punch had a tendency
to thaw inhibitions, suppress morals, and vanquish previously held ideals pertaining to sexual equality.
Eyes glazed by intemperance and uncharacteristic chauvinism, Scout stared at the woman in the clinging
white dress. Without a smidgen of remorse he was assessing her only as a sex object. Parrish Island had
that effect on people. The place, no more than a dot in a chain of dots on a map of the South Pacific, was
intoxicating. Fragrant flowers, banyan trees, and coconut palms abounded; Yankee pomposity did not.
Only a few hours earlier Scout had finally succumbed to the island's allure. For the first time since his
arrival months before, he had looked beyond the shell-pink-marble walls of the hotel. Up till now it had
consumed so much of his time, energy, and thought, he hadn't had an opportunity to enjoy the unspoiled
island and its friendly inhabitants. One inhabitant in particular, the woman in white. Damn, she was
gorgeous. Aloof. Even a trifle haughty. She had noticed his stare and had returned it with a cool appraisal
of her own. Then, as though nothing about him could possibly interest her, she had studiously ignored him
ever since. Scout was intrigued. He hadn't seen her around the resort while it was still under construction,
so she wasn't a hotel employee. The wife of an employee? That was a hell of a dismal thought. He
discarded it along with his recently emptied glass. If she was married, where was her husband? What guy
in his right mind would let a woman who looked like her run around loose in a room full of men who had
been separated from hearth and home for months? No, Scout doubted she was married or seriously
attached. She didn't have a "taken" look about her. Then who was she, he wondered as he
disinterestedly surveyed the array of exotic foods on one of the buffet tables while keeping her in sight.
"Great job, Mr. Ritland," someone commented in passing. "Thanks." A large portion of the resort hotel was built out over the waters of a placid lagoon. Scout had engineered the marvel, working together with
the architect. Because of his ingenious efforts, he was receiving his share of the glory. His hand had been
shaken so many times, it was cramping. His shoulder was sore where it had been heartily slapped in
congratulations for a job well done. Reeling with the inebriation more of success than of the fruit punch,
he wended his way through the crowd. His destination was the woman standing beneath one of the high,
arched openings leading outside. When he got within speaking distance, she turned suddenly and looked
directly at him. Scout was stopped dead in his tracks. He sucked in a quick breath. The almond-shaped
eyes, tilted up slightly at the corners, weren't dark brown as he had expected, but blue. Neon blue.
Electrifying and splended blue. "Scout, where are you off to? Glad I caught you before you got away."
His elbow was grabbed from behind and he was brought around. Keeping his gaze locked with the
woman's for as long as possible, his head reluctantly followed his body around. "Ah, Mr. Reynolds." He shook the hand extended to him. "Corey,"the hotel magnate corrected Scout. "Youve done a terrific job.
Getting tired of hearing that yet?" Scout shook his head and laughed self-derisively. "Never." "It goes without saying how pleased we are. I speak for everyone in the corporation.' "Thank you, sir." Scout
couldn't afford to be rude to the man who had signed his hefty paychecks, but he glanced quickly over
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his shoulder. She had disappeared. Damn! "It wasn't an easy undertaking," Corey Reynolds was saying.
"Especially when one considers all the hardships you faced during the construction." Scout asked, "You mean the islanders' attitude toward work?" The other man nodded. "They definitely do not comprehend
the meaning of deadlines or the eight-hour workday," Scout said truthfully. "Overtime incentives never lured them away from a celebration, and they have about ten of those a month. That didn't bother me
nearly as much as the thievery, though. I apologize again for going over budget on the supplies. "It wasn't your fault that they kept disappearing. I know you tried every way you could think of to catch the
thieves." "Wily bastards," Scout said beneath his breath. "I even sat up four nights straight keeping vigil.
The night I decided that it was futile and went to bed, we were hit again." Catching a glimpse of white out the corner of his eye, Scout swiveled his head toward the terrace. There was nothing there but moonlight
and sultry, fragrant air. Was she still out there, lurking in the shadows of the tropical gardens? "with
yourself?" "Huh?" What had Mr. Reynolds asked him? Oh, yes. 'No, I haven't seen anything of the island except the area immediately around here. I,,thought I'd take off a week or so before flying home. "Good
idea. Give yourself time to wind down before your wedding. I presume it's still on." "Late next month."
Mr. Reynolds smiled and asked, "How is Miss Colfax?" Corey Reynolds had been introduced to Jennifer
Colfax at a dinner party in Boston, where the Reynolds Group was headquartered. At that point the
Coral Reef resort had been only an architectural rendering. It pleased Scout that the CEO remembered
his fiancee's name. He could always count on Jennifer to make a good impression. "Her letters indicate
that she's fine," he replied. "Still beautiful?" Scout grinned expansively. "Very." The older man chuckled.
"You're a trusting young man to leave her for this long a time." "We came to an understanding before I left. I couldn't very well expect her to sit home alone every night while I was away. She's been free to
date, as long as it's kept on a platonic basis." "You're not only trustful, but generous. Still, I know she's eager to have her fiance back in the States." Scout shrugged. "She went to Europe for several weeks
during the summer. And she's had her aunt's antique shop to help keep her busy." "Oh?" Reynolds
inquired with polite interest. "What does she do there?" "Dabbles is the word that comes to mind."
Jennifer did a lot of dabbling-in antiques, in music, in fashion. "My wife dabbles too. When she's not
shopping," Corey Reynolds added on a laugh. Sipping at his glass of punch, he asked, "Lovely, aren't
they?" Scout followed the direction of Mr. Reynolds's gaze. He was watching one of the island girls hired
for the night to serve canapes. She was dressed in a short floral-print sarong that had been artfully
wrapped around her lithe body. Like most of the island women, she was petite and very pretty, with
glossy black hair, snapping dark eyes, and a ready smile. "Even though I'm engaged to be married,"
Scout said, "I haven't failed to notice that one of Parrish Island's natural resources is its lovely female population." Reynolds directed his attention back to Scout. "What do you plan to do here on the island during your R and R?" "Lose myself. Escape from delays, slow-moving workers, and the telephone. Go
fishing. Maybe get in some hunting. Body-surf. Lie on the beach and do absolutely nothing." He leaned
forward and added, "If I get captured by a lovely, bare-breasted native girl, don't come looking for me
anytime soon." Corey Reynolds chuckled and slapped him on the back. "You rascal. I like your sense of humor." They shook hands and, again, Corey Reynolds praised Scout's engineering feat. "I'll see you
back in Boston. I want to talk over some future projects with you. Let's you, the lovely Jennifer and I
have lunch soon." "We would enjoy that very much, sir. Thank you." Watching the older man move
away, Scout was barely able to contain his excitement. He didn't want to become part of the Reynolds
Group. His personality didn't fit the corporate mode. He would find that environment creatively stifling.
But he certainly wanted another contract with the Group, and it looked as though that was what Corey
Reynolds had in mind. The Coral Reef resort project had been Scout's first break into the big time. He
knew the importance of capitalizing on his success while he was still on the minds of the decision makers.
After his talk with Corey Reynolds, he felt even more that he had somethi ng to celebrate. Taking another
glass of punch from a waitress bearing a silver tray, he moved through the archway to the terrace
beyond. The exterior walls of the sprawling resort were garnished with bougainvillea vines heavy with
clusters of their vibrant flowers. No expense had been spared to decorate the hotel inside and out.
Priceless Oriental urns held lush ferns and ornamental palms. Natural plumeria trees had been pruned to
perfection. Like gigantic fireflies, torches flickered inside stonework lanterns, strategically placed along
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winding paths through the gardens. From the main terrace, wide, shallow steps led down to another level.
One path curved left toward the trilevel swimming pool with its manmade waterfall and ornate fountains.
Another path led down to the beach, where the sand was a pale blond ribbon between the manicured
lawn and the gently lapping water. some Revelers seeking privacy had drifted out of the ballroom. A
group of Asian men discussed business over drinks at a table on the lower terrace. Beneath a palm tree
on the lawn a couple kissed, oblivious to everything except each other. Another couple strolled
hand-in-hand in the surf, still wearing their evening clothes, their shoes dangling from their hands. In the
center of the moonlit panorama stood a solitary figure. Scout, as one under the command of a hypnotist,
moved down the steps toward her. The moonlight on her white dress made her as visible in the darkness
as the beacon of a lighthouse. She stood motionless, facing the ocean, staring across the water as though
communing with it in a silent and sacred manner. Helluva dress, Scout thought as he moved closer.
Jennifer wouldn't have approved of it. Not many New England women would have. It was painfully
simple but blatantly sexy. There was a high slit on one thigh. One shoulder was left completely bare by
the form-fitting garment. The balmy breeze molded its fabric to her, delineating her breasts and the V of
her thighs. Scout's thoughts were the same ones that kept priests in business. He felt a momentary stab of
guilt because of Jennifer. But she was on the other side of the world. This Island seemed as far removed
from Jennifer and Boston as another planet. Rules and codes of behavior that applied there were of no
more use here than a woolen overcoat. He'd been going nonstop for months. He'd earned one night of
pleasure, hadn't he? He had been living in one of the most exotic spots on earth and hadn't had a single
chance to sample its pleasures. The rationalizations marched in file through his brain, but even without
them he would have acted. Months of sexual abstinence, the potent liquor he'd drunk, the tropical setting,
the beautiful woman, were a powerful combination of aphrodisiacs he couldn't resist. Hearing his
approach, she turned her head and gave him another piercing stare with those breathtaking blue eyes.
Hair darker than midnight had been pulled back into a low bun on her nape and decorated with two
white hibiscus blossoms. Her only jewelry was a pair of single pearl earrings, each pearl as large as a
marble. As flawless as they were, their opalescence was no competition for her skin. It was creamy,
smooth, incredibly flawless. There was a lot of it showing too. Neck. Chest. The curve of one breast,
Legs. She wasn't wearing stockings with the high-heel sandals. Even her feet were pretty. So were her
hands. In one she carried a small satin evening bag. Such loveliness, such rarity, such perfection. Scout's
body was pulsing with lust. She was standing beside a piece of sculpture. It represented a pagan god
who was wearing a puckish grin and sporting an exaggerated phallus. Scout remembered the day they'd
set the statue in place. It had been the talk of the work site. There'd been a round of jokes made, each
more lewd than the preceding one. Now he could swear the statue's insolent grin was aimed at him. It
was as if the little devil knew about his physical condition and was maliciously delighted. He nodded at
the idol and spoke to the woman. "Friend of yours?" He was hoping for the best, but halfway expected
her to rebuff him. His heart expanded when her lips, glossy and tinted, parted in a smile that revealed
teeth as flawless as everything else. "He's everybody's friend. He's a god of eroticism." Ah, good.
Language wouldn't be a barrier. She spoke English. It was accented, but beautifully so. Her voice was
low and husky, with the whisper of the surf behind it. Scout smiled wryly. "1 could have guessed that.
What's his name?" She told him. He frowned. "That has at least twelve syllables and they're all vowels."
Since his arrival, he'd mastered a few words of the native dialect, but they all had to do with construction.
"Get back to work" was hardly what he wanted to say to this woman. But even if he'd known the correct words, he couldn't say what was on his mind. This little guy has nothing on me In the arousal department.
I'm hard as a rock, and, baby, you're the reason. Your place or mine? Those words hardly seemed
appropriate for opening a conversation. My name's Scout Ritland." He extended his hand. She gave him
hers. It was cool and small and soft. "Chantal duPont."Withdrawing her hand, she added, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ritland," and turned to go. It took a moment for Scout to recover from her
dazzling smile and the feel of her hand in his. When he did, he fell into step alongside her as she took one
of the shell-gravel paths toward the perimeter of the resort's property. "Will you be working at the hotel?"
he asked in an effort to prolong their brief conversation. She shot him an amused glance. "Hardly, Mr.
Ritland." "Then what were you doing at the party?" "I was invited." He was forced to catch her arm in Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
order to detain her. She came around to face him. The moon cast intriguing shadows over her face
through the overhead trees. "I didn't mean to sound rude," he explained. "Of course you were invited. It's just that I haven't seen you around, and I wondered what-" "I didn't take offense," she interrupted softly.
He stared down at her, captivated by her exquisite face, her eyes, her mouth. His fingers were still
around her upper arm. He'd never felt softer skin. Her eyes moved down and pointedly called attention
to the fact that he was still touching her. Regrettably, he relaxed his hold. Only when he dropped that
hand to his side did he realize that in his other, he was still cartying the glass of punch. "Care for a drink?"
he asked, feeling a little ridiculous. "No, thank you." "Can't say that I blame you. It's stronger than a swift kick from a mule." Giving him a ghost of a smile, she reached for the glass and brought it to her lips.
Watching him over the rim, she drained it, then ran her tongue over her lips, licking up every drop.
"Unless you've cultivated a tolerance for it, Mr. Ritland." She passed him the empty glass and stepped off the path, entering the jungle. Scout stared after her, amazed. That much liquor, to imbibed that quicKly,
would have knocked most grown men flat on their backs. She'd swallowed it like mother's milk and was
still standing. Not only that, she was negotiating the dark jungle path as silently and expertly as a
nocturnal predator. Leaves barely stirred with her passage. No sooner had he formed that thought than
she slipped through a screen of vines and disappeared. He dropped the glass on the overgrown path and
charged after her, thrashing his way through dense foliage, mindless of his tuxedo. An insect whizzed past
his ear like a missile; he swatted at it heedlessly. "Chantal?" "Oul?" He spun around. She was standing almost even with him, as though having materialized from one of the trees. Feeling like a complete fool
now, he clumsily untied his bow tie. "What are you, a nymph or something?" She laughed, a breathy,
stirring sound. "I'm quite human, flesh and blood, just like you." He loosed the collar button of his pleated shirt, but then his fingers fell still, Again he was arrested by her remarkable uniqueness. His eyes started
at the top of her sleek head and moved over her face, along her graceful neck, across her full breasts,
and down the center of her enticing body. "Human, yes. Flesh and blood, definitely." He took enough
steps to bring him toe to toe with her. "But just like me? No. Hell no. You're like nobody I've ever seen
before." He had to touch her again to reassure himself that she was real. He touched the curve of her
breast first, that smooth expanse swelling above the neckline of her dress almost even with the notch of
her shoulder. It was as marvelous to touch as it was to look at. He rubbed it lightly with the knuckle of
his index finger. had that startling realization registered than she pulled free of him and stepped out of
reach. "What the hell?" The question froze on his lips when he lowered his gaze to the pistol, the barrel of which was aimed straight at his belly button. Scout gaped at her. "What the hell are you doing?" "I'm pointing a pistol at you, Mr. Ritland," she stated calmly in her accented English. "And unless you do everything I say, I'm prepared to shoot you." Her expression was deadly serious, but Scout found it
difficult to take her threat at face value. There were plenty of adjectives to describe her, but menacing
wasn't among them. "Shoot me? For what?" he asked, guffawing. "For kissing you?" "For wrongly presuming that I wanted to be kissed and pawed like a waterfront prostitute." He propped his hands on
his hips. "What was I supposed to think after you lured me out here?" "I didn't lure you." "The hell you didn't," he said, his temper ,flaring. "You followed me. I didn't encourage you. His amusement had
vanished. "Don't pull that self-righteous crap on me, princess. You wanted me to follow you. Your
rejection was your come-on. You liked the kiss and everything else," he said with a sly glance down at
her breasts and their projecting centers. "You can't very well pretend you didn't when I can plainly see
otherwise." Her eyes went dangerously bright and she pulled herself up straight military erectness. "This isn't about your kisses. "Then what?" "You'll find out soon enough. Turn around and start walking." He snorted another laugh as he peered into the impenetrable foliage surrounding them. "Forgive the cliche,
but it's a jungle out there." "Walk, Mr. Ritland." "Like hell." "Need I remind you that I've got you at gunpoint and you'd be wise to do as I say?" His lips curled into an arrogant smile~ "Oh, I'm real scared,"
he whispered tauntingly. "A woman who looks like a goddess and kisses like an expensive whore is
dangerous, all,, right. But her weapon of choice is not a handgun. Outraged, she cried, "How dare you
He lunged for the pistol. They wrestled for control of it. Chantal gave a small, surprised exclamation as
the gun went off in her hand. They stood frozen, staring at each other with incredulity. Then Scout
staggered back a step and looked down at his thigh. It was pumping blood. "You shot me," he said,
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stupidly stating the obvious. Then, angrily, "You shot me! You actually shot me!" The delayed pain finally slammed into him. It had the impetus of a major leaguer's pitch finding the center of the catcher's mitt.
Lights exploded around him. He gaped at his wound, gaped at the woman, then issued the roar of an
enraged beast and lunged for her again. This time the pain came crashing down on the base of his skull.
He collapsed onto the spongy jungle floor. Overhead, through the trees, he saw colored lights flashing
and popping like an electric kaleidoscope. Then the night edged in and blotted out everything. Chantal
was horrified by this unexpected turn of events. "Mon Dieu! Why did you strike him, Andr~?" The man
who had crept up behind Scout knelt down beside him now. "I was afraid he would hurt you." "I was handling It. How badly is he Injured?" "I struck him hard enough only to knock him unconscious." When Chantal saw the self-doubt registered in the man's eyes, she modified her critical tone. "I know you
reacted out of concern for me. Thank you. But now we must deal with this." She, too, was kneeling and
bending over the unconscious engineer. She rifled through his most accessible pockets until one yielded a
handkerchief and used It to form a tourniquet around his thigh above the bullet wound. His blood stained
the front of her dress. "He's bleeding heavily." "The jeep isn't far. I'll carry him." The young Islander was agile and wiry, though he wasn't very tall, not anywhere close to Ritland's height. With an effort he hefted
the man over one shoulder and, with Chantal's help, struggled to his feet. "He doesn't look as heavy as he is." "He's very muscular." Her remark caused Andre to glance at her curiously. She hastily looked away.
She knew Scout was muscular because she had caressed the taut m~ cles beneath his tuxedo shirt, felt
the power in his thighs, and sensed the strength under his leanness. Before they started through the jungle,
she examined the back of Scout's head where a goose egg was forming. As her fingers moved through
his thick brown hair, he moaned. "We must hurry, Andre," she said, slipping out of her high-heel sandals.
"Oul." They moved soundlessly through the jungle, though no one from the resort could have heard them over the orchestra's exuberant rendition of "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Fireworks were still exploding over the lagoon, the same pyrotechnics that had kept the gunshot from being heard. "I'll sit in the back with
him." Upon reaching the jeep, Chantal scrambled into the backseat. Andre placed Scout's slumped form
beside her. She laid his head in her lap; his legs were folded into the small area between the seats. Andre
got behind the wheel and started the engine. Within seconds they were under way. Scout remained
blessedly unconscious, although every time the jeep found a pothole, which was frequently, he groaned
with pain. Chantal stared down into his face, not liking how pale it had become. His beard stubble
looked unusually dark against his pallor. The kidnapping had been planned. The shooting had not.
Machismo, first Scout's then Andre's, had resulted in needless violence which she found repulsive and
frightening. She had shot a man! What if he lost so much blood that he died? What if she couldn't extract
the bullet without damaging a nerve and leaving him permanently lame? What if she couldn't extract it at
all? The what-ifs got more horrendous with each mile. Andre was driving with painstaking care for their
injured passenger, but also with necessary speed. Covering the distance to the remote side of the island
in broad daylight was a challenge. In darkness the highways were nightmarish hazards that dwindled to
dirt roads winding through forested mountains with sheer cliffs falling away into the ocean below. Once,
Andre had to jarringly apply the brakes to avoid hitting a goat crossing the road. Scout groaned and
mumbled an obscenity. Protectively, apologetically, Chantal clasped his head tightly to her breasts. His
trousers were saturated with blood. Without even stopping to think about it, she wiggled out of her dress,
wadded it up, and pressed it against the oozing bullet hole. She thought nothing of being bare-breasted
until Scout rolled his head toward her. His face nuzzled her breasts. She felt the rasp of his beard against
her skin, his lips against her nipples. Alarmed by the sensations that speared through her, she whipped the
hibiscus blossoms from her hair and shook it free. The straight black, heavy strands rippled down over
her breasts to her waist, covering her as adequately as a thin shirt would. When at last they reached the
bridge, Andre brought the jeep to a stop. Together, Chantal and he lifted Scout out. Andre supported his
head and shoulders while she took his feet. They started across the swaying suspension footbridge. The
villagers, instinctively alerted to trouble, began pouring from their huts, though it was the middle of the
night. Torches appeared on the other side of the bridge. Chantal called out for help. The moment they
reached the other side of the deep gorge, the trio was surrounded by curious, chattering villagers. She
called for one of the men to take Scout's feet. "Bring him quickly," she urged in rapid French, then ran Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
ahead up the incline to the house that was set apart from the rest of the group. She stepped onto the wide
veranda, shoved open the door, and reached for the nearest lantern. By the time she had it lit, Ritland
was being carried through the front door. "In the back. Quickly, quickly." The injured man was placed on a long table in a spare, unfurnished room in the rear portion of the house that was often used for medical
emergencies. Chantal turned her patient's head to one side and examined the knot on the back of his
skull. It was solid but hadn't enlarged. "He'll be fine if I can remove that bullet without any complications."
She was thinking out loud as she anxiously pulled her lower lip through her teeth. "And if he doesn't lose too much blood in the meantime. If the femoral artery ... "Cut off his clothing while I scrub." She
scrubbed her hands and forearms with an antiseptic solution, as she had seen her father do, then donned
a clean white smock over her panties, which was all she had arrived in. None of the villagers had taken
notice. When she turned, the man she had kidnapped was lying naked on the table. A large gaping,
bloody hole in his left thigh was a hideous sight. The wound needed immediate attention. Her father
wasn't here, and' though surgery wasn't her field, the grisly task fell to her. She was relieved to see that a
native woman who often helped her father with these procedures had arrived and was mopping Scout
with disinfectant from knees to ribs. Chantal filled a syringe with morphine and injected it into her patient's vein. "I can't spare any more for now," she told her somber audience. "Andr~, please stay. I may need you to hold him down. Nikki, you're in charge of the lanterns. See that I've got plenty of light at all times."
Oul, mademolselle," She arranged a tray of sterilized utensils, set it within reach, and tied a mask over the lower part of her face, directing the others around the table who were assisting to do likewise. Next she
draped Scout's leg with clean towels, leaving an open area in which to work. If only her father were here,
she thought as she picked up a scalpel. But he wasn't, and a man's life hung in the balance. It would be
her fault, in more ways than one, if he died. This was by far the most ambitious surgical procedure she'd
ever attempted, and she was terrified of making a blunder that would permanently damage him. But his
death was certain if she didn't try. Before she probed the wound, she prayed to the Christian God. Then,
for good measure, she prayed to the gods who were believed to protect the village and its people. Now
wasn't the time to chance offending any deity. Scout was laid on a narrow bed in an extra bedroom in the
house. For days Chantal hardly left the room. She remained at the bedside, monitoring his moans and
groans, blotting sweat from his head, checking beneath the bandage for signs of infection. Though many
offered to sit with him while she rested, she refused. The man lying beneath the single sheet consumed her
time and all her thoughts. Her prayers revolved around him. She gave him penicillin injections to ward off
infection. It distressed her that she couldn't give him more than one injection of morphine for his pain.
When that dose began to wear off, when Scout began to toss his head and mumble incoherently, when
his eyelids began to flicker and he began to flail his arms, she plied him with the locally fermented alcohol.
She would lift his head off the pillow and hold it against her breasts while she tipped a cup toward his
lips, which she kept moist with cocoa butter. The liquor would be dribbled slowly into his mouth until he
had drunk it all. She bathed his perspiring face and body with cool water. During all this she tried not to
dwell on his attractiveness, but on the severity of his condition. Smoothing the cocoa butter on his lips
naturally made her recall his kiss, how expert and delicious it had been ... and how much he would hate
her for the way she had tricked him. It was then that she entertained doubts about her actions. What she
had done was daring, risky, and undeniably illegal, but she'd been left with no choice. One got desperate
when one's options ran out. Sitting beside his sick-bed, staring into his bearded face, she fervently hoped
that once she explained the situation, Scout would come to understand her desperation and feel
charitable toward her. In the evening of the third day she realized that he hadn't moved his injured leg.
She began to fear that she had damaged a nerve when she extracted the bullet, which had been firmly
imbedded in the muscle. To check, she jabbed a straight pin into his big toe. He not only flinched, he
jerked his knee up to his chest and screamed an expletive before relaxing his leg again. Chantal decided it
was time to let him wake up. He stared at the ceiling for several moments. From where she sat in the
straight-back chair near the bed, she could tell that he was trying to orient himself. Eventually, with a
deep sigh he turned his head on the pillow and spotted her through the veil of mosquito netting. He
blinked. "You?" he croaked. "Chantal duPont,"she said, barely above a whisper. Even so, he winced.
"You don't have to shout." He wet his lips with his tongue and obviously tasted the salve she had been Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
lubricating them with. Experimentally, he touched his tongue to them again. "Where am I?" "Don't you remember what happened?" With an effort he shook his head, focused on her again, and tried to sit up.
Groaning, he flopped back on the pillow. "Jeez," he said raspily, raising his hand to cover his eyes, "my head's coming off. We must've had a helluva party last night." He didn't remember. But given time, he
would. She waited. Suddenly she saw his body grow taut. Gradually, he lowered his hand from his
bloodshot eyes. They found her again. This time they were glaring balefully. Three days growth of beard
made him look dangerous. "I'm not lying here buck naked and, hung over because we had an all-night
orgy, am I?' She shook her head, sending a curtain of ebony hair shimmering over her back. He hissed a
curse, then released a thin breath of air as he localized the source of his pain. She watched his hand
search for his wound beneath the sheet. When he encountered the gauze bandage wrapped around his
thigh, he fixed her with another murderous stare. "Now I remember. You shot me." "It was an accident,"
she said hastily. "The hell it was." "I held you at gunpoint, but I wanted only to threaten you. I didn't even know the gun was loaded." "It was your gun. You took it out of your purse." "I told Andre to find me a gun. He didn't tell me he'd put bullets in it.,' Scout raised his hand to his forehead again. "Who the hell is"
"Andre?" "He's the man who clouted you on the head." "Well, he did a damn good job." Scout groaned.
"I didn't know he was going to do that, either." "I think my cranium is fractured." "No, it's not. Part of that is the liquor." "Liquor?" "I've been giving it to you to keep you unconscious." "Why?" "Because I knew you'd be in pain. We're low on morphine, and it's hard to get because I'm-" He raised his hand wearily to
stave off further explanations which he couldn't yet grasp. His eyes closed. Chantal left her chair, moved
aside the netting, and bent over him. She tested his forehead for fever. There was none. His skin was
cool if a bit clammy. His eyes came open again. "How serious was the wound?" "Not too bad. I removed the bullet." "You removed the bullet?" "Thankfully, it didn't sever the artery or damage the bone or nerves." She didn't tell him how she knew that. Somehow she sensed he wouldn't appreciate knowing
she had pricked his big toe with a pin. "Your leg will be stiff for a while, but in a few weeks it will be fine." Picking up a china teapot from the tray on the nightstand, she poured some of the steeping brew
into a cup. "Drink this." He sniffed suspiciously. "What is it? Drugs? Liquor?" "Broth with herbs and healing elements. You need it to regain your strength. You lost a lot of blood, and I had no way to give
you a transfusion." She pressed the cup against his lips, but he refused to drink. "Why didn't you take me to the hospital?" "I couldn't do that," she exclaimed, incredulous. "I would have had to explain the gunshot, and they would have arrested me." "Yeah, well, that's the risk you take when you kidnap and
shoot somebody, princess." "I'm willing to accept the consequences of what I did. Only later, when I no longer need you. Now please drink this. For the nourishment." Querulously, he shoved the cup away.
Why'd you shanghai me?" "I told you. need you." "Why, what is wrong with you?" She shook her head with perplexity. "I don't understand." "That you have to shoot a guy to get him naked and in bed with you." Her blue eyes turned dark with disapproval. She was tempted to unman him by dumping the
scalding contents of the cup into his lap. Only her concern for his overall physical condition kept her from
doing so. "Drink this or I'll have to force it down you," she said with the same imperious tone with which she had said, "Walk, Mr. Ritland," a few days earlier. Holding her stare, he sipped. Then he spat, cursing liberally. "What the hell is that stuff?" "We couldn't butcher one of our few cows just for you. It's full of protein. Drink it." "I thought you said it was broth. If it's not beef broth, what is it?" "It's good for you."
"What is it, I said." "Drink it,', she stubbornly repeated. "All right," he consented after a silent contest of wills, "I will. But only because I want to recover enough strength to get out of this bed and strangle you."
Unperturbed by his threat, she held the cup to his lips. He drank the entire contents, shuddering with
distaste. "More?" "That's all I can stomach for now." Before she could move away, he grabbed a handful of her shirt and pulled her down to within inches of his angry face. "I can tell I'm about to pass out again.
Before I do, tell me why you did this to me. Why, for chrissake?" She gazed directly into his eyes.
"You're going to build me a bridge, Mr. Ritland." She watched the disbelief spread across his features seconds before his eyelids fluttered, then sank shut. His fingers, still gripping the gauzy fabric of her
blouse, relaxed and eventually let go. His head collapsed back onto the pillow. Well, now he knew. The
room was bathed in lavender light when he woke up again. There was no glass in the windows, only
louvered shutters. They had been opened. There was a breeze. He could smell the ocean. He could hear
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it. The bullet wound no longer felt like a branding iron gouging his thigh, but it was aching dully and
persistently. He was very thirsty. The broth he'd drunk had left the inside of his mouth feeling lug ... or
perhaps the unpleasant texture was a souvenir of the liquor he'd drunk, willingly or unwillingly. He was
fuzzy, but there was no longer thunder inside his head as there had been earlier today. Yesterday?
Dammit, he didn't know what day it was or how long it had been since the gala opening of the Coral Reef
resort. Where the hell was he, anyway? He turned his head, then started with surprise. Three women
were standing at the foot of his bed just outside the mosquito netting. One was young, slender, and quite
pretty. One was pleasantly plump and not quite as attractive. One had a face that would stop a clock.
They were wearing short, colored sarongs around their hips but nothing on top. It was a most
disconcerting sight. 'When they realized he was awake and looking at them, they began to giggle and
speak among themselves in hushed, excited French. Self-consciously he reached for the sheet and pulled
it higher to cover his bare torso. "Where's what's-her-name? The princess? Chantal?" he asked hoarsely.
That simple and seemingly innocent question brought on a chorus of giggles. Scout realized that he was
the topic of their conversation. They kept casting covert glances at him, followed by bursts of laughter
that were doing his headache no good at all. "Could I have something to drink, please?" "You may." He angled his head toward the door in time to see his kidnapper enter, bearing a tray with a tall pitcher of
water and a drinking glass on it, "I predicted you'd be thirsty." To the women, she said, "Mercl," and continued speaking to them in soft French. "What's going on?" "They insisted that I needed a rest," she told him as she pulled aside the netting, "so they volunteered to watch you while I bathed and napped. I
was thanking them for taking such good care of you." He supposed her recent bath accounted for the
smell of flowers that accompanied her into the room. The longest, silkiest, darkest head of hair he'd ever
craved to run his fingers through was still damp. One of the island wo men began speaking with
animation. The other two covered their mouths, trying unsuccessfully to stifle their giggles. "Now what?"
Scout asked Chantal, who was moving around his bed, straightening the sheet, and tucking it beneath the
mattress. She avoided looking at him. "They, said you were perspiring, so they sponged you off for me."
He addressed the women. "Mercl." They collapsed upon each other, made weak with laughter. "What's so damn funny? What's the matter, didn't I pronounce it right?" "Out," Chantal replied, again avoiding his gaze. The corners of her lips were twitching with the need to smile. The whispered jabbering grated on
Scout's nerves, especially since he knew it was about him. "What are they talking about now?" "You." "I know that much. What are they saying?" He caught Chantal's hand. "Is there something wrong with my
leg? You didn't cut it off while I was unconscious, did you?" He lifted the sheet and checked to see that
the limb was intact. With annoyance she pulled her hand free of his and poked a thermometer beneath his
tongue. "If you must know, they're fascinated by your hair." "My hair?" he mumbled around the thermometer while raising an inquisitive hand to his head. "Your body hair." Scout almost swallowed the thermometer before he jerked it from between his lips and reflexively reached for the sheet again. "My
what?" "The island men don't have chest hair. Yours is"she faltered and swallowed hard'quite plentiful, Mr. Ritland." For a doctor, she sure did seem shy to Scout. On the other hand, he reflected, if she was
accustomed to treating only island men, it stood to reason she could be skittish about his hairy chest.
"Are they necessary?" he asked, nodding toward his bare-breasted audience. "Isn't it enough that I'm subjected to you?" Chantal thanked the trio of gigglers and ushered them toward the door. As their bare
feet whispered across the smooth hardwood floor, they continued to chatter like colorful birds. "Jeez, this is maddening. What are they saying now?" "You don't speak French?" "I can order from a menu if it's standard fare. This ninety-mile-an-hour stuff escapes me." On the brink of laughter herself, she raised her index finger to her lips and shushed the women. Then to Scout she said, "They're saying that I'm very
lucky to be tending you." "Why?" "Because ... because you are the village's honored guest." "Bull." He knew enough about human nature to recognize when he was being lied to. The blue-eyed doll face was
devious. He'd learned that the hard way. He wasn't getting the full truth. Suddenly his ears picked up a
familiar word. Springing upright, he pointed at the woman currently speaking and exclaimed, "I caught
that! I know that word. That's ... that's ..." He snapped his fingers rapidly as his memory slogged through the bog of the last few days of unconsciousness. "That's that statue. The guy with the wicked grin and
huge-" His eyes sprang up to Chantal's. She hastily turned her back to him and shooed the women from
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the room. Following them out, she remained gone for several moments. When she returned, she moved
to the nightstand and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. She appeared cool and unruffled, but
there was a telltale pink stain in her cheeks. "Would you care for water, Mr. Ritland?" He took the glass from her and drank, eyeing her with no small degree of admiration. This woman was in control at all
times. Or was she? He had to test it, had to find out. Knowing an enemy's strengths and weaknesses was
the first step toward defeating him. As he passed the glass back to her, he touched her fingertips and
asked silkily, "Who gave me my sponge baths before the three stooges took over?" "I did, Mr. Ritland."
Her gaze was unwavering. "Oh, yeah?" "More water?" "No thanks. Not for now, but leave the pitcher."
She returned the glass to the tray and, since the sun had completely set by now, lit the lantern. "You can spare each of us the embarrassment of an attempted seduction, Mr. Ritland. It won't work. I took
desperate measures to get you here. I can't be romanced into letting you go until you're finished." Her
cool, calm, and collected manner annoyed him as much as what she said. He threw back the sheet and
swung his legs over the side of the bed. The pain that coursed through his thigh, and from there to every
nerve ending in his body, made him nauseated. Gritting his teeth, he swayed with dizziness. He was as
weak as a kitten and had to brace his arms on the edge of the thin mattress to remain upright. "I'll get out of here," he said through his teeth, which were clenched in agony and rage. "You'll find your chances negligible, especially since you won't be able even to walk for several days." He could almost sense
compassion in her melodic voice. "You don't remember the drive here, but the Coral Reef resort is on the
other side of the island. Between here and there the terrain is mountainous, undeveloped, and
unpopulated. The roads are little more than goat trails. The village has only one jeep. It belongs to my
father and has been carefully hidden from you. None of the villagers could be bribed into showing you
where it is. Please don't offend them by trying. On foot, one foot, you wouldn't stand a chance of making
it back to what you would call civilization." "Watch me, princess." She merely smiled. "Have it your way.
Are you hungry?" "I could eat a horse." "Good. That's what you're having." She left him gaping at the empty doorway. Beneath his breath he cursed his pain, his weakness, the culpability that had gotten him
in this fix in the first place. He should have known from the start that she was just too good to be true.
What an idiot he'd been! If he hadn't been so randy, so tipsy on that lethal local liquor, he would have
proceeded with more caution. But no, like a damn fool he'd jumped in with both feet and now he was in
way over his head. Though it took a tremendous amount of effort and strength that he didn't have, he
remained sitting on the edge of the bed. Somehow that made him feel less helpless. Lying down, he was
really at her mercy. She returned carrying another tray. It had the teapot he recognized and a glass of
milky' substance. "I'm not drinking any more of that swill," he said stubbornly, hoping his voice carried more impetus than he felt. "Then I'll have to force-feed you." He watched grimly as she poured some of the steaming brew into a cup. "Is it really broth made from horse meat?" "That's considered a delicacy in many parts of the world." "So's dog meat. I don't plan to eat any of that, either." "This horse gave up his life for you. The least you could do is show your appreciation. "If you wouldn't slaughter a cow for me,
why a horse?" "Actually," she said, frowning slightly, "the poor creature was found in a roadside ditch already dead. But he was discovered before the meat had begun to spoil." "Forget it, Florence
Nightingale." He pushed aside the extended cup. She flashed him an enchanting smile. "You want to build up enough strength to strangle me, don't you? Or have you changed your mind?" He yanked the cup from
her and in the process sloshed some of the scalding liquid onto his chest. "Ouch, jeez!" Chantal
responded quickly by reaching for a linen napkin on the tray and using it to blot up the drops sprinKling
his chest hair. As she leaned forward, strands of her hair slid over her shoulder and brushed across his
lap, which he had meagerly covered with a corner of the sheet. His gut tightened with sexual awareness.
The feel of her hair on his belly and thighs was like being caressed with black satin ribbons. She might be
crazy as a bedbug, even dangerous, but he still wanted to stroke her hair, her skin, and kiss her all over.
He made a fist around the skein of hair and lifted it off his lap. Her hand poised inches above his chest;
her eyes connected with his. Their faces were close. He could feel her rapid breath against his face,
soughing between moist, parted lips. Damn, he wanted that mouth beneath his again. "My chest is fine,"
he said tightly. She straightened and dropped the napkin back onto the tray. He quickly dispensed with
the vile broth, making a horrible face as he swallowed the last of it. "When can I have something solid?
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Or is part of your plan to keep me weak from hunger~ giving me only horse broth to keep me alive?
"No. I want you strong as soon as possible." "So I .... . what was it? Build you a bridge?" "That's right,"
she replied, all seriousness. "You've been out in the tropical sun too long, princess," he said, laughing.
"I'm not building anything except an airtight criminal case against you. Since the end of World War Two,
Parrish Island has been a United States territory, you know. Pagan and primitive as it is," he said,
glancing at the kerosene lantern, "all the laws of the land still apply. You're going to jail just as soon as I can put you there. "Perhaps. But first you'll build my bridge." "What bridge? And what the hell's that?" he demanded cantankerously as she tried to foist on him the other glass she had carried in. "Coconut milk.
You'll like it.,' He drank that. After the broth, it tasted as good and satisfying as a milk shake. "Okay, I drank it. Now answer my question." "What question?" "What bridge do you keep referring to?" "We'll talk about that in the morning. Do you have to go to the bathroom?" "So bad I'm almost teary-eyed."
"You should have said so." She reached beneath the bed and came up with a porcelain basin. Scout
looked at it, looked at her, and felt his cheeks growing warm. "Like hell." "It's a little foolish to get modest now, Mr. Ritland, since I've been taking care of you for days. You have no se crets from me.
Use the basin or suffer the consequences. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. She apeared
determined. His body certainly was. "Would a little privacy be asking too much?" She turned on her heel and left the room. Great legs, he thought, following her retreat with his eyes. She was wearing ordinary
shorts, not the sarongs the native women had had on. And Scout was almost relieved that she had on a
top. Her camp shirt was made of sheer cotton. She had knotted the tails of it at her waist. From the soft
swaying motion of her breasts each time she moved, he would bet his last nickel that she wasn't wearing
anything underneath it. But the shirt was there, and he was glad. It would be hard to remain furious at her
if she were going around topless. He was having a hard enough time remaining unemotional about her
bare legs and feet. She knocked before coming in again. Humiliated beyond anything he'd ever
experienced, he pouted while she efficiently dispensed with the contents of the bedpan. "I think you
should lie down, Mr. Ritland. You're getting pale." She placed a hand on each of his shoulders and
attempted to ease him back. One arm whipped out and encircled her waist. The other shot up and he
captured a handful of her hair near her scalp. He saw her wince, but relaxed his grip only slightly. "Did
you pick me at random?" he asked through lips turning white with pain, anger, and frustration. No."
"Those come-hither glances you were transmitting loud and clear didn't have anything to do with you
liking my looks, did they? You didn't pick me from the crowd because you thought I was attractive."
"This will be a blow to your ego, Mr. Ritland, but no, it wouldn't have mattered what you looked like."
"You set me up from the beginning." "Yes." "You had me picked out beforehand an,,d you made damn sure I noticed you at that party. "That's right." His arm tightened around her waist and hauled her closer.
Her legs bumped his, but all he noticed was how cool and smooth her skin felt. He hardly felt the stab of
pain. "Why, dammit? Tell me." "I've told you. For the bridge." "What freaking bridge?" She wriggled away from him and tossed her hair over her shoulder all in one aggravated motion. "I'll explain it when
you're stronger, possibly in the morning." Keeping his eyes on hers, he allowed her to push him back on
the bed. Once he was settled, she made certain fresh water was within his reach and that the netting was
covering the bed, then extinguished the lantern. He could hear her bare feet on the polished plank floor as
he watched her silhouette slip from the room. Scout stared into the darkness for a long time, but he didn't
fall asleep. He didn't even relax. His mind was in such turmoil, he couldn't. He berated himself for being
such a sap. Why the hell was he allowing this situation to continue? She was crafty, true, but he was no
moron. Actually, a good many people considered him rather astute. He outsized her by seventy or eighty
pounds. She was noticeably taller than the island women, but he remembered that even wearing high
heels, she had come only to his chin. They were of complementary heights, a perfect fit for kissing, for...
"Hell." He cursed into the darkness, which was relieved only by the moonlight pouring in through the
window. He didn't want to think about the kiss, or he would substantiate the women's comparison of him
to the horny little idol. Besides, it was his predicament that demanded his attention. Chantal duPont
seemed to wield a lot of power and prestige around there, but he didn't see armed guards posted outside
his door. How difficult could it be to overpower her and demand that she take her father's jeep out of
hiding and drive him back to the civilized side of the island? And where was the pistol she'd shot him
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with? He sure as hell wasn't going to locate it by lying in this bed, a bed better suited to a Lilliputian. With that thought he rebelliously tossed back the sheet and netting and sat up. This time he eased his legs over
the side of the bed. It caused his left one to throb hotly. When he stood up, dangling his injured leg inches
above the floor, he realized again that he was naked. He reached for a towel on the nightstand and
wrapped it around his waist. Not much, but better than nothing. Earlier he had spotted a broom propped
in one corner of the room. It was in that direction that he hopped on his right foot, using pieces of
furniture as supports along the way. By the time he reached the corner, sweat had popped out on his
brow and he was breathing through his mouth as though he'd run ten miles uphill. Using the broom as a
makeshift crutch, he headed for the door. Due to his dizziness, it appeared to be listing several degrees
off-center. The house was silent. The only sound was the incessant swishing of the ocean. It wasn't far
away. He searched first for any signs of electricity but, as he expected, there were none. Nor was there a
telephone. The house, however, was well furnished, spotlessly clean, and filled with personal objects.
There seemed to be books everywhere, stacked on tables, on shelves, even on the floor. Some were in
French, some English. As soundlessly as possible he made painlul, halting progress through the large
living room and down a hallway, past a bedroom where the bed was turned down but unoccupied, to
another large room that was divided by a carved screen to form a combination bedroom and study. The
large bed was unoccupied, but Chantal was sitting alone in the study area. A kerosene lamp, burning low,
cast deep shadows across her face. She was half reclining in a leather chair with her bare feet propped
on the corner of a messy, paper-strewn desk. She was wearing eyeglasses. An open book was lying in
her lap. Her concentration on it was so intent that she didn't see or hear him approach. Her hair was
hanging like a thick curtain over the back of the chair, but a few strands framed her flawless cheeks. She
had unbuttoned and untied her blouse, as though she'd started to take it off before changing her mind.
Seeing the perfect slope of her breasts, tipped with nipples that were designed for a man's mouth to
enjoy, made something besides Scout's bullet wound throb with pressure and heat. He tried to push
prurient thoughts aside, but his voice was thick and husky when he picked up their previous conversation
where they had left off. "You'll explain it to me now. She jumped. Her feet hit the floor. The book slid
from her lap. Her head snapped up. Through the large lenses of her glasses she distinguished his form in
the deep shadows of the room. It took several seconds and his hot stare for her to realize that her blouse
was gaping open. She snatched the sides of it together to cover herself and whipped off her glasses. 'Mr.
Ritland, how did you manage-" "Drop the Mr. Ritland routine, okay? I'm not a formal guest in your
home. I'm your prisoner. You've seen me naked and I've wished you were, especially when my tongue
was sliding in and out of your mouth and I was massaging your nipple. I think that puts us on a first-name
basis, don't you?" He took perverse enjoyment in seeing how much his sardonic speech had offended
her. At the same time, he marveled over his crudeness. At home he wouldn't have dreamed of talking like
that to a woman, any woman. He had read of men who reverted to savagery when they were separated
from civilization and society as they knew it, but he hadn't expected it of himself. Ever. But especially not
so soon. Then again, he'd been severely provoked by this woman with the breathtaking blue eyes, now
eloquently searching his face as though looking for and expecting an apologv. Frustrated, he released a
gust of air. Her wounded expression made him feel like the bad guy. "At least grant that I've got a good
reason to be angry and upset." "You do," she conceded quietly. "I honestly didn't mean to shoot you. I'm sorry. "Well, it's done now, isn't it? What's this about a bridge?" "Are you sure you're up to hearing the explanation tonight?" "I'm sure." "Then please sit down." Smiling, she added, "Scout. Gratefully, he collapsed into a chair facing hers. Even in the faint lantern light Chantal could see how chalky his lips
were. She knew he was in pain. In his weakened condition, covering the distance from the bedroom he
occupied had been tantamount to a journey. His skin looked gray and clammy, and his forehead was
beaded with sweat. It had dampened the dark brown strands of hair that fell over his brows. But clearer
than fatigue and agony, he emanated determination. She reasoned that she had kept him uninformed long
enough. Where to begin? "You don't remember because you were unconscious," she told him, "but when you arrived here, Andre and I carried you across a footbridge that spans a deep gorge. This gorge
separates the village from the island proper. The bridge is a hazard. It desperately needs to be replaced. I
brought you here to build my people a new bridge." She watched him as he mentally digested her
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remarks. His expression remained impassive, but she saw a telltale spark of interest in his eyes. Nice
eyes. Light golden-brown eyes. She averted her attention from them and caught him mindlessly
massaging the area just above the bandage on his thigh. "Are you in pain?" He ceased rubbing his thigh and made a querulous face. "No," he lied. "I could give you something." "No way, Miss duPont.
Whenever you give me something, I tend to remain unconscious for the next several hours." "An aspirin?"
"Tell me about the bridge," he said impatiently. "I don't ,suppose we're talking about a short little bridge here. She made a dismissive gesture and tried to sound casual. "A couple hundr ed feet or so." "Jeez." He started to laugh and shook his head. Annoyed, Chantal snapped, "I'm glad you find this all so amusing. I
can assure you that to my people this bridge means life. My people-" "Your people?" he shouted. "Just who the hell are you, anyway?" Considering that a fair question, she replied, "Chantal duPont." "That much I know." He was rubbing his leg again, but seemed unaware of it. When he caught her watching
him, he stopped. "Are you a high priestess around here? Royalty? A missionary? What?" His guesses
brought a smile to her lips. "Nothing that grandiose. I was born here in the village." Reaching for a silver picture frame, she turne it toward him. "My father, my mother." He picked up the frame and looked at
the pictures curiously. Chantal closely gauged his reaction to the Caucasian man and the Polynesian
woman. When he set the frame back on the desk, he remarked, "You have your father's eyes. But the
rest of you is your mother." "Thank you. She was very beautiful." "Was?" "She died years ago." She stared at the photograph of the lovely, gentle face captured in the picture. "I know you're curious, though you're probably too polite to ask." He shifted uneasily in his chair, guiltily indicating that she was right.
"My father," Chantal began, "Dr. George duPont, served in the French Navy. He was stationed here on the island before the outbreak of the Second World War. The island, as you've probably noticed, is very
seductive. After the war, France was in such a shambles, he returned here to work and study, although
the island had by then become a U.S. teritory. He met my mother, Lili, and fell in love with her. They
were married." "By the wistful look on your face, I gather they didn't live happily ever after," Scout said.
"Mother had been converted to Catholicism. Even so, when she accompanied my father back to France,
she was shunned. Both of them were. The duPonts were an old and aristocratic family. It didn't seem to
matter that they'd lost most of their fortune to the Nazis. The members of the family considered
themselves part of the elite." "Welcoming a Polynesian woman into the fold, embracing her as one of their own, was unthinkable." Chantal lowered her head in acknowledgment. "Even though she carried a trace
of French blood too." Whenever she dwelled on the prejudice her beautiful mother must have suffered,
she ached for her. Chantal had experienced prejudice to a degree, and she was only half of what had
alienated Lili from the duPonts and all her father's former friends and colleagues. "So," she said, drawing in a ragged breath, "they returned to Parrish Island. My father continued his work and research here. He
built this house, making it as modern as he was capable of doing with what was available. He introduced
some modern amenities to the villagers. As a result, they came to depend on him to care for them." "He became a father figure of sorts." "Precisely." "When did you come along? You're not that old." "For years into their marriage my mother didn't conceive, which I've learned since then was a tremendous concern of
hers. Finally she became pregnant with me. She wrote in her journal that the days she carried me inside
her were the happiest of her life." Her brows drew together. "But she was at an age where having a child is unsafe without expert prenatal care. The pregnancy was difficult. She never fully recovered from it. She
died when I was very young. My memories of her are hazy, just a smiling face that often sang French
lullabies to me." They were quiet for several moments. Chantal was lost in her bittersweet reverie. Scout
finally drew her out by asking, "Why didn't your father take you back to France after Lili's death?" "By then this island was more his home than Paris. His work was here. He had adjusted to the unhurried pace
of life. The villagers needed him. Besides," she added with a sad smile, "he wouldn't leave my mother."
"But he saw to it that you left." "How did you know that?" she asked quickly, surprised. He nodded behind her and she followed his gaze to the diplomas framed and mounted on the wall behind her. "A
father's pride," she said with a Gallic shrug that came straight from George duPont. "I attended the
English school on the military base." you follow in your old man's footsteps and become a doctor?" She began to laugh. "Yes, I followed in my old man's footsteps and became a doctor. We both have Ph.D.s
In geology." Scout's face drained of what little color it had left. "Geology?" he croaked, squinting at the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
framed documents. Then, angrily swinging his eyes back to her, he repeated loudly "Geology?" He
bounded from his chair. Chantal came out of hers a heartbeat later. "Be careful." "You operated on my leg and you're not even a doctor?" he shouted. "Would you rather have had me leave the bullet there?
Let you bleed to death?" He pointed down at the bandage on his thigh and yelled, "You operated on me.
You could have cost me my leg. You could have left me a cripple for the rest of my life," he ranted.
"Jeez! You're crazy!" "Calm down. It wasn't that serious an operation. I have watched my father deal with injuries much worse than yours with successful results. I knew what to do even though I'd never
done it." "So he's a quack too." "He dispenses antibiotics when he can get them and has done what was necessary to save someone's life, including surgery. He has set broken bones, removed tonsils and
appendixes, assisted in difficult births. When the nearest hospital is on the other side of a mountain range,
one learns to cope and to improvise." "Not with my leg one doesn't improvise, princess!" He paused to draw several deep breaths, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Where is your old man? I want to talk to him. I want to see him. Tonight," he said with crisp enunciation. "He's probably off his beam too. It sounds like insanity runs in the family. But at this point my options are limited. I'll take my chances with
him. Now, where is he?" "He's not here." He hopped toward her and gripped her by the shoulders,
shaking her slightly. "Where is he?" "He's somewhere in the foothills. Unavailable. But if he'd been here when I brought you in with a bullet in your thigh, he'd have done exactly as I did." Scout hissed an
expletive with such impetus, the vile word ghosted across Chantal's face. "I wouldn't have had a bullet in my thigh, I wouldn't have been brought here at all, if it weren't for you." He flung his hands off her. "It isn't good for you to get upset like this." She realized, even if he didn't, that his curses had been spawned by pain as much as by fury. "Let me help you back to bed." Leaving him no choice, she slipped her arm
around his waist and hooked his arm around her neck. Shoving her shoulder up into his armpit, she took
most of his weight upon herself. "I can get back to bed on my own." She glanced up at him. His white lips were pulled back, baring clenched teeth. His cheekbones appeared sharp and pronounced and were
beaded with sweat. He was stubborn and, proud to a fault. "I'm sure you can, she said softly, "but it would take agonizing minutes and there's no need to put yourself through that when I'm here to help you."
His breath whistled through his teeth. "My leg hurts like hell." "You shouldn't have gotten up." "Well, I couldn't just lie there and let you run roughshod over me any longer." Accidentally, he put weight down
on his left foot. Groaning, he collapsed against her. She hugged him tighter, sliding her hand around him
until it rested on the side of his ribs. His arm was still looped around her neck, his hand dangling in front
of her chest. As he slumped forward, his fingertips grazed her breast, the very tip of it, which was already
stiff and distended. They froze. For several seconds each stared at the floor, unable to think, unable to
breathe, unable to move. Chantal squeezed her eyes closed briefly, waiting for the sensations to stop
rippling from her tightly beaded nipple into every other part of her body. Beneath her splayed hand the
skin of his torso was warm. She could feel his heartbeat. When she opened her eyes and would have
begun walking, he remained still. Glancing up, she found him staring at something across the room. She
followed his stare to the pistol, which she had placed on her father's nightstand. "It wouldn't be worth the effort," she told him quietly, reading his thoughts. "I didn't know it was loaded when Andre procured it for me. I was so horrified over actually shooting you that I removed the bullets and threw them away.
With an air of defeat he sagged more heavily against her. Without further conversation they shuffled
toward the room he'd left an hour earlier. She eased him down to the side of the bed and turned to light
the lantern. When she turned back around, he was ripping off the gauze bandage wrapped around his
thigh. "What are you doing?" she cried. "What I should have done the second I regained consciousness from your alcoholic sabotage. For all I know, you've butchered me." "Please don't." When Chantal reached out to stay his hands, he batted them out of the way and ripped through the binding until it was
lying in a tattered heap on the floor. He seemed surprised by the neat row of stitches holding the incision
together. The wound was clean, showing no signs of infection, though the area immediately encircling it
was slightly swollen. "I'm afraid you'll always have a scar,' she said gently, "but it should make an interesting conversation piece." He gave her a wry smile. "A scar I can live with. Gangrene would have been a little tough to take." "Now that you've let air get to it, I'd better clean and bind it aga in. Would you rather be lying down?" His eyes gradually moved up and locked with hers. Heat as penetrating and
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pleasurable as the tropical sun's rays rivered through her. Her knees went weak beneath the intensity of
his stare. Though she and her father had received an engraved invitation to the gala opening of the Coral
Reef, attending had been a mission. She had gone purposefully to kidnap an engineer named Scout
Ritland. However, when Andre had surreptitiously pointed him out to her, her heart had skipped a beat
and her stomach had tightened. His being handsome and sexy had certainly made an unpleasant task
easier to execute. Several times during that evening she had had to remind herself that her seduction of
him wasn't genuine, that it was simply the means to an end that would determine the future of the village.
But frequently she had found herself rising to the challenge strictly as a woman in pursuit of the most
attractive man at the party and regretting that it wouldn't culminate in a romantic interlude. She knew from
experience, however, that romance could result in terrible heartache. She had avoided it since the
debacle in California. She would continue to do so even though the look Scout Ritland was giving her
now had turned her dewy with desire and reminded her that she was a woman unfulfilled. Assuming a
professional air, she ignored his gaze and eased him back onto the pillows. He continued to stare at her
unwaveringly, but she avoided looking into his face and concentrated on swabbing the incision with
antiseptic. Then, bending his knee up, she wrapped it with fresh gauze. "You really should take an
analgesic." "Forget it. Dealing with you requires a clear head and all my faculties." "A brandy?" His eyebrow arched suspiciously. "Straight brandy? No Mickey Finn?" She frowned down at him, then left
the room, returning in under a minute with a snifter of brandy. Scout took it from her and sipped. He
closed his eyes as he swallowed and let out a pleasurable sigh. "Your old man has expensive taste," he remarked, making a satisfied smack. He absently rubbed his bare stomach, where, she knew from
experience, the brandy was spreading a delicious, languid warmth. His fingers moved through the soft,
silky hair that grew in swirling patches from sternum to navel. And beyond. Chantal knew how silky that
hair felt, because on occasion, when she had bathed perspiration off his body, she had indulged her whim
to touch it caressingly, and not out of necessity. The memory made her voice husky. "Each Christmas we
receive a case of French brandy from a colleague of Father's who has remained a loyal friend." She
stood beside the bed and watched Scout slowly drain the snifter. By the time he was done, he was
making a face and punching the pillow beneath his head with his fist. "Here, let me." She took the snifter from him, then, with one hand, cupped the back of his head and levered it up. With her free hand she
plumped his pillow and turned it over so that it would be cool side up. It took her by complete surprise
when he raised his head a fraction more, enough to bring his face to within touching distance of her
breasts. He nuzzled them experimentally, then pressed his face into the V of her shirt and kissed their
giving softness. Chantal moaned and momentarily clutched his head to her. However, she instantly
released him and stepped back. Scout appeared to be as stunned by his action as she was. For several
ponderous moments they stared at each other. He was the first to speak. "I don't know... I had the
strangest sense of d~~ vu." Unaware that she was doing so, she moistened her lips with her tongue and
ran her damp palms over her hips. "On the way here," she whispered, "I held your head in my lap. He lowered his gaze to that region of her body before meeting her wide blue eyes again. "Why?" "I was afraid you would die." To ease the thick tension and protect herself from his compelling stare, Chantal
reached for the lamp and extinguished the burning wick. "Good night." She turned to leave, but Scout's arm snaked out and caught her hand. "Chantal?" Reluctantly, she turned back toward the bed. "I didn't follow you away from the party looking for work, you know." "I know." "You knew what I wanted."
"Yes." "What I still want." In the moonlight she could see that the square patch of towel covering his lower abdomen wasn't adequate to conceal his arousal. "Don't," she pleaded breathlessly. "Look,
Chantal, this scheme of yours is crazy." "Not to me. Not to my people." "Be reasonable. I can't, won't, hang around here to build a damn bridge." "You will." He released a long sigh of frustration. "You're an Intelligent, educated, refined woman. My Lord, you look like a pagan goddess, a fantasy woman,
something out of a dream. Ask me to do something logical, like strengthening the tribe by siring your
child. I'd be happy to oblige. But this bridge thing is nuts. You know it is." "You won't think so tomorrow when you see it." "Tomorrow I'll be figuring out a way to get away from here and back to civilization."
"We'll see." Her voice held a mysterious inflection as she withdrew her hand from his and rearranged the mosquito netting. She stepped out of the fan of moonlight. "Good night, Scout. You'll sleep very well."
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"How the hell do you know how I'll sleep? You didn't-" He sprang into a sitting position. She saw him reel and catch his head in one hand. He cursed viciously and plopped back onto the pillow. "You
drugged me again with the brandy, didn't you? Dammit! When will I learn?" "I'm sorry, but I couldn't
stand to see you suffer unnecessarily." "Then I'm surprised you didn't just shoot me in the head instead of operating on my leg." "Don't be absurd. I need you too badly to be that wasteful. Good night." His curses followed her through the otherwise silent house. Eventually, they ceased. The mild sedative, made locally
from indigenous berries, had taken effect. In her room Chantal slipped out of her clothes and Into bed.
Usually her room was naturally cooled by the sea breezes. Tonight, though the breezes were blowing, her
body remained hot and restless. She was aware of every square inch of her naked skin against the
sheets. She stretched her limbs and arched her back, trying unsuccessfully to relax the taut muscles. She
took slow, deep breaths. She folded her hands around her breasts in an attempt to ease the itchy tingling
inside them, but that only made her more aware of the tight, sensitive crests. She pressed her thighs
together tightly, ashamed of the feverish throbbing between them. Nothing helped relieve the strange and
wonderful symptoms of this physical malady that had afflicted her. And nothing, not counting sheep, or
planning for the bridge, or ritually praying, could rid her mind of Scout's kiss, the feel of his skin beneath
her hand, and the sweet pressure of his bearded face against her full, aching breasts. Chantal was
standing beside his bed the following morning as he woke up. For several minutes she enjoyed watching
the dappled sunlight play across his features. The lower half of his face was rougtuy shaded with dark
stubble, which was a pleasing complement to his heavy eyebrows. In a day or two he would need a
haircut, at least by normal standards he would. She liked the shagginess over his ears and on the nape of
his neck. She watched as the sunlight brought out deep auburn streaks in his normally dark brown hair.
There was no gray in it, but she placed his age at around forty, ten or so years older than she. Or
perhaps the network of character lines on his face added years that weren't actually there. In any case,
she found the faint creases around his eyes, caused, no doubt, by working outdoors so much, extremely
attractive. He breathed luxuriously and subconsciously laid one hand on his chest, scratching idly as he
slowly came awake. His eyes opened, narrowed against the sunlight, then reopened more cautiously. He
gave a start when he noticed her and the boy standing at his bedside. "Who's that?" he asked with sleepy huskiness, nodding toward the lad. "Jean," she replied, using the French pronunciation. "We call him Johnny. Scout gave,the boy a friendly once-over. "Cute kid. Is he yours?" "No!" "No need to get defensive. I was just asking." He smiled at the boy. "Hi there, Johnny. What's happening?" "BonIour, monsieur," he said shyly. "I'm afraid that Johnny is the only English word he knows," Chantal informed Scout. "But the two of you should be able to communicate once you get used to each other. For a while
he'll be your legs. Just indicate what you want and he'll fetch it for you." "Can he call me a cab?"
Knowing he was trying to provoke her, she refused to rise to the bait. Rather, she smiled as though he'd
made a joke. "Would you like breakfast before or after you shave?" "Shave?" She stepped aside, allowing him to see all his toiletries laid out on the nightstand, along with a steaming kettle of water and a
basin. "That's my stuff!" he exclaimed. "'Where'd you get it?" "Out of your trailer at the construction site."
"You broke in and took it?" "I didn't. Andre volunteered. And he didn't actually break in. The door wasn't locked. I thought you would enjoy having your own things." She indicated the open suitcase on the
floor. Scout acknowledged that, but looked up at her with shrewd complacence. "The crew will have
missed me by now, you know. Everybody has had a chance to sober up after the party. They'll've
checked around and noticed I'm gone. They're probably combing the island as we speak, using
helicopters, search dogs, everything at their disposal to find me. Sooner or later they'll track me here."
"Search dogs?" she said on a laugh. "Good try, but save your breath. I heard you tell Mr. Reynolds that you were going to lose yourself on the island for an indeterminate time. Nobody, you said, was to come
looking for you. Not anytime soon anyway." His face sufftised with hot color. "Add eavesdropping to
your list of sins." "One can't be too careful." Scowling, he asked, "Did you say something about breakfast?" "Yes, and you get solid food today." "For this momentous occasion I really should shave, I suppose. First, however, I need a bathroom." He set his jaw stubbornly. "I'm not going to use that damn bedpan anymore." "I'm afraid we don't have the plumbing you're accustomed to, but there's a WC of
sorts. Johnny will help you get there while I prepare your breakfast tray." At the door of the room she
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turned back to him. "Of course you won't do anything dastardly while you're in Johnny's charge, like try
to escape. That would place him in an unfavorable light with his family and friends. It would be looked
upon as a failure and shadow him the rest of his life." Johnny, knowing that Chantal was speaking about
him but understanding none of it, gazed up at the tall, hairy Caucasian. His guileless, endearing grin
revealed that his two front teeth were missing. Scout smiled back at the boy, then dryly remarked to
Chantal, "While he's around, I promise not to do anything dastardly." Wearing a pleased smile, she left him with the boy, confident that he wouldn't jeopardize Johnny's standing in the community. Scout was
brawnier than any man in the village. His wound had impaired him, but she had discovered that he was
stubborn and would push himself to the point of collapse trying to overcome his temporary' handicap.
Physically, he could probably still best her. If she were to exercise any control over him, it would have to
be psychological. When she returned bearing the breakfast tray, Scout was scraping off the last of his
beard with a disposable razor. His right heel was tucked into his crotch; his injured left leg was dangling
over the edge of the bed. Johnny, who was holding a hand mirror for Scout, was sitting cross-legged at
the foot of the bed, watching intently. His chin was covered with flecks of white shaving foam. "But
sometimes that mentholated stuff stings. Personally, I prefer the lemon-lime flavor. The fragrance drives
the ladies crazy. How's that?" He offered his face up for Johnny's inspection, and the boy eagerly nodded
approval. Scout wiped off the remnant foam with a damp towel. "Okay, let's get you shaved." He turned the razor the wrong way so that the blade didn't actually touch Johnny's skin as he scraped away the
shaving foam. "There you are, my man," he said moments later, turning the mirror toward the boy. He
giggled with delight. "I thought the two of you would get along well." "He's my pal, all right. He helped me get into the first clothes I've had on in days." Chantal had noticed when she came in that Scout was now
wearing a pair of shorts, although he was still shirtless. His chest hair was damp and curly from recent
washing. He had combed his hair too. The lemon-lime-scented shaving soap was tantalizing. She caught
the clean citrusy scent as she bent to place the bed tray across his lap. "What's for breakfast? Waffles
and sausage?" he asked hopefully. "Eggs and bacon?" "Rice and fish." "Huh? For breakfast?" On the plate she uncovered were two small grilled fish, a bowl of rice, and half of a papaya. After his initial
shock, Scout attacked it, wolfing down the food and drinking two cups of coffee in quick succession. He
popped the last bite of papaya into Johnny's mouth. Blotting his lips on a cloth napkin, he looked up at
Chantal and asked, "Now what? Not back to bed, I hope. " "Would you like to see the bridge?" "Yes."
His spontaneous answer surprised her, but then he added, pointing his index finger at her, "But only
because it's the only way out of here." She issued Johnny some instructions in rapid French. He
scampered off Scout's bed and out of the room. As she had done the night before, she assisted Scout
through the house by keeping him propped on her shoulder. When they reached the door to her father's
bedroom, she glanced through the door "Johnny?" Suddenly, giving a sharp cry, she let go of Scout and rushed toward the boy, who was twirling the pistol off his index finger. "Mon Dieu," she exclainied,
snatching the weapon away from him. For a moment she held it against her with profound relief, then
opened the chamber and shook out the five remaining bullets before stuffing the gun into the nightstand
drawer. Clutching the bullets in her fist, she turned. Scout was leaning against the door and, glaring at her
from beneath lowered brows. "Sonofabitch, he cursed softly. "I had to lie to you last night," she said defensively. "I couldn't let you lurch for the gun. You might have opened up your wound." "I ,might have escaped by holding you at gunpoint too. "That too," she conceded. She moved to one of the windows,
pulled aside the shutters, and flung the handful of bullets onto the jagged rocks that led down to the beach
below. There. The issue of the gun is finished. Done. There isn't another firearm in the village. With your
leg in the condition it's in, you couldn't negotiate those rocks in search of the bullets. Forget about it."
Johnny, who had been cowering against the wall, approached Chantal hesitantly. He held a widebrimmed
straw hat which he had been told earlier to fetch. As he extended it to her, he whispered contritely,
"Sonofabitch." She looked at Scout meaningfully. "You'll have to be more careful of your language, Mr.
Ritland." Then she ruffled the boy's hair. "Mercl, Johnny." She placed the straw hat on her head. When she reached Scout's side, he captured her jaw in one hand and drew her face up close to his. "The bullets
are irretrievable, so I'll forget about them. But what I won't forget is how you tricked me. Beware,
princess. You'll pay for all your lying." "No doubt." Defiantly, she yanked her face free of his grip. "But Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
not before you build my people a bridge." Animosity shimmered between them, seemingly on the point of
boiling over. Scout believed that had actually happened when, seconds later, a loud rumble reverberated
through the village. Throughout the house, glassware tinKled. Doors slammed shut. Books on shelves
were shaken loose and fell to the floor. It felt as though a subway train were roaring past beneath their
feet. Scout's anger evaporated. He looked around him with dismay. "What the hell is that?" "Voix de Tonnerre," Chantal replied coolly. "In English," he bellowed over the ongoing racket. "Voice of Thunder.
Our volcano." His expression registered stark disbelief. She gave a soft laugh of'~ incredulity. "Surely you knew about Voix de Tonnerre. "Hell, yes, I knew about it. But I didn't~..." AS suddenly as they had
occurred, the sound and vibration ceased. Scout stood with his head cocked expectantly. When he was
convinced that the quake was over, he demanded, "Where is it? How close? Is it about to erupt?"
Without her assistance, he hopped toward the front door of the house and out onto the wide veranda that
surrounded it on three sides. Johnny raced after him and set Scout's hand on his shoulder. Using the boy
as a crutch, he made it down the steps and looked toward the plume of smoke rising above the distant
peak. "Goda'mighty, the thing's about to blow! Chantal, gather everybody together. We'll start
evacuating,, the women and children first. Tell them to bring He broke off when he realized that she was
laughing at him. "What's the matter with you?" he asked in a rage. "Have you lost all your marbles? In case you haven't noticed, we've got a live volcano within spitting distance of this village." "I know, Scout.
I grew up with it in my front yard." Cute, real cute," he sneered. "You might consider it a friendly neighborhood pet, but molten lava and raining cinders don't sound very friendly to me." "The lava cools and hardens long before it gets down here, and if there are any cinders in the eruptions, the trade winds
blow them out to sea." "How the hell do you know? You mean you've seen it erupt before?" "Lots of times. Although it's classified as a nonviolent Hawaiian volcano, it has intermittent, somewhat violent
eruptions. They occur every few years. It's been building up to one for the last few weeks. It will come
soon. His disbelief was obvious, and she found it amusing. Nonetheless, she rushed to reassure him. "The
eruptions are signals from the gods that they are pleased with the village. The people believe these
periodic eruptions are blessings. They look forward to them. You don't see any of them running scared,
dashing for cover, do you?" Scout pivoted like a pogo stick and for the first time noticed that the entire population was standing at the foot of the incline, staring up at them curiously. Everyone seemed to be
relaxed. He was the only one on the verge of panic. "Yeah, well, they probably believe in shrinking heads
too," he said, coming back around to face Chantal. "That doesn't convince me it's the thing to do." Her smile turned to stone. "You don't have to get insulting, Mr. Ritland." "I'm sorry." In a caustic move he placed his hand over his heart. "I just experienced my first volcanic eruption, so ,Ive got other things
besides diplomacy on my mind. "I assure you that Voix de Tonnerre is harmless." "What are you, an expert?" "Yes." Her self-assured retort took him aback. His mouth clicked shut around his next sardonic words. Chantal pressed the advantage. "Father predicts that Voix de Tonnerre won't have any significant
eruptions for another thousand years or so. "Oh, great. Gr eat," he said, rolling his eyes. "Your father says so. Well, why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Now I feel a whole lot better." "Not only are you insulting, you're sarcastic." "Well, what makes you think I'd believe anything your father says, huh?
I'm convinced he's as mentally unbalanced as you are. "You can believe him because he's a renowned
expert in volcanology," she snapped. "He doesn't operate anything as elaborate as the research
laboratory on the slopes of Mt. llllauea, but I assure you his opinion in these matters carries a lot of
weight. So does mine, for that matter. "And if I'm concerned about a dangerous bridge," she said,
warming to her argument, "do you think I'd let my people stay here if I thought the volcano was about to
have a violent eruption that could endanger their lives and property?" He gnawed on the inside of his
cheek while he considered what she'd told him. To further convince him, she asked, "I know the
Reynolds Group was aware of the volcano. They asked my father's advice before deciding to build their
resort on the island. Surely, as one of the designers, you were informed." "Yes," he said crisply. "I was told I might see a puff of white smoke coming from the crater. I was told it would add to the romantic
atmosphere of the island. I didn't expect a drum roll. A damn earthquake. Nothing like what just
happened." "You felt it merely because you're close to it. The next tremor won't take you so much by
surprise. Would you care to see the bridge now?" He expelled a long breath and ran his hand through his
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hair in a gesture of frustration and defeat. "By all means. I can hardly wait." "Watch your step on the path.
It's rocky. Rely on Johnny for support. He expects you to." "I promise not to disappoint him." Together the trio made slow progress down the path that led into the center of the village. All the smiling people
had turned out of the thatched-roof huts to greet them at the bottom of the incline. As they drew nearer,
Scout muttered, "We're conspicuously overdressed. About all anybody else has on is flowers." The
women were wearing skirts of cloth or grass. Around their necks hung garlands of flowers like the
traditional Hawaiian leis. The men wore loincloths fashioned of a cotton material, and crowns of flowers
on their heads. Few of the children had on anything at all, but all were gaily decorated with enormous
colorful blossoms. "The flowers signify that today is a holiday," Chantal told him. "What's the occasion?"
She stopped and looked at him from beneath the brim of her hat. "You are." He, too, stopped in
mid-stride on the path. "Me?" "You're the answer to their prayers. The gods sent you to build a new bridge." Uncomfortably, he assimilated that. "I thought they'd been Christianized." He nodded toward the hut that obviously served as a chapel. There was a wooden cross affixed to its thatched roof. "They have
been, but ancient tribal traditions are hard to let go of." "I was hoodwinked, shot, kidnapped, and
drugged," he reminded her. "Hardly the way to treat a divine being." "How you got here isn't important.
What you're going to do is." "In other words, what they don't know won't hurt them." "It's not that. I just see no need to bore them with the details." As they moved through the crowd, leis were placed around
Scout's neck. He was embraced, kissed, touched with awe and reverence. He was adorned, adored,
and admired by old and young. Chantal could tell by his dazed expression that the outpouring of affection
astonished him. So did the attire of the island women. "They have faces too, you know," she remarked
snidely. Scout dragged his gaze away from a particularly comely young woman's chest and looked into
Chantal's serious expression. "Forgive me. I'm a victim of my culture. I can't let go my ancient tribal
traditions any more than they can. To me a topless girl is still a topless girl." "After a while you won't even notice." "Don't bet on it.', Frowning at him with disapproval, Chantal addressed the crowd, which
immediately began to disperse. "Party pooper, Scout muttered. "They idolize you now, but remember
what they expect from you in return." "A new bridge to, replace the old one." "And there it is.' He followed the direction of Chantal's pointing arm to the deep gorge and the rickety bridge that spanned it.
"Actually, the area we're standing on was formed when a piece of rock broke off the mountaintop
centuries ago," she explained, pointing up at the crest of the mountain on the other side of the gorge. The steep ravine was overgrown with jungle vegetation. At the floor of it, a stream was rushing over rocks
and sending up a spray that caught the morning sunlight and threw back hundreds of miniature rainbows.
"That's our fresh-water supply," she told him. "Father dammed the stream to form a small lake. It's around that bend there." Scout nodded, but he was still staring at the bridge. One of the island men was
dragging a balking goat across it. The suspension bridge was swaying precariously. "You carried me
across that?" he asked hoarsely. The drop was treacherous. Anyone who fell would be dashed on the
rocks far below, he now realized. "You can see now why I took desperate measures," Chantal said.
"Not even the oldest villager can remember when the bridge wasn't there. That indicates that it's at least ninety years old. It must be replaced by a more substantial one." "I'll grant you that." "Sit down." She pointed him to a bench that had been carved out of rock. Johnny dropped to the ground at Scout's feet
and stared up at him worshipfully. Chantal stood before Scout as though pleading her case before a stern
judge, though he was bedecked with flowers and hardly looked the part. "If we had a bridge that would
support motor vehicles, think what it would mean to the village. The people would have safer, surer,
faster access to the rest of the island, to schools and hospitals." "I see your point, Chantal," he replied reasonably. "Believe me, that thing is a hazard to anybody who gets on It. But what the hell do you want
me to do about It?" He spread his hands wide. "Build another one." "Just like that?" He snapped his fingers. "Whip it right up? All by myself?" "Of course not. You've got a free labor force here." "Here?"
Then he barked a short laugh and glanced over his shoulder at the village. "You mean the men of the
village?" "They're not stupid," she said, taking umbrage. "They know the hard work that will be involved and are willing to do it." "Don't get mad. I didn't mean to put them down, it's just that.. ." He pulled his hand down his face, distorting his features. "There's more to it than picking up a hammer and a sack of
nails. If you don't understand that, your father should. And, by the way, why isn't he doing the asking?
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Why did he delegate this responsibility to you?" "He and I devised the plan together." "Even the part about kidnapping me?" "Yes," she hedged. "Liar." "Very well, I added that part. And don't blame the people for any of this. They're innocent. I told them you came willingly but had an accident along the
way." "Look, princess, you don't just kidnap an engineer and, abracadabra, you've got a bridge." "I'm not asking for another Golden Gate." "Oh, good, good. For a minute there I was worried." "All we need is a serviceable bridge." "To span a gorge that would give an acrophobic nightmares. "I didn't say it would be easy." "Grrrahnhh." He threw back his head and released a roar of frustration that only served to blow off steam. It certainly didn't intimidate Chantal, even though it echoed off the mountain slopes and
momentarily brought all activity in the village to a stop. She stood her ground, her chin defiant, her eyes
calm. Scout clasped his hands together between his widely spread knees and studied his white knuckles
at length. Finally he raised his head and, in a conciliatory voice, suggested, "Why don't we do this? Why
don't I go back to the States and try to raise a bridgebuilding fund. My ... ..... I've got this friend who's
good at raising money for all kinds of charity benefits. It's a hobby with her. She's good at it. Once I
explained the situation, she'd hop right on it and give this project top priority. Maybe she could get the
Peace Corps or a church organization behind it. Yeah, I'm sure she could. What do you say?" By the end
of his patronizing speech, Chantal was seething. She abhorred his condescending smile and tone of voice,
as though he were speaking to a simpleton. She wouldn't even honor his condescension by upbraiding
him for it. Secondly, she didn't want his friend in Boston, who she was certain was the "friend" he was referring to, having anything to do with the bridge. Scout wasn't aware that she knew about his Jennifer.
For the time being she wanted to keep it that way. Most infuriating was that he considered the village and
its people a charity case. It was that point which she refuted. "The people want to build the bridge
themselves. They don't want the Peace Corps or the Corps of Engineers or anybody else to come in and
do it for them. If they did, I would have already asked the U.S. government for assistance. "They need
someone to design it and oversee the construction, but they want to do the actual labor on the bridge
themselves. That's the only way they'll consider it truly theirs, something they can take pride in. They
don't consider themselves helpless, dimwitted childrenwhich you obviously do." "I didn't say"
"Furthermore, we need the bridge here now. You are here now. If we let you go, we'll never see or hear
from you again." He shot to his feet, wihcing when he forgot and put weight on his sore leg. "How dare you question my integ rity when you've broken your word to me too many damn times to count." "I never broke my word," she countered with a strong shake of her head. "Well, remind me from now on to get
your word on everything, okay? Because so far you've displayed a tendency toward trickery and
downright lying. "Because I'm desperate!" "Well, so am I. I'm desperate to get the hell out of here."
"You're refusing?" "Damn right. I get paid to build bridges and such. Just because you feel a responsibility toward this village, what made you think I would?" "Common decency. "Common decency doesn't pay
bills. I've struggled for years to make my business a profitable enterprise. Now I've got one of the
world's largest conglomerates courting me for my services. I'm not about to pass up that opportunity by
staying here and working on your piddling little bridge. Her blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "Then
you're refusing only because we can't pay you. How despicably capitalistic." Scout raked his fingers
through his hair again and blew out a gust of air. "No, it is not just the money. I'm not that big a heel."
"Close." He fixed her with a hard stare. "Now who's being insulting?" "Then what, Scout? Why won't you do this for them?" She flung out her hand to encompass the entire village. "Okay, I'll tell you why," he said, hobbling forward. "Somewhere up there," he said, indicating the foothills she had alluded to earlier,
"there's a crazy old Frenchman who sanctions his daughter going around to seduce and kidnap chumps
like me at gunpoint. Even thinking about forming an association with a looney-tune like that makes me a
little nervous, not to mention that said daughter is also a drug pusher, quack, and liar. "I've got an active volcano breathing down my neck that could wipe out any bridge I happened to build, which is a crazy,
unworkable plan to start with considering the materials and labor force available. Besides all that, I'm
having to drink horse broth and eat fish for breakfast and there's a bullet hole in my leg that hurts like
bloody hell." His temper had risen on each word until the last few were issued as shouts that brought a
frown of concern to Johnny's attentive face. Chantal, on the other hand, remained impassive, subjecting
Scout to an unperturbed, level stare. Cursing, he glanced away, then brought his gaze back to hers.
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"Look, Chantal, you're a courageous woman. As a fellow human being, I can appreciate what you've
done for the villagers in the past and the way you're looking out for their future. Selfsacrifice like that is
rare these days. I admire you for it. I see the need for a new and better bridge, but I'm not the guy you
need. You force me to be blunt." He paused to draw a deep breath, then gave her a sympathetic little
smile and concluded with "See, it's really not my problem." Without a word she turned and casually
signaled to the man standing at the end of the bridge. He and several other young men lit the torches they
held ready. When each was burning, they held them to the ragged rope. In seconds the ancient hemp and
wood was engulfed in flames. Scout gave a start of outrage and astonishment. Turning to him, Chantal
said pleasantly, "Now it's your problem." "Have you lost your mind!" Scout hobbled toward the burning bridge. "I can't believe this," he cried, slapping his hands against his thighs, mindless of his wound.
"You're all crazy." The heat of the fire was intense. It washed over them in visible, shimmering waves. But almost as quicKly as it had ignited, it died, having consumed the bridge in less than a minute. Chunks of
burning debris floated down into the gorge and fell into the stream, sending up clouds of steam. A cheer
went up from the villagers. To them, the burning of the bridge represented a pledge that they would soon
have a new one that wouldn't be lifethreatening. They began celebrating in earnest with song and dance.
Drums beat out a joyous tattoo. Scout, impervious to everything except the smoldering remains left at
each side of the gorge, came around to confront Chantal. He ripped the flower garlands from his head
and neck and tossed them to the ground. His eyes burned as hot as the flames that had destroyed the
bridge. "I'm going to murder you." Painfully, he began making his way forward. He had spoken with such passion and conviction, Chantal experienced a flurry of fear that he just might do as he threatened.
However, before he reached her, hands aimed for her throat, his arms were caught and pinioned behind
his back. "Let go of me," he shouted, furiously whipping his head around. "Did he hurt you, Chantal?" A muscular young man rushed to Chantal's side while two of his contemporaries, who were just as wiry,
held Scout back. "No, Andre." "Andre." Scout sneered, straining against his captors. "When I get finished with her, I want my chance at you." "Don't worry," she told Andre. "He's just a little upset that we burned the bridge and cut off his avenue of escape." "'A little upset'?" Scout roared as he struggled with the men who held him. "That doesn't even come close to describing my mood, princess. When I get
my hands on you, I'm gonna kill you." "Do you want me to knock him unconscious again?" Andre
offered. "No!" she cried, laying a restraining hand on his arm. Give him a chance to adjust to the idea that he now has no alternative except to build a new bridge." Scout was closely eyeing Andre. "Don't I know you?" "I was on the construction crew for the hotel." "Yeah, I remember now. You were a good, strong workman, but you had a real attitude problem." He snorted. "No wonder. You were only acting as her
lackey and spy." Andre lunged at Scout, ready to fight. Again Chantal held him back. To Scout she said,
"You would do well to make friends with Andre. He'll be valuable to you when you start on the bridge."
Scout made an obscene suggestion about her and her bridge. This time Chantal didn't react quickly
enough. Before she could stop him, Andre slugged Scout in the mouth. Scout, strengthened by rage,
managed to free his arms. His fist took a swipe at Andre that clipped him solidly on the chin, splitting
skin. "Stop it!" Chantal stepped between them. "Stop it this instant! Do you want the people to see you fighting? This is a day of celebration. I won't have your stupid male egos ruining it for them. Johnny," she called. The boy rushed to Scout's side and placed the man's hand on his shoulder. Chantal hitched her
chin in the direction of the house on the hill. Scout was fuming, but his face was drawn and pale with pain.
Reluctantly, he shared his weight with Johnny and began the climb up the gradual incline to the house.
Chantal started after them. To her surprise, Andre gripped her arm. He had never touched her before,
nor had he ever looked at her through such hard eyes. "He could be dangerous to you. I do not think he
should stay in your house." She pulled her arm free. "He has to. I must tend to his wound. He certainly won't be any use to us if he develops an infection. There's no need to be afraid for me. He snarls, but he
doesn't bite." He didn't respond to her attempt at humor, only stared at her with implacable, obsidian
eyes before turning them malevolently on the two struggling up the hill. Then, wordlessly, he turned away,
signaling his friends to follow. Chantal sighed wearily. She and Andre had never exchanged a cross word.
Why now, when she didn't need any more hassles, was he getting his ire up? Wasn't Scout enough to
contend with? By the time she reached the house, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, unwinding his
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bandage. Johnny was looking on somberly. Chantal Issued swift instructions to him, which he rushed to
carry out. She moved Scout's hands away and inspected the incision. "One of the stitches popped during
that ridiculous altercation." "Your lap dog started it.,, Johnny returned carrying a decanter of liquor.
Chantal poured an inch of it into a drinking glass and extended it to Scout. "No thanks. I don't want to
sleep through the rest of the week." "It's nothing but brandy. You saw me pour." "How do I know you haven't laced the whole bottle?" She tossed back the shot of liquor and swallowed it whole. Pouring
another, she extended it to him. He took it and swallowed as boldly as she. "Thanks," he croaked. His tongue came out to explore the bleeding cut on his swelling lip. "Grown men, Chantal said with derisive
reproach, "slugging at each other." She moistened a corner of a washcloth in the basin of water on the nightstand and dabbed his lip with it. "Ouch, damn! Stop that." "I need to put something on it.,, "Forget it.', "It could get infected." He reached for the decanter and poured another shot. Before drinking it, he dipped his finger into the glass and spread the alcohol over his bleeding lip. It caused tears to form in his
eyes. "Consider it disinfected." "Very well. I'll have to put in another stitch" "You're not getting your hands on me again, Dr. duPont, so put that thought right out of your mind. I'll bank on my general good
health and the regenerative powers of the human body to heal itself." "You look feverish. Perhaps you should lie down." "Perhaps you should drop the phony bedside manner and tell me where it is." "Where what is?" "The other way out of this village." He plunked down the brandy snifter and struggled to his feet. "Because even you wouldn't do something as crazy as cutting off the only means of getting to the
rest of the island." "I don't know what you-" He grabbed her shoulders and jerked her forward. Her hands landed on his bare chest. They stood eye to eye, glaring at each other with open animosity. Johnny
made a worried, fearful sound that brought them both to their sens es. Chantal, stepping away from the
bed, murmured reassuringly to the boy and stroked his cheek. He bade Scout au revoir and left the
room. "I'm waiting," Scout said tightly as soon as Johnny had cleared the doorway. Chantal removed her straw hat and shook her heavy hair off her back. "There is a path that snakes down the gorge on one side
and up it on the other. But it takes a man almost an hour to walk it, not counting the time it takes to cross
the stream. With your injury it would take four times that long if you could make it at all. In any case, you
don't know where it is. Resign yourself to building another bridge." He gave her a calculating look. "Or what?" he asked softly. Taken aback, she repeated his question. "What do you mean, or what?" "Exactly that." He crooked his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her over him as he fell back onto the
pillows. His hands linked behind her waist to hold her sprawled against him. "The more I think about
being stranded here, the better I like the idea," he whispered against her lips. "What man wouldn't think this was paradise? I could take advantage of what you advertised the other night." Rubbing a hard kiss
on her lips, he skimmed his hands over her body, down to the baclcs of her thighs and up again. "Once
you get warmed up, I'll bet you're a real wildcat in the sack. Andre could probably testify to that. Wasn't
jealousy what caused that fight between us? He doesn't like the thought of my going where he's already
been, hmm? "'Course he doesn't have anything to worry about. Not really. When I get tired of you, I'll
give you back to him. Then I'll choose from among the beauties in the village who were fawning over me
this morning. I won't have to work another day in my life, won't have to put on a necktie ever again,
won't have to fight rush hour traffic." He pulled her harder and higher against him and curved his hands
over her buttocks. "Why should I go to all the trouble of building a bridge when, the more I think about it, princess, the better I like the thought of whiling away my days here like your daddy has, getting fat and
lazy." His smirk was mocking and insulting. At that moment she wanted to drive a knife through his heart.
Instead, she nudged his sore thigh with her knee. When he winced reflexively, she extricated herself from
his arms and left him lying there. "You overexerted yourself this morning," she said coldly. "I'll send Johnny in with your lunch. After that, I suggest you rest." After closing the door behind her, she leaned
against it and allowed the threatened tears to form in her eyes. He had hurt her terribly, cut her to the
quick, struck her in the most painful way he possibly could. To respond would have provided him useful
ammunition. No, she would die before letting him know how cruel he had been. It was hours later before
she reentered his room. Scout was sitting up in bed, a tablet propped on his bent right knee. He finished
what he'd been writing before glancing up. Then he did a double take. Chantal was standing on the
threshold of the room, wearing only a bikini. She didn't see his astonishment because she was
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experiencing her own. Pieces of wadded-up paper littered the floor like snowballs. "I'll have Johnny pick
them up later," he said, bringing Chantal's eyes around to him. "What are you doing?" "Sketching.
"Sketching what?" He had trouble staying focused on her face as she advanced into the room. Her navel entranced him, so did her thighs, and her breasts which swelled above the bra of her bikini. "Ideas," he said in a voice as thick and congested as his loins. She gazed down at the top sheet of the tablet. "It's a bridge," she exclaimed in a whisper. "Of course it's a bridge. That's what you brought me here to build, isn't it? Or have you changed your mind?" "No, but obviously you've changed yours." Fixing him with an unfriendly stare, she asked, "Should I be insulted or flattered that you no longer want me as your whore?"
He let out a whoosh of breath, as though he'd been rabbit-punched. "I deserved that, I guess. "And
more." Setting the tablet and pencil aside, he gazed up at her. "That was anger and frustration Chantal, not me. I'm not usually like that. I ... I've been under a lot of pressure these last couple of days, right? I
was feeling ornery and" "Hateful." "Hateful," he admitted. "I struck out at you where I suspected you might be the most vulnerable." "Then you're very intuitive, Mr. Ritland, because everything you said, indeed, your entire attitude, was contemptible." "Back to Mr. Ritland, are we?" "For the time being."
"Will I win any Brownie points if I show you some ideas? I've been toying with several this afternoon. I
had Johnny fetch me this tablet and pencil from George's---you don't mind if I call him George, do
you?-study. It's rough, but-" "Why are you doing this?" His head snapped up. "I thought you wanted me to." "I do. But you've capitulated so suddenly. Why?" She was the most exasperating female he'd ever met. Here he was, trying to be nice, doing what she'd been wanting him to do, and she wanted reasons
and explanations. "Believe it or not, I'm a well-liked guy in most circles," he said. "My business dealings with people have been, on the whole, congenial. I avoid confrontations when at all possible, and until this
morning I hadn't engaged in a fistfight since high school," he added, touching the cut on his lip with the tip of his tongue. "I'm sorry Andre struck you, although you deserved it for using that kind of language with
me." "I'd been sorely provoked, Chantal," he reminded her softly. Her voice was equally low. "So what caused you to change your mind?" "I started feeling selfish. I've had some good fortune lately." He shrugged. "I thought maybe I should spread some of it around. If I can help these people out, I believe I
should." What he didn't tell her was that he had come to the sudden realization that almost a week had
passed since the Coral Reefs opening. One week closer to his wedding day. Jennifer would be expecting
him home soon, though he'd never set a specific date for his return. But he knew that if she didn't hear
from him within a reasonable period of time, she would get in a tizzy. She might understand his desire to
do some hunting, fishing, and sight-seeing on Parrish Island. But if his excuse for being detained was that
he'd been stranded under the same roof in a remote village with a woman who looked like Chantal, it
might be a bit much to ask his future bride to dismiss. In any case, he wasn't going to press his luck. The
sooner he built the damn bridge, the sooner he'd get away. His opponent seemed unwilling to
compromise. So far she'd out foxed him. He'd decided that a different strategy was called for. Now she
stood with her arms crossed over her bare stomach, her expression skeptical. "That's very altruistic of
you, Mr. Ritland." "You don't believe me?" "No," she replied bluntly. "But your reasons for cooperating now aren't as important as getting the bridge built. Would you like to go outside for a while?" "Don't you want to see what I've got so far, hear my ideas?" Her lack of enthusiasm was perturbing. He had
expected gratitude, surprise, anything but her seeming nonchalance. "Later. I think you need some fresh
air. Come on. I'll call Johnny. Together I think we can get you down to the beach." It was a painstaking
process, but eventually the three of them reached the bottom of the rocky path that led from the back of
the house to the beach. Actually, Scout felt he could have gone much farther without complaint. The trek
provided him with a valid reason to touch Chantal. While she supported him on one side, his hand had
ridden In the curve of her waist. He didn't know If his dizziness came from lying In bed so long without
any exercise, from the hot sun, or from gazing down at Chantal's breasts from the spectacular vantage
point he had. "Sit In this tidal pool. The saltwater will be good for your Incision." He eyed the shallow pool dubiously, but lowered himself Into It. As soon as the water covered his leg, he pulled It out. "It's hot. Besides that, It stings." "Don't be such a whiner," she chided, and pushed his leg back into the water.
The scenery was travel brochure material. The sand was the color and texture of sugar, the water
aquamarine. White, foaming waves were driven ashore, then receded, leaving behind a sparKling, lacy
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residue on the beach. A few men of the village were spear fishing. Women were playing In the surf with
their children. None was wearing anything except a South Seas version of a G-string. None seemed to
notice except Scout. But even with such a plethora of nakedness, the person he stared at most was the
one who was clothed. He couldn't take his eyes off Chantal as she cavorted In the waves with Johnny
and some of the other children. Emerging from the water, hair slicked back from her exquisite face,
droplets of water collecting on her satiny skin, eyes shining with pleasure, she took his breath away and
made him painfully aware that it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. He was glad his lap
was partially submerged in the shallow pool. "How does it feel?" she stunned him by asking as she
dropped down onto the sand beside him. "I see it's still swollen a bit." He cleared his husky throat. "I beg your pardon?" "Your lip." She touched it experimentally with her cool, damp fingertip. His stomach muscles contracted sharply. "It's fine." "And your incision? Is the warm saltwater helping?" She licked seawater off her lips, and his heart seemed to somer sault. "Oh, yeah, the soaking has made it feel a lot
better." "Good. I thought it might." Gathering her hair in her fists and drawing it forward over her shoulder, she wrung water out of it. "You know," he commented, forcibly pulling his eyes away from the trickles that rolled down her stomach and pooled in the V of her thighs, "I get the distinct impression that I'm this afternoon's entertainment." "What do you mean?" "Well, every time somebody looks over here, they start laughing. What's so funny about me? surely they're accustomed to my hairy chest by now.
Chantal lowered her eyes. He noted how her wet lashes clung together in dark, spiky clusters. "They're
not finding you amusing. It's me they're giggling at." "You? What's funny about you?" "Not funny. Just different." "Different?" She glanced at him briefly, then away. "They're not used to seeing me on the beach... uh, wearing atop." Instantly, his eyes dropped to her breasts. He noted for the first time that the bikini bra looked brand new. The color was a shade more vivid than the bottom. He doubted it had ever
been worn. For such a slender woman, she had full breasts, beautiful breasts. The centers were making
distinct impressions against the blue top. He remembered how responsive they had been to his caressing
fingertips, and imagined their texture against his gently flicking tongue. The fantasy caused an explosion of
hot desire deep in his belly. "Please don't change any native customs on my account." Slowly, he lifted his gaze to her eyes, which were as brilliant as the sun on the ocean waters. For several heart-exercising
moments, their eyes communicated what their bodies were feeling. Instinctually, he reached out and
encircled her wrist. His thumb pressed against the pulse; he wasn't surprised to feel it racing in tempo
with his. "Please?" he added in an undertone. A soft moan escaped her damp lips, but she pulled her
hand away from his loosely shackling fingers. "If you were European, perhaps. But, by your own
admission, American men are obsessed with breasts." She made a vague gesture, which was meant to
close the discussion. "Why don't you show me your sketches now?" He willed his body to relax, but
obstinately refused to let her off so lightly. Spontaneously, he plucked a hibiscus blossom from the bush
behind her. Then, holding her inquisitive stare with his own, he pressed its stem into the valley between
her breasts so that the petals spread open upon the smooth mounds. "Now we'll look at the sketches."
His voice was hushed, which surprised him. He hadn't intended to be so taken by his own handiwork. He
had intended to unnerve her, but his plan had backfired. He was the one who was rattled. Johnny had
carried the tablet down to the beach and anchored it beneath a rock. Scout fumbled with the rock, but
managed to retrieve the tablet. He smoothed out several sheets of paper. "I started out thinking about a
suspension bridge similar to the previous one. That, however, involves cable and supports and, well, it's
just not feasible." He had x-ed through a number of rough sketches. "The arch bridge," he said, tapping another drawing. "Standard and workable. Unless you happen to be on an island where the gorge you're
bridging is too steep and there's not an abundance of concrete. So," he continued, glancing at her as he
pointed at another sheet of sketches, "I fell back on the trestlebridge concept. Straight out of a John
Wayne western." "Can you build it here?" He scratched his head and squinted out over the ocean. "I don't know. If..." "What?" she asked when he paused. "If I had the materials." He set aside the tablet and reached for her hand again. It was a consoling gesture this time. Pressing it between the two of his, he
looked at her and said earnestly, "Chantal, you're asking me to do the impossible. Even though I've
agreed to stay, even though I've played with several ideas, I simply can't do it." Gracefully, she rose and extended him a helping hand. "Come with me." "Where?" He was glad to note as he stood up that Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
soaking his wounded leg had relieved some of the stiffness and soreness. He still couldn't place much
weight on it, however. Johnny bounded up to his side. "Thanks, pal. The lady wants us to follow her."
Johnny seemed to understand. Chantal struck off down the beach. Perplexed, Scout followed her. She
disappeared into a grouping of enormous boulders that sent up sprays of surf as the waves crashed
against them. Johnny led him through a shin-deep tidal pool between the rocks. As they emerged from
the crevice on the other side, Chantal was rolling up yards of military camouflage netting. Beneath it were
hidden enough building materials to fill a small warehouse. There were sacks of concrete mix stacked in
shoulder-high rows so solid they could have served as a bunker, lumber, and every kind of power tool
imaginable, even a portable generator to power them. Seemingly miles of steel cable was coiled like huge
snakes sunning on the beach. All had been neatly arranged and wrapped in plastic sheeting to protect it
from the salt spray. Scout's mouth dropped open. There was a red logo boldly stamped on all the goods,
but even without that he would have recognized the building materials. "That's... you..." he stammered.
"You're" "That's right," Chantal said coolly. "I'm the wily bastard who was stealing from you. "How'd you manage It?" Scout posed the question as he tried to scoop a bite of rice into his mouth from a small bowl.
They were eating alfresco on the beach, the breathtaking ocean panorama the backdrop for this
ceremonial dinner. Chantal had warned him that there wouldn't be any silverware. He hadn't thought that
would present much of a problem, but his fingers hadn't mastered the skill yet. Most of the rice dropped
into his lap. "I was taught to eat this way before I ever saw a fork or spoon." His futile efforts and exasperation were comical. Chantal laughed at both. "A person could die of starvation like this." "Would you like me to give you another lesson?" Setting aside her own food, she licked her fingers clean and
turned toward him. "The trick is to hold the bowl close to your mouth and pinch the food up between
your fingers. Poke what you can into your mouth and lick off the rest. Like this." She scooped up a
portion of rice and roasted pork and lifted it toward his mouth. He took the food, then nibbled what
remained off her fingers. Chantal watched the movement of his lips and wondered how something so
innocent could make her stomach feel weightless When his tongue brushed the tips of her fingers, she
snatched her hand back. "I think you've got the knack now." "I wasn't finished practicing." Her senses reacted to the teasing glint in his eye, but she resisted them. "Try it on your own." "Thanks for the lesson in table manners ~ Ia Parrish Island," he said as he resumed eating, "but when I asked how you'd
managed it, I was referring to the stealing." "Such a harsh word!" "It carries a harsh sentence if you're caught," "But I wasn't." "Until now." His brows were drawn so close together, there was hardly a discernible space between them over the bridge of his nose. "You're miffed only because you couldn't
catch me. The fact that I went undetected bothers you more than the loss of the goods, doesn't it?" He
squared his shoulders and faced her belligerently. "Do you know how much you stiffed the Reynolds
Group?" "No, and I'll bet they don't know either, with the possible exception of a bookkeeper who filed the insurance claim. He could probably tell us right down to the last penny how much the supplies were
worth because he was reimbursed that amount by the insurance company." "So you stiffed them." "How much do you suppose the Reynolds Group pays in insurance premiums each year? What I took adds up
to a tiny fraction of that amount. So everybody comes out ahead." He was shaking his head with
incredulity. "You know what I find most amazing? I think you really believe what you're saying. To you
that kind of logic makes sense. "It does. Perfect sense. Besides, you probably wouldn't have used all
those materials. I'm certain you ordered more than you thought you would need. Better that than to run
short in the middle of the job, especially since everything has to be brought in by ship. I saved you the
expense of shipping the surplus back to the States, and, at the same time, put the materials to good use."
"So, you think it was all right to steal because you needed the materials and we didn't?" She gasped with affront. "Surely you don't think I'd steal something I didn't need! His neck seemed to come unhinged as
his head dropped forward until his chin almost touched his chest. "It's like talking to a brick wall." "Cheer up. Here comes dessert." The entire population of the village had turned out to celebrate the imminent
construction of the new bridge. The villagers seemed to be having a marvelous time, Chantal noted.
Everyone except Andr~, who was sitting apart, drinking cup after cup of liquor. Several times during the
course of the evening she had caught him eyeing Scout, his expression revealing feelings of resentment
and malice. Andre was the strongest, and by far the most educated, young man in the village. George
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duPont had recognized the boy's intelligence and seen to his education at the American school. Though
Andre had hated leaving the village, he had been an excellent pupil. The duPonts relied on him to do
tasks they couldn't delegate to less sophisticated villagers. He often served as a courier between the
village and the People on the far side of the island because he spoke English well and, when necessary,
could blend into that culture. He'd been a natural choice to plant at the Coral Reef construction site.
Chantal regretted that Andre had had a change of heart regar ding Scout. It had come about only since
the kidnapping. Before then, Andre had spoken well of the engineer, calling him a tough but fair boss. He
had reported back to Chantal and her father that Mr. Ritland was definitely the right person to supervise
the construction of their bridge. It puzzled her now that his opinion of Scout had undergone such a drastic
reversal. Scout's theory that Andre was jealous was preposterous. They had grown up together in the
village, had played as children. Never had Andre indicated any romantic tendencies toward her. Indeed,
he could have his pick among the marriageable young women. This rift between the two men bothered
her greatly not only because she loathed disharmony in any arena of her life, but chiefly because the two
would have to work closely on the bridge, pulling together, not against each other. It seemed that all her
thoughts eventually came back to the bridge. Scout claimed not to have a definite plan and refused to
discuss sketchy ones until he had thought them through. No matter how hard she pressed him, he had
remained resolutely silent since discovering that she had been the elusive thief who had plagued the Coral
Reef project. She was eager for the work to commence. What if he left them with an unfinished bridge
because he had to return to the States in time for his wedding? Chantal couldn't detain him indefinitely. As
the deadline neared, she would have to confront her conscience and ask for whom she was detaining
him, her people or herself. Despite the hostility that frequently flared up between them, she liked having
him around. Looking at him now, she enjoyed watching the firelight from the burning torches flicker
across his features and pick up the russet hues in his hair. "This is great," he was saying, unabashedly licking the sticky substance off his fingers. "What is it?" "It's like a pudding. Made with mashed fruit, shredded coconut, and goat's milk." Abruptly, he stopped eating and glanced sickly down into the
shallow bowl his fingers were scraping clean. Laughing, Chantal said, "I shouldn't have told you and
ruined your enjoyment. But smile, please. Margot made it for you." Who is Margot?" "Over there. The one anxiously wringing her hands." He followed Chantal's nod and spotted the girl. Scout held up his
empty bowl and rubbed his tummy. The girl's anxiety-ridden face broke into a radiant smile. "How old is
she?" "Eighteen and still unmarried. An old maid." "She isn't my idea of an old maid," Scout said in obvious appreciation of the girl's Polynesian beauty. "She's very beautiful," Chantal conceded. "And very choosy. Her parents are nearly frantic to see her married. They want to protect her." "From what?"
"From men who come to the island from overseas," she said slowly, averting her head. "They usually consider our women a commodity. Girls like Margot become their prey and are often seduced. When
their sedncers are finished with them, there's little for them to do except become prostitutes in bars along
the harbor and near the military bases." Scout's happy mood evaporated. "You mean one slip, which is
probably not her fault in the first place, and she's ruined for life? That's unfair, isn't it?" "To these people, a virgin bride is still highly prized." Voix de Tonnerre chose that instant to belch a geyser of smoke. The night sky was illuminated with a red glow. The earth trembled. A sound like thunder reverberated,
echoing olf neighboring mountains. Scout jumped to his feet, forgetting to favor his left leg. A cheer went
up from the natives. Drums began beating out a rapid pagan rhythm. Jugs of potent liquor were passed
from hand to hand and liberally imbibed. Scout drank from his own cup as he lowered himself back to
the woven grass mat he shared with Chantal. He gestured toward the smoldering crater and the cloud of
steam rising from it, "You're sure you know what you're talking about?" "Positive. My father has studied Voix de Tonnerre all his professional life. We've combined our studies. It's building up to an eruption, but
it won't be anything severe or destructive. Trust me. If you find that difficult, trust my father. Few men in
the world are regarded as expert as he is." "And he's up there now? With all that chaos going on? Isn't he frightened of getting trapped when the big blow comes?" She gazed at the mountain with deference. "He's up there. But no, he isn't frightened of Voix de Tonnerre." Scout's fingers closed around her chin and
brought her head around. His eyes searched her face. "I believe you're half heathen yourself, Chantal
duPont." Her lips curved into a secretive smile. "This culture is seductive, isn't it?" "It has its perks." He Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
looked down at the bandeau top she was wearing over a short sarong, which rode low on her hips.
Between, there was an expanse of smooth, tanned skin that held his attention for so long, Chantal,,began
to feel uncomfortable. "Stop staring at me. "Belly buttons are among my favorite things," he said huskily.
"You'll really enjoy this part of the celebration, then." She turned his attention away from her midsection and toward a group of young women, including Margot. "They're about to dance for you. Try to appear
impressed." "I don't have to try." The dancers began moving in time to the beating drums. Their feet sifted through the sand. Thighs flashed in the torchlight. Their grrating hips defied nature. Smooth bellies rippled
with trained muscles that activated the provoking motions of their pelvises. Baskets of flowers and fruits
were lifted above their swinging heads. "They're making an offering to the volcano," Chantal explained. "I thought the usual practice was to toss in a virgin," he quipped. "It was." He swung his gaze away from the barebreasted dancing women and looked at her sharply to see if she was teasing. She wasn't. "That was
one concession they made when they embraced Christianity." "Lucky for the virgins," he muttered. Giving the crater a more respectful glance, he saluted it with his drink before taking another sip. "You're
developing a tolerance for our alcohol." He swirled the contents of his cup. "Not really. Two or three swigs of this and it feels and sounds like a freight train is roaring through my head." "Then why are you drinking it?" "Because I'm not as scared of freight trains as I am of volcanoes. " He smiled crookedly, and Chantal's heart thudded as vigorously as if she were participating in the dance. When he wasn't scowling
or frowning, he had a very nice face. Even when he was scowling or frowning. it was nice, she admitted.
Recently, she had been wondering what her life would have been like if she had met Scout Ritland on the
mainland. Would her destiny have been altered? No doubt they would have been attracted. But would
they have fallen in love, married, had children? Fantasies along those lines were too painful to enjoy
because she hadn't met him in California. She had met someone else. And even if it had been Scout she
had given her innocent love to, the outcome would have probably been no different. The unalterable fact
was that in the eyes of the outside world, she was an island girl. Even college degrees and professional
acclaim didn't change that. Suddenly the drums ceased. The resulting silence had an impact that was
palpable. The dancers stood like living statues for several moments, leaving their spectators. especially
Scout, held in thrall. When they broke their pose. most of them drifted back to their families. A few,
however, remained the center of attention. The occasion seemed to call for hushed tones. Scout leaned
close to Chantal and whispered. "What's going on now?" His breath was as balmy as the sea breeze and
felt good against her skin. The night was exceptionally warm after the volcano's eruption. There was a
rivulet of sweat making its way from his temple to his cheekbone. "They're about to do a different kind of dance. Only the young, single girls participate." "How come?' "Because the purpose of the dance is to attract an eligible man." "Oh, yeah? Why aren't you dancing?" "Because I'm not trying to attract anybody." His eyes moved over her slowly. coming to rest on her breasts for several moments before
meeting her gaze again. "Aren't you?" Chantal's insides were as hot and unsettled as the simmering
magma in the depths of the volcano, but she kept her expression impassive and her eyes cool. "If I were
to remove my top and dance in a tribal rite, then you'd know I was trying to attract you." "That would be a fairly good clue, yeah." "But I'm not. So don't think of me in sexual terms." He gave a short, skeptical laugh and lightly poked her navel with the tip of his finger. "Impossible." Since the drums had started up again. she didn't actually hear the word, but merely read it on his lips. Somehow that made it all the
sexier. She pretended to watch the dancers, but her attention was on Scout. His arm was close to hers
and frequently grazed it. She was aware of each time the breeze lifted his hair. Once, several strands of
her hair were blown across his face, his lips. He didn't brush them aside. He commented on the dancers'
performance only once by rasping, "Good Lord. They send a message as clear as Western Union."
Margot had moved toward Andre and was dancing directly In front of him. Her hips rose and fell and
made slow, hypnotic circles that were as beautifully choreographed as they were blatantly carnal. Andre
was watching her through hazy, slItted eyes, his smooth, bare chest rising and falling rapidly. Arms and
legs moved sinuously. Bodies swayed. Breasts and bellies, now glistening with sweat, invited a lover's
caress and cooling kiss. The drumbeats became heavier, faster, louder. They seemed to pass through the
listener's body, snipping cords of conscience that would have held one bound to puritanical restraint.
Though Chantal had witnessed this rite since her birth, tonight the drums spoke to her in a new and
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unique way. She wanted to give her body free rein to do as It wanted, to undulate in response to the
evocative rhythm. Heat swirled in her lower body, begging her hips to rotate In cadence to the drums.
Her breasts felt hampered by the bandeau. She craved freedom for them. She wanted to bare them to
the sky, the sea, the volcano, the man. Her head yearned to loll about her shoulders, sending her hair
rippling down her back, free and unfettered. Her breath was coming swiftly through her parted lips. She
could feel herself slipping into a trance and could barely keep her eyes open. Yielding to the temptation,
she let them close as she swayed to the rhythm of the music. Following a crashing crescendo, the drums
suddenly fell silent again. Her eyes popped open. Scout was bending close, staring at her with eyes that
reflected the torches and fires burning within himself. His face was shiny with sweat. Drops of It trickled
down his neck. His nostrils were slightly flared, and Chantal realized that his breathing was as choppy
and fast as her own. Suddenly he cupped the back of her head and drew it up closer to his. His mouth
came down hard on hers. He kissed her fiercely, opening her lips, then thrusting his tongue into her
mouth. His fingers splayed wide on the back of her head. His other hand cradled her jaw and angled her
head to one side, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Again and again his tongue entered her mouth.
Reflexively, her hands clutched for support. Her fingers curled into the pelt of crinkly chest hair and the
taut flesh beneath. As suddenly as he had moved before, Scout jerked his head back and penetrated her
wide, staring eyes with his own. "It's going to happen," he promised thickly. "You're going to have me inside you." He drew away, putting necessary space between them before they became a public
spectacle. The dance had marked the official conclusion of the celebration. Young men claimed their
favorite girl and headed for private spots to do what sweethearts do universally. Families began climbing
the rocky slope toward their huts. Torches were extinguished until only moorllight and the rosy glow from
the volcano bathed the beach with surrealistic light. "Johnny?" Chantal called softly. "Over there." Scout had spotted the boy curled up at the base of a coconut palm, sleeping. "I guess I wore him out today."
"It's a shame we have to wake him." "Don't." Scout caught her arm before she could take more than one step toward the boy. "Let him sleep. I'll make it." "Are you sure you can?" "If you'll help me." "Of course.
She placed one arm around his waist. He settled his arm upon her shoulders. In this now -familiar manner
they began to make halting progress across the beach toward the rocky path that led up to the house.
Between the sandy shore and the incline there was a strip of vegetation. No sooner had they moved into
the palm grove than Scout tripped on the undergrowth and went down, dragging Chantal with him. She
ended up on her back in a bed of cool green ferns with Scout bending over her. "Scout," she gasped
once she had regained her breath. Her first concern was for his injured leg. "Are you hurt?" His grin alerted her to the truth. "You did that on purpose!" "Hmm." His lips whisked across hers. She placed her hands on his shoulders and tried to push him off. "Listen," he hissed, trapping her head between his
hands, "no matter how many times you deny it, I know you like my kisses. Don't you think a man can feel
that, know that instinctively? I know why you tricked me into leaving the party with you, but what we did
before you shot me wasn't faked, was it?" "I" "Was it?" Her will battled her desire. Finally, however, her eyes lowered to his beautifully masculine mouth. Slowly, silently she shook her head no. Some of the
tension ebbed from his body, and he settled against her comfortably. His thumbs took turns stroking her
lips. "I didn't think so. You wanted to kiss me then, and you want to now, don't you?" "Yes," she confessed reluctantly. Then, sliding her fingers up through his hair, she repeated it. "Yes." Their mouths came together with as much passion as before, but it was a softer, deeper, wetter kiss. Her lips were
pliant beneath the firm pressure his applied. His tongue was bold but not invasive as it exchanged stroking
caresses with hers. Finally raising his head, he moaned with hunger and need and buried his face in the
hollow of her neck. He formed gentle fists around handfuls of her hair and rubbed it against his cheeks.
Chantal arched her throat when his lips went in search of its most vulnerable spots. Trailing his fingers
down her chest, he remarked, "I've never touched skin that felt like yours. It's amazingly smooth." Deftly, he undid the bandeau and removed it. Chantal, who had so often worn no top, was suddenly suffused
with modesty. Scout brushed aside concealing strands of her hair and bared her breasts to the patterned
moonlight. He murmured his appreciation and slid one hand up to cup her breast. "You're gorgeous." He kneaded her, tenderly reshaping the soft mound, then brushed his fingertips across the dusky center and
watched it respond. With each stroke of his fingertips, Chantal's back arched off the bed of crushed
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ferns. Each caress elicited a strange thrill from her lower body that shimmered in widening circles to the
rest of her. "There's sand on your fingers," she told him in an unsteady whisper. "I'm sorry. Does it hurt?"
She shook her head. The sand only added another dimension, another texture, to his caresses. His gently
plucking fingers raised her nipples to tight, sensitized peaks. With each touch she whimpered in response.
Just when she thought he couldn't elevate the level of her desire any higher, he blew on her softly to get
rid of the sand. In her mind she cried his name sharply, but it came out only as a hoarse entreaty. He
responded by covering one nipple with his mouth, surrounding it with heat and moisture and fervency and
need. Chantal gripped the supple muscles of his back. Before she realized how it had happened, he was
lying between her thighs, rhythmically bumping his hips against hers. He levered himself up again and took
her face between his hands. As he kissed her, the tips of her breasts, still damp from his mouth's
caresses, got lost in his wealth of chest hair. They groaned their mutual pleasure. She lightly scratched his
ribs from armpit to waist. Making a low sound, he captured one of her hands and carried it down his
body, folding her fingers around the hard ridge behind the front of his shorts. Chantal gasped, first from
shock, then from joy, then from consternation. Did he expect such intimacy from all his lovers? His future
wife? Or only from island girls? She threw him off and rolled from beneath him in one motion. By the time
he came to his senses, she was backed against the trunk of a palm, recapturing her breath and covering
her breasts with her hair. "What in hell's the matter with you?" he wheezed, blinking her into focus. "I had to stop it." He sucked in deep, dry drafts of air. "Why?" "Because I don't choose to make love to you."
"You chose to several minutes ago." His voice was tightly controlled, indicating the depth of his rage. "I'm sorry," she whispered earnestly. "Sorry won't do this time, Chantal. Sorry won't fix this." He cupped his straining sex for emphasis. The crude gesture offended her and made her angry. "How dare-" "How dare you go that far then call it off?" he shouted. "Who do you think you are?" "Who do you think I am?" she retaliated angrily. "An island girl, you can use for the duration of your vacation stay? "Vacation!" He struggled up to one knee, then to his feet. "You call getting shanghaied and shot and bullied into building a bridge a vacation? After all you've done to me, don't you think I deserve some compensation?" She
crossed her arms over her middle as though he had dealt her a blow. "You expect me to play whore for
you while you're building our bridge, is that it? A bridge in exchange for unlimited use of my body?" That he could have so little regard for her pierced her to the core. It also sorely disappointed her. She had
begun to think he was of a higher caliber than most men she had met. "Very well, Mr. Ritland," she
agreed dejectedly. "If it will get my people their bridge, I'll sleep with you while you're here. But," she added, pausing to draw a ragged breath, "you'll know each time you enter my body that that's the only
reason I'm allowing it. I'll hate and despise you. And because I truly believe that you are a man of
integrity, I believe you'll hate and despise yourself afterward." She faced him defiantly. "Is that what you want? A whore who regards you no more highly' than you regard her?" He released a long, whistling
breath through his teeth, then snarled, "Get the hell away from me before I take you up on your generous
offer." She didn't realize how tensely she had been waiting for his answer, or just how important it was to her, until he gave it. Gradually, she relaxed her rigid stance. She moved forward with her arms extended.
"I'll help you to the house." He staved her off. "I said for you to get the hell away from me." "You'll never make it up the path with your leg-" "My leg" he interrupted, enunciating the words, "is the least of my problems." They exchanged a hot, tortured stare, then Chantal turned and scrambled up the path alone.
Chantal was brewing coffee in th e kitchen of her house the following morning when Scout appeared in
the doorway. He was propped on a makeshift crutch. She noticed immediately that he had removed the
bandage from around his thigh. The scar was an uneven vivid pink line, but the swelling had gone down
considerably. His hair was tousled, his safari shorts rumpled. Since he hadn't yet shaved and had
obviously slept on the beach, he looked disreputable and mean. He also looked wonderfully male and
endearingly cantankerous. Chantal wondered how she had resisted making love to him the night before.
"Coffee ready yet?" he asked gruffly. "Almost." She smiled at the boy who was sticking as close as a shadow to the man. "Bon/our, Jean." "Bonjour," he replied sleepily. She turned back to the
wood-burning stove and checked the boiling contents of the speckled blue enamel pot. It would have
looked more appropriate in a cabin on the American frontier and was quite a contrast to the fine bone
china her father had brought with him from France. She poured coffee into one of the priceless cups
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while Scout struggled to lower himself into the chair. She refrained from offering him assistance, guessing
that he wouldn't welcome it. As soon as his bottom made contact with the seat of the chair, Johnny
propped the crutch against the table, within Scout's easy reach. "Where did you get that?" Chantal asked as she joined him at the table with her own cup of coffee. "I made it this morning. Early this morning.
Johnny brought me a knife when I finally got across what I wanted. He helped me locate a good stout
stick." He smiled at the boy, who beamed a toothless grin back at him, sensing his idol's approval. "It should come in handy." Scout, nodding, sipped his coffee. Neither was looking at the other directly. Each
was thinking of the night before, of the kisses that had been given and received and the caresses that had
made them feverish and weak. To break a strained silence, Chantal asked, "Would you like breakfast
now?" "Not if it means having fish again." "Everyone got a share of the pig that was roasted for the celebration last night." "The island's version of ham and bacon?" She gave a half smile. "I guess so." "No thanks. I'm really not all that hungry. Coffee's fine. Maybe some fruit later." She acknowledged with a
nod of her head. The tension was killing her. It was difficult to make conversation, but even idle chatter
was better than having to endure the silence. "I see that the stitches of your incision have been removed."
"I took them out myself." That much was obvious. She waited for him to elaborate. He gave a negligent shrug. "I didn't, uh, sleep very well and woke up as soon as it got light. I didn't have anything else to do, so I took them out." "Are you sure it was time for them to come out?" "No." "Does it hurt?" "No." "You grimace when you move." "It's just damned inconvenient." "Yes, I'm sure it is. I'm sorry." "So you've said." Another awkward silence descended on them. She used it to refresh their coffee, though neither
cup was empty. As she started to turn away from the table, Scout closed his fingers around her wrist. "I
never considered you a whore, Chantal." Through the steam rising from the enamel coffeepot, they stared
into each other's eyes. When the pot became so heavy her arm began to ache, she returned it to the
stove and sat down opposite him again and for several moments gazed into the dark brew in her cup.
"Chantal?" She raised her head. "How could you think that I regarded you with such disrespect?" he asked softly. "You said I kissed like an expensive whore." "Your kisses are deep, passionate, delicious.
Some women would have been flattered by the comparison." "Not me." Daunted for a moment, he
stared into his own cup. Then he looked across the table at her and said, "You're not telling me
everything. Talk to me." Almost shyly, she looked away before she began speaking. "I'm the product of three cultures. Polynesian from my mother, French from my father, American from attending school. I
knew what to expect when I went to America because I'd seen the speculative glances people gave me
on the military base. It's rather obvious that I have mixed blood." "You're also very beautiful in a rare and unique way. Those glances you interpreted as prejudicial were probably stares of admiration or awe.
"Thank you. Perhaps some of them were, but I learned to be wary. What people don't understand, they
usually want to keep at arm's length. If I was admired, it was from afar." "And when someone got close?"
"Typically, he expected me to be something I'm not." "What happened when you enrolled at UCLA? Did you date?" "Yes," she answered guardedly, "but I developed a reputation for being unfriendly and aloof.
Actually, I was only being very careful." She left her chair and moved to one of the windows, opening the
shutters to allow the fresh morning breeze inside. "During my senior year there I met a graduate student in the geology department. His name was Patrick. Our dates turned into more than just fun outings." "You, Un, you fell in love?" Scout's guess was tentative, but she provided an unequivocal answer. "Very much in love. Head over heels. All the cliches apply. We drifted in a pink haze of happiness. Life was
wonderful, our future bright. We planned to get married." Scout cleared his throat and fidgeted
uncomfortably in his chair. Johnny looked at him anxiously, but Scout shook his head to reassure the boy
that his discomfort didn't stem from his wound. He couldn't account for it himself, except that he found it
damned disagreeable to hear Chantal talking about her love for another man. Snidely, he asked, "So
what happened to Patrick and this pink haze of happiness?" "He took me to meet his parents." Chantal returned to her chair. Her sleek black brows were pulled into a frown, testifying to her degree of anguish.
A soft laugh broke through her lips, but it was a hollow and bitter sound. "Apparently, when Patrick told
them about me, they were charmed by the idea of having a daughterin-law with such a quaint French
name. He hadn't told them that I was only half French." She rolled her lips inward in an effort to screen
their trembling. The memory of that evening always made her want to weep with humiliation. "That was
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the longest dinner I've ever had to sit through. They were subtle, but I could sense their disapproval and
abject horror, There was no scene, no breach of etiquette, just a distinct chill in the air." Even now she could see the dismay that had come over Patrick's mother's face when she eagerly opened the door and
first beheld her son's choice of bride. Chantal had worn her best dress. She had been impeccably
groomed. It didn't seem to matter that she had been on the dean's list every semester of her college
career or that she was fluent in three languages, including a regional Polynesian dialect. If she had had a
horn growing out of her forehead, her fiance mother couldn't have looked more stricken. She wasn't a
cruel woman. She would have taken umbrage at being deemed a bigot. No doubt she shuddered at the
very thought of the Ku Klux Klan or the neo-Nazis. Yet it was unthinkable that her nice WASP son
planned to marry a woman of mixed heritage. "Patrick broke off our engagement two weeks later," she
concluded in a ,quiet, introspective voice. "Gutless wonder. "Tremendous pressure was placed on him."
"Why didn't he just tell his folks to bug off?" Chantal strived to remain calm. Scout was only asking questions she had asked herself a thousand times, but somehow hearing them from him provoked her.
"His parents' disapproval wasn't his only reason. There were other factors involved." "Like what?" "Like children." "What about them?" "He didn't feel that we should have any." "Why not?" "He didn't think it would be fair to impose a stigma on them." "Stigma? Your being their mother would be a stigma?"
"You're putting words in my mouth." "And you're defending this creep, for chrissake." Raising his voice, Scout thumped the table with his fist hard enough to make the china rattle. "To hear you, you'd think you
were still in love with him." "I'm not!" "Well, good!" The shouting match ended abruptly. Scout combed his hair for the first time that morning, using ten frustrated fingers. They did more damage than good.
"Believe me, Chantal, you're better off without a jerk like that. He sounds like a real loser. He wouldn't have been the husband for you. Be glad the physical commitment-" He broke off when he read her stark
expression. "Oh. He got the goodies first and then left you holding the bag." Her steady gaze turned as blue and cold and hard as a diamond. "Patrick wasn't so different from most men." Scout flopped back
against the slats of his chair and flung his arms out to his sides. "Oh, I get it now. You shootliterally, in my caseall the dogs because one mangy mongrel had fleas." "Interesting choice of words. Patrick wasn't the mongrel. I was." "You know what I mean," he said impatiently. "He didn't mind sleeping with you but threw you over because he couldn't take the heat from his parents. So now every time you meet a
Caucasian man, your built-in security system goes off." "Wouldn't yours?" "Not if I was sure of myself." "I am. It's other people I'm not sure of. Until I know that I'm wholly accepted for what I am "You aren't
going to put out for any guy who comes on to you. "You could use some finesse, Mr. Ritland." "And you could use some trust. Have I ever treated you disrespectfully, like I thought you were a lesser being
because your mother happened to be Polynesian?" "Yes!" He was flabbergasted. "That's a damn lie!
When?" "'If I get captured by a lovely, bare-breasted native girl, don't come looking for me anytime
soon.' "Having his own words to Corey Reynolds repeated, caught Scout off guard. His jaw dropped
open, then snapped quickly shut. Chantal took advantage of his speechlessness. "I take that to mean that
as long as a 'native girl' is entertaining you, you are willing to stay lost. Implying, of course, that a girl from Parrish Island is amoral and promiscuous, willing to 'put out' for any man for as long as he wants her."
She paused to draw a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I won't be your native girl." Scout had recovered from his embarrassment. Now he gave an exaggerated groan of irritation. "Give me a break, will you? That
was a figure of speech, Chantal. Two men spouting off, the way guys do about women." "Well, I didn't
appreciate it, either as a native girl or as a woman." Cursing, he threw up his hands in a gesture of
surrender. "All right. I apologize. The comment wasn't intended to be overheard. It was insensitive. I'll
forgive you for eavesdropping if you'll forgive me for being a slimy, chauvinistic jerk, okay?" "Now you're making fun of me. In addition to thinking me fair game, you consider me stupid." Both his hands hit the
table at the same time, making a loud slapping sound. "Hasn't it occurred to you that I might have been
coming on to you for very basic, honest reasons? Like because I think you're beautiful? Because you're
unique and because there's an aura of mystery surrounding you that I find as sexy as hell?" He reached
for her hand across the table and massaged the palm with the pad of his thumb. "I haven't wanted to kiss
you since the minute I laid eyes on you because of or in spite of who your parents are, but because
you've got one of the most enticing mouths I've ever seen. You've got skin that feels like a flower petal,
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hair as dark as midnight, and eyes like bottomless lagoons. In case you think I'm just waxing poetic to
win you over, I'll throw in something brazen and sexist like this." He leaned forward and, drawing her
hand toward him, pressed it against his chest. "I've fantasized a lot about having you naked and hot and
moving beneath me, taking all of me inside your lovely body." Her lips separated, partly from surprise, ~
from arousal. Slowly, she released the breath she had been holding for so long she couldn't recall the last
time she had exhaled. "You shouldn't say things like that to me, Scout." "Why not? I think you should know how I feel. I want you to know why I desire you. It's not because you're convenient. It's not
because I think you're easy. For pity's sake," he said, laughing huskily, "I've endured tremendous
hardships for you. How could I consider you easy?" Squeezing her hand tightly, he asked earnestly,
"Why don't you believe me?" It took some tugging but she finally managed to withdraw her hand from
his. She stared at the imprint his fingers had left on hers, then slowly looked into his eyes. "Because of your fiance." "Jennifer?" Scout asked weakly.,, "I believe that's her name, yes. Giving no outward sign of her distress, Chantal got up and carried their cups and saucers to the dry sink and pumped water over
them. "I guess if you overheard everything else Reynolds and I talked about, it stands to reason that you
heard about Jennifer too." Mustering her courage, she turned to confront him. "Your wedding date is fast approaching, and Miss Colfax is a lovely young woman who dabbles in antiques." "Look, Chantai-"
"Never mind, Scout," she said wearily. "Please don't insult my intelligence with needless explanations.
And don't involve me in your two-timing. I won't be a temporary diversion until you return to your
blushing Boston bride." He had the grace to look abashed, a man caught red-handed trying to get away
with the oldest trick in the book. "I never meant to insult or compromise you, Chantal. I honestly haven't been thinking much about marriage or Jennifer. Certainly not last "Do you expect me to believe that?" He ducked his head ruefully. "No, I don't expect you to believe it. But it happens to be the truth." "That doesn't speak well of either of us, does it?" "No," he admitted. "Especially of me." "We were both at fault. I wasn't thinking about her either, Scout," she confessed softly. His head came up and their gazes
locked again. A ponderous silence filled the kitchen, but the village was beginning to wake up. There
were sounds of ordinary daily activity coming from the bottom of the hill. The familiar noises seemed
remote and far away; In their fog of desire and guilt, Chantal and Scout couldn't be distracted by those
sounds. Suddenly Johnny's stomach growled loudly. Snapping to, Chantal spoke to him in sibilant French
and, after silently consulting with Scout and being granted his permission, he left in quest of breakfast.
"Despite everything else I've done, I wouldn't keep you from your wedding," she told Scout. "So work needs to commence as soon as possible. Unless, of course, you not going to build our bridge now that
you know I won't be sharing your bed. "I said I would do it and I will," he said with asperity. A knot of apprehension inside her chest began to unravel, although she kept her relief a secret from him. "Are you
prepared to show me some designs now?" "Before I do, I want to know the truth." "About what?"
"Boats." "Boats?" "As I was sitting on the beach this morning, I contemplated an escape by sea. I didn't see any ships on the horizon that I might flag down." "The shipping channel runs along the opposite side of the Island." "I thought as much," he grumbled. "When Johnny finally understood what I was asking him about, he became so distressed I didn't have the heart to press. "The village has numerous boats that are
used for fishing. They were hidden from you, but more for your sake than for ours. I was afraid you might
try something stupid." He gave her a wary look but said nothing. "Rarely are these small boats taken to the other side of the island because the currents between here and there are treacherous. Even the most
expert rowers find it a challenge. One man couldn't do it alone. It would take a motorboat, and we don't
have one." "How did you get those building materials here? Not by fishing canoe." "We borrowed a small transport ship that was in dry dock. " "Borrowed? From... never mind. I don't want to know." "Well, the navy wasn't using it, and we put it back right where we found it.', Shaking his head, he chuckled. "You've gotta be telling the truth. Who would make up such a tale?" He studied her face at length, his expression
a mix of incredulity and admiration. "Sit down, Dr. duPont." After a brief hesitation she slid into the chair across from him again. She was afraid that the furrow between his brows portended bad news, but she
waited to hear him out. "You're not going to like this." Dragging his hands down his unshaven face, he muttered, "God knows what you'll read into it since it follows our discussion about my upcoming
wedding. Believe me, Chantal, that didn't enter into my thinking when I devised this alternative."
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"Alternative?" "Don't jump to conclusions," he said, sensing her suspicion. He fished in the pocket of his shorts and withdrew several sheets of notepaper which, according to the creases that criss-crossed them,
had been folded several times. "I've devised a workable way to get from one side of the gorge to the
other. At least it works in theory." "Then why don't you think I'll like it?" "Because it requires making some compromises. As I've learned, making compromises isn't your strong suit." She clasped her hands
on the table. "What,,is your idea? I'm not as unbendable as you assume. "Okay." He spread the sheets on the table. Chantal noticed how strong his hands appeared. Tanned. The backs sprinkled with
sun-bleached brown hair. A workingman's hands, callused at the tips, the nalls blunt and square and
clean. Unwillingly, her mind entertained memories of those hands moving over her skin, caressing her
body, remolding it to fit his palms, using his fingertips to bring her such erotic pleasure she thought her
heart would burst. When he returned to Boston and his Jennifer, would she regret not making love with
him when she had had the chance? "-without difficulty." "I'm sorry," she said, snatching her attention back to him, "what were you saying?" He looked at her strangely. Defensively, she lashed out, "I can't make head or tail out of this." She gestured impatiently to his crude drawings. "Then scoot around here so you can see the drawings from the same perspective that I have." AS he had suggested, she moved her chair
around the table and set it close to his. Her leg brushed his when she sat down, but she studiously
pretended not to notice the contact. "What are all those little slashes?" she asked, pointing to the series of pencil marks he'd made on the paper. "As I was saying while you were obviously woolgathering, building
a bridge isn't feasible, unless you want to start braiding hemp and put up one like the one you just
torched." "What? Yesterday you were worried about trestles and arches and-" "Wait a minute. Let me explain, will you?" She fell silent. He took a deep breath and resumed. "I'll build a suspension bridge, but it won't be on the same latitude that the old bridge was. It will be much lower, down here where the
gorge tapers to a V," he said, making a mark an inch above a squiggly line which she assumed correctly
designated the stream, "It might be, oh, thirty, forty feet across at that point." "I don't understand. How would anyone get down to it?" "That's what the dashes are. They represent a series of concrete steps
built into the ravine." "Steps that lead down to the bridge," she mused out loud. "A shorter bridge, easier to build, that wouldn't require so many materials." "Or so much manpower." "Or so much time." Her eloquent eyes softly collided with his before moving down to the sketches again. "How steep would these
steps be?" "If they went straight down, they'd be very steep. That's why I've zigzagged them. They won't be nearly as steep as the gorge itself. It would probably keep a crew of workers constantly busy to keep
the jungle from covering them." "That would be no problem. You mentioned compromises." He
scratched his head. "For one thing, it would take an average pedestrian longer to get across the gorge
than it previously has. It would also be an aerobic exercise." "But it would be much safer than crossing the old bridge." "A trade-off there to be sure." "What else?" she asked. "Nobody infirm could get across." "Nobody infirm can cross the one we have. "Had." He glanced up at her and smiled. "Had," she repeated softly, then cited another disadvantage to his plan. "And the village would still be inaccessible to motor vehicles." He tossed down his pencil and released a heavy sigh. "That's the biggest hangup,
Chantal. I spent most of the night trying to figure out a way to construct a serviceable bridge with the
limited resources at my disposal. There just isn't a way. I'm sorry I'm not a miracle worker. I can't span
that wide a gorge without landmovers, cranes, modern materials, and months of hard work by a crew of
experienced engineers. "The men of your village, willing though they might be, aren't skilled laborers.
That's not a put-down. It's a fact. I think I can build you a pedestrian suspension bridge near the bottom
of the ravine, one supported by concrete pillars and steel cable, but that's the best I can do. She studied
his face and earnest expression. It appeared to be baldly honest. Not a trace of deceit was apparent. In
fact, he seemed genuinely sorry that he couldn't make her a better offer. "All I ever asked for was your
best, Scout." He gave her a slow smile. "Then you want me to proceed with this plan?" She stood and pushed up the sleeves of her shirt. "By all means. Where do we start?" He came out of his chair slowly and with effort. Settling his armpit in the crook of the handmade crutch, he said, "Assemble the troops,
princess. Your commander in chief is about to address them." "When did you start wearing glasses?"
From across the living room Scout had been watching Chantal for some time. The room was lighted only
by oil lamps placed on end tables. They cast shadows across her face, which was intent with
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concentration. She had several lava rocks lined up in front of her on a low table and was making
notations in a journal. Glancing up, she peered at him through the lenses of her eyeglasses. "Since high
school. Only to read." "Hmm. What are you working on?" "Data on Voix de Tonnerre." "What for?" She didn't answer him. Instead, she propped the glasses on the top of her head and looked at him with
concern. "You seem tired, Scout." "I am." "Why don't you go to bed?" "Too much on my mind." She had been sitting with one foot tucked beneath her. Now she set her notebook aside, left the sofa, and moved
toward him, her bare feet soundless on the floor. "My father says I give terrific neck tubs. Maybe that will help relax you." "Sounds great." She moved behind his chair and began to massage his neck and
shoulders with skilllful hands. It felt wonderful, but Scout didn't believe it would relax him. Around
Chantal he never felt relaxed. More than a week had passed since the night of the celebration and their
unconsummated lovemaking on the beach. He was still keyed up and edgy. He seemed to be running a
low-grade fever that he couldn't shake. He'd been popping aspirin tablets every few hours, but the fever
persisted. "It's been hotter the last few days than when I first got here, hasn't it?" "It's the volcano," she explained as she squeezed the tense muscles between her fingers. "The two eruptions today warmed up
the atmosphere." So did looking at Chantal. Every morning she dressed in unglamorous shirts and shorts
andjoined the work crews. But her breasts did a lot for the shirts, and what her long, bare legs did for the
shorts kept him as close to eruption as Voix de Tonnerre. Even when she was wearing heavy boots and
thick socks her legs looked graceful. To shade her face, she constantly wore the widebrimmed, battered
straw hat. It was ugly, but when he had teased her about it, she reacted strangely and assumed a
wounded expression. He figured it held a sentimental value to her. Anyway, he was coming to like the
damned thing and often found himself looking for it among the workers lined up on either side of the
steep gorge. The evenings were quiet. They shared the shadowed rooms of the house. For the first
several days he often reached for a light switch whenever he entered or exited a room. Now he barely
noticed the absence of electricity. There was a battery-powered radio in George's office. They listened to
a news station for half an hour after dinner to get the news of the day, but all the happenings in the world
seemed of little or no consequence to the island village. Oddly, Scout didn't miss television, his VCR, or
any of the other assorted electronic toys he had back home. He was content to spend the evenings
reading through the duPonts' vast personal library, or simply watching Chantal while she studied
geological charts that looked like Greek to him. The pictures were another mystery. On the second day
of construction, while the village men were transporting materials from their hiding place on the beach to
the work site, Scout noticed Chantal taking a well camouflaged path up the other side of the ravine.
"Where the hell's she going?" he asked Johnny rhetorically. He didn't expect an answer, but the boy,
having spotted Chantal before she disappeared through the jungle foliage, began speaking. "What? Slow
down, slow down," Scout said, trying to make some sense of the boy's French. "Photographle."
"Photograph? Photograph? She's taking photographs? "Out, out," the boy said excitedly, pleased that he'd made himself understood. He pantomimed looking through a camera and snapping the picture.
"Photographs," Scout muttered, shaking his head in consternation. "Of what?" Chantal returned several hours later. Scout saw her pass a canister of undeveloped film to Andre. The man listened to her
instructions, then disappeared himself. "Whose camera?" he had asked as he entered the house,
surprising her as she removed it from around her neck. "My ... my father's." His crutch thumped across the floor. He picked up the camera and turned it end over end, examining it assessingly. "Pretty snazzy."
"It's very intricate, yes." "Where have you been with it?" "In the foothills." "To see your father?" "Yes."
"To take pictures of him?" She made a face which indicated that was the silliest question she'd ever had posed to her. "Okay, I give up. What are you taking pictures of?" "The volcano." "Ah. And you sent Andre' to have the film developed." "What's wrong with that?" "Nothing. Just wondering. How is George?" "The same. "What's he doing up there? Isn't he the least bit curious about everything that's going on down here? Doesn't he want to know how we're solving the problem of the bridge? When am I
going to have the pleasure of meeting him?" She had taken off her hat and was using it to fan herself. "I'll show you the photographs as soon as I get them back. I think you'll find them fascinating. But now you'll
have to excuse me. I'm very hot and want to wash off." He hadn't needed her to tell him that she was hot.
He had already noticed. Perspiration had made her shirt stick to her skin. A bead of it was inching down
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her throat. He wanted to catch it on his tongue. The dark centers of her breasts were discernible beneath
the patch pockets of her shirt. Scout had had a hell of a time keeping his eyes off her chest. The subject
of the photographs and her father had been suspended. He hadn't thought of it again until now. "Did the
pictures turn out?" He felt her hands pause on his shoulders. "The ones you took the other day." "Oh, yes, they came out very well. Would you like to see them?" "Some other time. Don't stop what you're
doing. Don't ever stop." Laughing softly, she laid one hand across his forehead while she slid the fingers of the other up his neck and through his hair to massage his scalp. He emitted a low, satisfied sound. "No wonder George highly recommends your neck rubs. That feels great." She continued to massage his
scalp and neck, "How does your papa feel about your sharing a house with a man while he's away?"
"He's French, after all." "What did he think of your affair with Patrick?" She shrugged. "How does a father usually feel about his daughter's love affairs? His emotions were mixed." "So you told him
everything, even the reason for the breakup?" In order to address her face-to-face, he angled his head
back. The crown of it dug into her stomach. His question had caused her uneasiness. He could see it in
her eyes. "No. I didn't tell him about that." "Your father is the reason you let Patrick off so lightly, right?"
"I don't know what you mean." "Oh, yes, you do." He grasped her hands when she would have moved away. "You saw how heartbreaking it was for your father to be alienated from his family and friends,
even his country, when he married your mother. You didn't want that to happen to good ol' Patrick
baby." Scout felt an intense dislike for the Californian he had never met. He envisioned him as bookish
and effete with slightly stooped shoulders and soft, sliiuny hands the co lor of old putty. Each time he
thought about Patrick's hands moving over Chantal's sliin in a lover's caress he wanted to hit something.
Hard. He had always considered jealousy of any kind stupid in the extreme. Jealousy for a man he had
never even met was ridiculous. Nevertheless, the green-eyed monster had him by the throat and was
choking him. "I didn't want Patrick to feel obligated to me, so I released him from the engagement
without a fuss." Her tone was haughty. "I made up my own mind about it. I don't throw temper tantrums when I don't get my way or when something I want is taken away from me. I'm a grown woman. His
eyes were on a level with her breasts, which were rising and falling with agitation. "So I've noticed."
Beneath his shorts he was full and firm. Being semi-hard all the time, with no relief, was beginning to get
on his nerves and make him irritable. He couldn't control his body's biological reaction to Chantal any
better than he could control his juvenile jealousy of Patrick. That irritability caused him to speak snidely
now. "You enjoy making me crazy, don't you?" "I find this topic tiresome, Scout. Let go of my arm." He did, but he rose from his chair and hobbled after her when she moved into her bedroom. She went to a
vanity table that was French in design and more feminine than any other piece of furniture in the house.
When he had first commented on it, she'd told him that George had had it shipped from France for Lili.
Chantal had inherited it when her mother died. The room was lit with candles. They spread a warm glow,
a warmth missing in her voice. "I'd like to go to bed now." "So would I." "Scout, please. I thought we had this settled." "Settled?" He laughed scoffingly. "Settled hardly describes my current physical state." He braced his hands on either side of the door jamb to help take the pressure off his left leg. "What would
you do if I ignored your protests, came to you now, and started kissing you?" "You wouldn't." "Don't be so sure." The sinister undertone in his voice surprised even him, but his frustration was such that he
excused it. He hadn't touched her, but he hadn't forgotten what it felt like. He wanted her more than ever.
Jennifer, who was touted as a beauty, was becoming a more dim memory with each passing day. She
would be planning parties, receptions, heaven knew what in preparation for their wedding. She was
spoiled rotten and could be a real pain, but she didn't deserve to have her fiance lusting after another
woman with every cell in his body, tossing and turning nightly in a pool of his own sweat because of the
fantasies he was helpless not to envision. He'd never been like this before. Was it Chantal? Or was it the
situation? The setting? Was she seductive simply because the scenery was and she was in the center of
it? One sleepless night he had toyed with that rationalization for about a second and a half before trashing
it. If Chantal duPont had crossed his path anywhere in the world, she would have had the same
stuptifying effect on him. He was almost forty years old. His love life hadn't been the stuff legends were
made of, but he had been involved with enough women to make fair comparisons. Nothing he had
experienced before compared to the engulfing, maddening, saturating desire he felt for this woman. It was
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more than lust. He wanted inside her body, yes, but he also wanted inside her head. She was the most
intriguing individual he had ever met. He wanted to probe behind those blue eyes until he knew intimately
the mind and soul of the woman they mirrored. Watching her now, he saw a spark of apprehension in
those gorgeous eyes. Cursing beneath his breath, he relaxed his arms. They dropped to his sides. "I
wouldn't start kissing you," he said hoarsely. "I don't fancy, dying by poison dart, machete, or fishing spear. "What are you talking about?" "Your watchdog. Andre. He resents like hell that I'm here in this house with you night after night. I wouldn't be surprised if he were camped outside in the dark under a
palm tree waiting for you to scream for help. She dismissed his hypothesis with a small shake of her head.
"He obeys your orders on the job." "Resentfully. He does what he's told only because you've asked him to and because he knows I'm doing something good for the village. He doesn't like taking orders from
me. Looking back, I realize that he never did. Even on the Coral Reef job, I was on the receiving end of
some bad vibes. And now," he added, "I know why. From the beginning he considered me a threat, a
competitor for your affections." "That's ridiculous." "Tell that to Andre. He considers you his and would welcome the chance to throttle me. If I were to step out of line, he'd kill me and ask questions later." She was the very essence of woman: soft but strong, straightforward but mysterious, simple but complex,
elegant but sexy. His smoldering stare made her self-conscious. He saw her swallow and nervously
moisten her lips. From out of the shadows her voice came to him husky and unsure. "What?" "Nothing,"
he replied as he turned to leave. "I was just thinking that you might be worth dying for." Chantal spotted him as he came huffing down the hill toward the beach. Even from a distance she could tell that his
temper was smoking as profusely as the volcano's crater~xcept Scout's eruption was imminent. His work
boots came to an abrupt halt directly in front of her, kicking sand up onto her knees. "Just what the hell is going on?" Guilelessly she smiled up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. "Hello, Scout. I'm so glad you joined us. Why don't you take a swim?" "A sw-swim?" he stammered in disbelief. "I'm up there breaking my back for these people and they're down here playing on the beach, stringing flowers," he
shouted, kicking a garland of plumeria aside, "taking the day off! "I began to notice that the lunch break was sure stretching out, but being the nice taskmaster that I am, and considering this infernal heat, I
thought, Hey, don't begrudge them a few extra minutes. But then the workers who did show up after
lunch began disappearing one by one. Before I knew it, I was the only one doing any work." "Then it was time you joined us, wasn't it? Sit down here in the shade and cool off belor~" "I don't want to sit down, Chantal. I don't want to cool off. We've almost got the bridge finished. All but a few steps have been
cemented into place. We're about to see the end of this thing." "Then taking one afternoon off won't hurt."
Her poised reasonableness pushed him over the edge. He raised his balled fist to his temples and
pounded them, cursing liberally. "You're only making yourself hotter," she said logically. "And you may as well relax, because the men aren't going back to work until tomorrow morning. Today has been declared
a holiday." "By whom? By you? Does your authority supersede mine?" He had finally piqued her temper.
She unfolded her legs and stood up. Her sandy, bare toes stood their ground against the heavy soles of
his boots. A slender bikini was hardly a garb suitable for combat, but her eyes gleamed militantly. "When
it comes to the happiness and contentment of these people, yes, my authority supersedes yours. So does
the authority of the village leaders. The high council complained to me that the workers were tired and in
need of a day of rest. They aren't accustomed to working the long hours that you do." "Well, I'm not
exactly having fun over there, you know." "Please lower your voice, Scout. You'll upset them. "Upset them?" he repeated in a thin, irate voice. "I don't give a flying fig if I upset them." He jabbed his chest with his index finger. "In order for me to meet my deadline, I need every man on the job every hour of the
workday. We've had enough delays, like looking for those chickens that got out of their pen the other
day. It took hours to round them up, and everybody got in on the game. Then there was that episode
about the generator having a bad spirit. Can you imagine how ridiculous I felt arguing a case for a
generator? That kangaroo court took up half a day." To make his final point, he inclined nearer, so that
she had to lean back or be pressed against him. "They may not be accustomed to the long hours, but I'm
not accustomed to workers walking off an unfinished job just because they damn well feel like it." "This isn't the United States." "No foolin'," he said drolly. Determined to remain calm, Chantal spoke in a rigidly controlled tone. "They don't live according to deadlines. They aren't concerned with delays. They're
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i_landers. Tomorrow will be exactly like today. Unlike the average American male, they aren't propelled
by the drive to succeed. They work only for what they need. "Personally, I believe that's an excellent
policy to live by. And I'm sorry, Scout, but as long as you're on the island, you'll have to abide by that
policy too." He was gnawing the inside of his cheek, only one indication of his fUry. His hair clung wetly to his forehead. Sweat had streaked his dirty face. His unbuttoned shirt was plastered to his torso. The
pelt on his heaving chest was curly and wet with perspiration. He looked delicious, Because he was
squinting against the afternoon sun, she couldn't see anything except slits beneath his brows. He was
angry, she could tell, but she stared into the narrowed eyes resolutely, refusing to back down. The village
men had been granted a well-earned day off. She wasn't going to renege on it and force them back to
work. Scout would just have to understand. If understanding was beyond him, he would just have to
tolerate it. Suddenly he raised his arm. Chantal flinched, thinking he might strike her. All he did was consu
lt the face of his wristwatch. "Okay, I'm reasonable," he said. "It's one o'clock now. They can wait out the hottest part of the day. But at four, playtime is over. I want everyone to report back to work then.
We'll get in a few hours work before dark." "You can't expect them to work this evening," she exclaimed.
"The hell I can't. I've got ajob to do and I want to see it done." "What's your hurry? Your fiance?" "For starters." Her own eyes narrowed dangerously. He had provoked her into a shouting match. She, in turn,
had goaded him. His comeback had hurt, but she couldn't allow it to distract her from the original
argument. "They are not coming back to work today, period." He bent back his hand, thrust his wrist so close to her face that it almost touched the tip of her nose, and tapped the crystal of his watch. "Four
o'clock, Chantal. Not a second later." She acted before she thought. Swifter than a human eye could
follow, she slid the elastic watchband from his wrist and flung the thing into the seawater thrashing against
the nearest boulder. "You'll have difficulty measuring the seconds now, Mr. Ritland." Scout gaped at the surging wave that was now being sucked back to sea. "That was a Rolex!" "In this village it has less value than a garland of flowers and isn't nearly as pretty." If he could have taken a step closer, he would have.
Since they were already standing toe to toe, he had to settle for angling his body against hers, finally
making contact. Through clenched teeth he warned, "I'm gonna strangle you yet." Chantal tossed back
her head and arched her throat, offering it up to him defiantly, daring him to do what he had threatened.
Accepting the challenge, he raised his hand to the base of her neck. His fingers encircled it. His thumb
pressed against her warmly throbbing pulse. For long moments they stared into each other's eyes. Then
he lowered his gaze to focus on her mouth. Involuntarily responding, her lips parted in mute appeal. A
low groan originated deep in his chest and emerged as a curse. He wavered between pulling her to him
or pushing her away, finally opting for pushing her. He went stamping down the beach, leaning heavily on
Johnny, who had devotedly rushed to his side. Chantal, breathless and disturbed, watched him until he
disappeared. "Chantal?" She realized that Andre had spoken her name several times, trying to get her
attention. "I'm sorry. What is it?" "Did he hurt you?" "Oh, no, no, ' she hastily assured him. "He didn't understand why everyone was taking the day off. I had to explain it to him." His eyes were full of
suspicion and hostility as he glanced in the direction Scout had gone. "Never mind him, Andre," she said.
"Enjoy the day." He rejoined a group of young people, among them the lovely Margot. Chantal sank
back onto the sand, finally giving way to the weakness in her knees, an aftereffect of her altercation with
Scout. Leaning against the trunk of a palm, she closed her eyes and tried to regulate her heart rate and
breathing. It was becoming more and more difficult to resist him. In the evenings when she felt his
penetrating stare on her, she wanted to respond the way her body urged her to. She wanted to go to him
as a woman, please him, appease the hunger she knew was eating at him. She wanted to, but she
couldn't. Her pride wouldn't allow it. She wouldn't be used then discarded and left behind when he
returned to Jennifer, who would be the perfect wife for him. She had the islanders' loyalty and protection.
If the need arose, she would be protected from Scout's appetite for her. What she feared most was her
appetite for him. Her conscience offered little protection against that. "How much farther?" Scout paused on the train to mop his face with a handkerchief that was already saturated. "Miles?" Johnny gazed up at him bemusedly. "The heat must really be getting to me. I'm talking to a kid who doesn't understand a
word I'm saying. But that makes about as much sense as anything that's happened to me since I followed
the island princess out of the Coral Reefs ballroom. Should have known she was too good to be true,
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Johnny. Beware of women in white who look and move and talk like goddesses. Sooner or later there'll
be hell to pay." Johnny smiled dubiously. Scout sighed and began hiking again. They'd left the village
hours earlier. He had reasoned that if he couldn't get anywhere with Chantal, he might be able to talk
some sense into her old man. Scout predicted that the Frenchman would be crazier than a bedbug.
Otherwise, why would he choose to stay in these overgrown foothills, where every insect known to man,
and a few that were unknown, thrived? The heat was unbearable. He felt like a Thanksgiving turkey
basting in his own sweat. Always at his right was Voix de Tonnerre. Every once in a while it would
discharge molten rock and steam as if to remind him that it was still an everpresent threat to be reckoned
with. Could any human abide this climate? Apparently, George duPont could. Scout was positive he had
made Johnny understand whom he wanted to see. The boy had nodded eagerly and pointed toward the
hills on the other side of the ravine when Scout asked him where duPont could be found. "I know he's in
the foothills," Scout had replied patiently, "but where in the foothills?" Through sign language Scout communicated that he wanted to be led to the old man. They'd left the village minutes later. Now Scout
was beginning to question the wisdom of this Impulsive trek. When they set out, he had had no idea how
far they had to go. He was hot, thirstyand his wounded leg had begun to ache. As soonasthey reached
the summit of the far side of the ravine, he had discovered the jeep. It was covered with military
camouflage netting. His heart had leapt with excitement. There were no keys in the ignition, but he
probably could have hot-wired it. One look at Johnny's mournfUl eyes and trembling lower lip, however,
changed his mind. He couldn't lay the burden of his escape on the kid. Besides, he wouldn't leave the
bridge unfinished. The midwestern work ethic that had been drilled into him by his blue-collar father
would never have allowed his conscience a moment's peace if he did. Anyway, he was curious to meet
George duPont, who was probably brilliant but eccentric. Corey Reynolds had trusted the Frenchman's
expert opinion on Voix de Tonnerre. His company had invested millions to build the resort, so he must
have thought the volcanologist knew his stuff. There was another reason he'd resisted the temptation to
take the jeep. Chantal. She trusted him to finish her bridge. He had told her he would. He couldn't just
walk out on her. If he did, she would lose face with the people, who obviously adored her. And, well, he
couldn't just up and leave without even saying good-bye. "I'm too damn honorable for my own good," he had muttered to Johnny. "A freaking boy scout." Johnny had nodded in somber agreement and looked
relieved when they left the jeep exactly as they had found it. Now, hours of walking and liters of sweat
later, Johnny suddenly plunged ahead through the Jungle, chattering in French and pointing vigorously
toward the top of a steep incline. "Up there?" Scout asked dejectedly. "Out." "Great." Scout released a heavy sigh and began climbing the winding, rocky path. At one point he stopped to rest. Cupping his
hands around his mouth, he called out loudly, "George duPont?" Jungle birds screeched their objections to having their peace disturbed. "Mr. duPont, my name is Scout Ritland. I'd like to see you, sir. I'm sure your daughter has told you about me." He waited. No response. The old man could be hard of hearing.
He assumed duPont spoke English, but it occurred to him that he didn't know that for certain. Why waste
his breath until he confronted the scientist face-to-face? Favoring his hurt leg, he labored up the hill.
Johnny assisted him up the last few grueling yards. When he reached the plateau, he bent at the waist and
placed his hands on his knees as he waited to regain his breath. Sweat poured down his face and dripped
off the tip of his nose, ran into the collar of his sodden shirt, and collected in his eyebrows. Some trickled
into his eyes, making them sting. As he gradually straightened, he wiped them with the backs of his hands,
but since they were sweat-slippery, too, that did little good. His eyes were cloudy and stinging. That was
why he didn't at first believe the sight he beheld. He blinked several times and shook his head in
bafllement. There were two of them on top of the hill overlooking the South Pacific vista. Each was
covered with a blanket of flowers and marked with a small white cross. Graves. Chantal patted the child
on the head and told him not to get the injury wet for several days. He'd fallen over a sharp rock while
playing on the beach and scraped his shin. She had been summoned to treat the deep scratch, then was
pressed to share the family's evening meal. It was a show of their appreciation, an invitation she couldn't
decline. All during the meal, however, her thoughts had been on Scout and his whereabouts. She hadn't
seen either him or Johnny since they'd left the beach together. When she had returned to the house, she
had expected to find him there, sulking. She wouldn't have been surprised to find him stubbornly working
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on the bridge, even though his crew had deserted him. But he'd been in neither place. As the afternoon
stretched into evening, she became more apprehensive. At sunset she had sent for Andre. "Go check on
the jeep." "Why?" She had been tempted to snap "Just do it," but had curbed her impatience. "I can't locate Mr. Ritland. Have you seen him?" At that moment she had felt a stab of fear that maybe Andre
was responsible for Scout's disappearance. However, as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she
dismissed it. She had been listening to Scout too long. He was turning her suspicious of friends she had
known and trusted all her life. While Andre was on the errand, she paced. When he returned and
reported that the jeep was where he'd left it, she didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned. "Take
a few men and look around. See if you can find him." "After I do?" "Bring him back." Without any further discussion, Andre had left to do as she asked. He hadn't returned yet. The longer he was gone, the more
worried she became. Now, as she bade the injured boy and his family good night and wended her way
through the village carrying her father's first aid bag, she wondered again where he could be. Darkness
had fallen. The rugged terrain could be dangerous even to people who had lived on the island all their
lives. Scout didn't know where to look for danger. He abused his wounded left leg, which wasn't as
strong as he wanted to believe it was. What if he had fallen on it? What if he were lying somewhere
helpless and bleeding? What if Johnny were afraid to return to the village and report that the person he
had been commissioned to watch had eluded him in the darkness? Frowning with anxiety, she entered
her house and replaced the medical bag on the shelf, where it could always be located in an emergency.
The house was dark. No lamps had been lit during her absence. Scout had not returned. But then she
caught a whiff of a faint and familiar scent. Her heart leapt within her chest and began to flutter.
Timorously, she followed the scent toward the kitchen. Telling herself her fears were silly and that there
were no such things as cigar-smoking ghosts, she nevertheless hesitated a moment before pushing open
the bamboo door. The red tip of the lighted cigar winked at her through the darkness. she gasped. "What
are you doing? "Taking a bath." Scout was lounging in the portable copper tub, his knees poking out of the surface of the water. His hair was wet and appeared to have been shampooed and rinsed, then
pushed back off his forehead with his fingers. "I mean with-" "The cigar?" he asked nonchalantly. He took a deep puff and sent several smoke rings floating ceilingward. "I don't think George would mind if I
borrowed one, do you?" Swallowing with difficulty, Chantal shook her head no. "You little liar." Scout placed the burning cigar in a ceramic ashtray which he'd put on the seat of the chair nearest him. He
rested his arms on the rim of the tub, letting his hands dangle over the water. His fingers flicked it, sending up little splashes that she could hear better than she could see. To be so innocent, they sounded quite
ominous, almost as sinister as his sibilant voice. "I had quite an afternoon," he said. "Very informative. I guess I should thank you for insisting that I take the day~ off. got to see a part of the island I'd never
seen. He picked up the cigar and puffed again. "Of course, I sweated off about ten pounds, overworked
my left leg until it started hurting like a sonofabitch, got attacked by a swarm of mandating insects, came
face-to-face with a snake as big around as my waist, and barely survived a rock slide. Other than that, it
was a terrific day in paradise. And it was worth all those hardships to get to meet your father." His
whispery voice had gradually risen until the last sentence was a bona fide shout. Chantal shuddered with
dread. Closing her eyes, she tried to regain her balance and decide how she was going to placate a man
who obviously had homicide in mind. "I'll explain everything. As soon as you've finished your bath, I'll see you in the living room. "You'll see me now." He stood up suddenly, creating a tidal wave in the tub that sloshed onto the floor. Slinging water and swear words in equal proportions, he stepped out of the tub
and bore down on her. Chantal uttered a squeak of fear and spun around to retreat. She wasn't fast
enough. Scout's fist enclosed a handful of fabric and jerked her to a staggering halt. His biceps bunched
as he curled his arm and brought her around to face him. He pressed his fist against her spine, flattening
her against his chest. His head came down until the bath water on his face dripped onto hers. "Why didn't
you tell me he was dead?" "I didn't think it would be wise." "Because you'd hold more sway over me if I thought your old man was still around, right?" "Right. I didn't think you would trust my opinions about anything as much as you would trust his." "Trust is a unusual word for you to be tossing around,
princess," he said scornfully, pressing her harder against him. "When did he die?" "About a week before I kidnapped you." Chantal saw that her answer surprised him. He hadn't realized that George's death had
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been so recent. She liked him for letting a moment of respectful silence lapse before barraging her with
more questions. "What happened?" "He just ..." She paused to clear the emotional knot from her throat and to blink tears from her eyes. "He was coming back from a trip up to the volcano and just... died.
Heart attack, I suppose. "You didn't notify anybody?" "No." "You didn't want anybody to know he was dead?" "No." "Why not?" "It didn't matter to anybody except me and the villagers." "And they couldn't tell me because none of them, except Andr~, can speak English." "That's right," she conceded softly.
"Father wanted to be buried next to my mother. Eventually, his death certificate will have to be filed with the authorities, but what difference will it make what date is on it?" She could feel his hard stare on her uplifted face. She returned it unflinchingly. Her actions had been unorthodox but, to her mind, necessary.
She wasn't going to start stammering explanations or excuses for them now. Finally, he said, "I gotta hand it to you-you're clever." "Not clever. Desperate." "Who devised the scheme to get me here, you or your father? Whose idea was It to use you as a lure?" She lowered her eyes then and addressed his chin.
"Mine." "And the gun?" "Father was against using violence of any kind. He thought you could probably be reasoned with and convinced to help us. Andre and I had our doubts." "So when the old man died,
you went with your plan." "Yes. I asked Andre to get the gun." Her chin went up a notch. "And we were right to do it that way. You couldn't have ,been persuaded to help us if we hadn't used force.' "Okay, so
you got me here and I agreed to help you out of your jam. Why have you kept your father's death a
secret all this time? What purpose did it serve?" Her defiance faltered again. "If you believed that he was still around, if you thought that he might return at any time you announced, then... then... The light of
understanding "Then you'd be safe from dawned in his eyes. "It's worked," she declared. "Up till now, princess." His lips seized hers savagely. With one arm across her shoulders and the other curved around
her narrow waist, he lifted her off her feet and against his nakedness. Chantal was stunned when her bare
thighs collided with warm skin, soft hair, and hard masculinity. Another rocket of surprising sensation
went through her when he thrust his tongue between her lips. His mouth tasted clean, as though he had
recently brushed his teeth. He smelled of soap and cigars and aroused maleness. The hunger for him,
which had been smoldering like the heart of the volcano, spontaneously consumed her. She responded as
she wanted to, not as her conscience dictated. Her starved body gave her no choice. She pressed her
tongue against his. Scout registered surprise. He pulled back. Waited. Then, around a yearning sound,
melded his mouth with hers again. She clasped him around the waist and ran her hands over the smooth,
muscular expanse of his back. Drops of water still clung to his skin, wettin her fingertips as they kneaded
the supple flesh off his buttocks. Fervently, wildly, he began kissing her neck, his beard stubble lightly
scraping her skin. She arched her neck back so far, her hair almost touched the backs of her knees. It
whisked against his bare thighs. He raised his head and gazed down at her. The front of her shirt was
wet. The cloth had been molded to her breasts. He laid his hands on her collarbone, then slowly combed
them down over her chest. His fingers skimmed over her breasts, drawing the tips into prominent peaks.
He kissed one through the wet cloth, flicking his tongue across it again and again, then taking a gentle
love bite from the soft mound surrounding it. Reflexively, her body bowed, tilting her hips against his and
making electrifying contact. "Ah, dear Lord." He cupped her deri'iere to hold her still and tight against him. Burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder, he whispered roughly, "I want you. Sleep with me,
Chantal. Please. Perhaps if he hadn't said ....... Perhaps if he hadn't reminded her that any relationship
between them would be temporary and strictly physical... .Perhaps... Instead, she became tense and
unreceptive when he took her face between his hands and kissed her mouth with slow deliberation.
Sensing her nonparticipation, he lifted his head and looked at her inquiringly. "I can't," she cried softly, her voice tearing with emotion. "I'm sorry. I can't." Before he could detain and persuade her, either of which he could easily do, she bolted past him and ran through the back door. He rushed after her, but was
brought up short when dark shadows separated themselves from the shrubbery. The needle-sharp tip of
a spear came up against his navel. "What the helll" Chantal stopped her headlong rush down to the
beach. She spun around, then sucked in a sharp breath of alarm. "Oh, no!" Andre and several other
young men of the village had Scout surrounded. All were armed with knives and spears. Their faces were
intent, their stances dangerous. "Call off your watchdogs, Chantal," he said in a steely rasp. She
addressed the menacing circle of men. One by one they backed away from him and sheathed their
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weapons. Andre was the last to withdraw. He did so with visible reluctance. "We tracked him here," he reported to Chantal. "You sent them after me?" Moments ago Scout's face had been flushed with
passion. Now it was white with rage. "Didn't know where you were," she said defendingly. "I thought you might be in danger." "Like hell you did," he snarled. "You thought I meant to escape before your damn bridge was finished. Which, if I had exercised common sense, I would have done." He pointed his finger
at her. "I wouldn't touch you now if you were the last woman on this island and I was stuck here for
eternity. Fortunately, neither is the case." With that, he knocked aside the young man standing in his path and stalked into the house, letting the door slam shut behind him. An eruption from Voix de Tonnerre
woke Chantal the following morning. The atmosphere was still, hot, and humid. Explosive. She wondered
uneasily if that portended how the rest of the day would go. Leaving her bed, she washed and dressed.
She was alone in the house. Scout wasn't in the kitchen, where he could usually be found at this time of
day, drinking cup after cup of strong black coffee. When she had returned from her swim the night
before, he had been gone. Apparently, he hadn't returned all night. In the mood he was in, she wasn't
surprised. She breakfasted on fruit and coffee, then went outside. The sun was just rising above the
mountain peaks, but she heard the ring of a pickax against metal. Even this early, the village was
unnaturally quiet as she walked through it on her way to the work site. Standing on the cliff looking down,
she saw Scout far below. His olive drab tank top alreadly showed a dark strip of perspiration down the
center of his chest. She had taken enough psychology courses in college to recognize him as a type A
personality, an overachiever, one driven to do everything well. He pushed himself to the limit, as he was
doing now. Before any of the villagers reported for work, he was already hard at it, taking on the
responsibility himself. No wonder the slow pace of life on the island irritated him. He paused to mop his
face with a handkerchief. As he did, he spotted her. His expression was antagonistic. She winced as
though in pain because his blatant animosity hurt her. Not that she could blame him for it after the events
of last night. Such unmitigated rejection would be an insult to any man's ego. It was her prerogative to say
no, of course. Still, she hadn't liked doing so. She would much rather Scout be looking at her with
drowsy desire, as he had before, as he "Mademoiselle?" When the word was spoken, Chantal started
with guilty surprise and turned. Members of the village's governing council had collected around her.
Their demeanor was serious. Few would meet her eyes directly. "What is it?" She sensed that they had
come to impart something of utmost gravity, but she underestimated the severity of it. When they stated
their business, it affected her like a physical blow. "Are you sure?" To a man, they grimly nodded. "Say, what's going on?" Scout took the last few steps that had been cemented into the steep walls of the ravine
only days before. Having made the climb, he was short of breath. "Where is everybody?" Chantal gazed
at him, her eyes searching his, wanting to see honesty and integrity and an unbreachable code of morality
there. "They won't be coming to work today." "What? Don't tell me they're taking another day off?"
"They won't be coming to work today, or tomorrow, or ever. He shifted weight off his left leg. For
several seconds he stared at her, then he gave the group of elderly men a puzzled glance. "Somebody
want to fill me in on what the hell's going on? We could have this thing finished with a few days hard
work from everybody. What's the matter with you people?" Chantal was the only one who understood
him. It fell to her to explain the problem. "You, Mr. Ritland. You are what is the matter." "Me?" he exclaimed, flattening a hand over his sweaty chest. "I've bent over backward to accommodate them and
their customs. I gave them the day off yesterday. I-" "You seduced one of the village girls and stole her virginity." The words fell like stones around them. Scout's jaw hung slack while he gaped at Chantal with
patent disbelief. Then he fashioned a smile. "This is a joke, right?" "Do they look like they're joking?"
Perilously close to tears, she angrily flung her hand in the direction of the village's high council. "They don't consider a manipulative and selfish seduction a laughing matter, Mr. Ritland." "And I don't consider a false accusation one either," he fired back. "Then you're denying it?" "Damn right! When was this seduction supposed to have taken place?" "Last night." Chantal's chest felt tight and constricted. She barely had sufficient air to speak, but she forced the words out. With vicious clarity she remembered his
angry departure speech of the night before. "I refused to sleep with you, so you sought out Margot and
seduced her. Feel better now? Did your lusts get satisfied?" "Whatever lusts I had, you incited, princess."
An involuntary sob escaped her trembling lips. "I offered myself to you in exchange for building the
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bridge. Couldn't you simply have reminded me of that and left Margot alone?" Scout's hands balled into
fists at his sides. "She's only a kid, for chrissake." "She was until last night." "I haven't even been alone with her." "You think she's pretty." "She is! I'd have to be blind not to notice. But that's a long way from forcing myself on her." "She says otherwise." "Then she's lying." "She wouldn't." "Well, neither would I!
The only noted liar around here is you!" The betrayal she felt was so painful, the insult went almost
unnoticed. She wanted to hear his vehement denial of the charge, but only if it was the truth. Why would
Margot lie? She put that question to Scout. "I don't know, but she is." "Last night you said" "Forget what I said." He made a slicing, dismissive gesture. "I was mad, granted. I spouted off and said things I
probably shouldn't have, but I spent the night on the beach. Alone. Believe me, Chantal." "It doesn't matter what I believe. Their opinion is the one that counts." "Not to me." She stared into his face for several long moments, wanting desperately to believe him. His eyes were steady, reflecting not a glimmer
of mendacity. Her gut instincts regarding people were seldom wrong. He had his faults, but she didn't
believe that seducing teenage girls was one of them. Finally, she turned and addressed the council, telling
them that Scout denied Margot's allegations. They muttered among themselves, periodically casting him
suspicious glances. "What are they saying?" "That's Margot's father." She pointed out the man who was making the most strenuous arguments. "He's saying that he and her mother caught Margot crying this
morning. When they urged her to tell them what was wrong, she said she was ashamed for giving up her
virginity to the American, to you. They're trying to decide what would be a befitting test of your honesty."
"Test? What kind of test? I-" She held up her hand to stave off his protests and listened while the
decision was handed down by the councilman who had been appointed spokesperson. Chantal heard
him out, then inclined her head as though agreeing with their ruling. "Well?" Scout demanded. "Are they talking about shrinking my head, or what?" She faced him, drawing herself up to her full height, "No, they're talking about sending you to the volcano. "This is nuts!" Scout slapped aside an enormous frond merely because it had had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time-in his path. "I can't
believe my fate is being dictated by a bunch of witch doctors in loincloths. He swatted at an insect that
buzzed close to his face. "When I get back to the States, I'm going to sell my story to a Hollywood
producer. Come to think of it, though, no one would buy it because it's too implausible." "Your mouthing is only making you more shortwinded. Why not save your breath?" He spun around to confront Chantal
on the overgrown path leading up the hillside. "You know this is a bunch of crap, don't you? A waste of
time and energy. Why'd you let them talk you into it?" "For the same reason I've done everything else: The bridge. You can't finish it alone. The people won't work for you until you've proved yourself worthy
and have been blessed by Voix de Tonnerre." He muttered his low opinion of the mission. He had
originally been revered and respected as one sent by the gods. Margot's accusation had placed his
divinity in doubt. The council had decided that he must travel to Voix de Tonnerre and leave an offering.
If he accomplished that without being harmed, they would again believe in him. It would be a sign that his
presence in the village had been divinely inspired. He glared down at her. "For all I know, you cooked up
those charges against me so you could go to the volcano and take your damn close-ups." He indicated
the heavy camera bag she was carrying on her shoulder. "Somebody had to come along to verify that you
didn't leave the offering just any old place. It so happens that besides my father, I'm the one most familiar
with the volcano." She hoisted the camera bag to a more comfortable position on her shoulder. "You're wasting not only your breath, but my time, Mr. Ritland. Proceed, please. Swearing beneath his breath, he
did. They walked for hours through the dense jungle in the foothills before they began to climb the
mountain nearest the crater of Voix de Tonnerre. The weight of the camera and its gear began to make
the muscles of Chantal's neck, shoulders, and back ache to the point of burning. Scout carried their
provisions along with a knapsack filled with a token offering from each villager. The load began to take
its toll on him. Unconsciously, he favored his left leg. They stopped frequently to drink from their water
canteens, but they sweated out the fluid almost as soon as it was swallowed. Eventually, they left the
jungle behind. The ground became rockier and steeper, with little vegetation. There was more of a
breeze, but the air became gradually thinner and warmer. When it seemed there was no relief in sight,
they came to a sheer cliff rising out of a plateau. A waterfall cascaded down the cliff into a pool. Chantal
dropped her camera gear, removed her boots, and dove headfirst into the water. Scout did likewise.
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They emerged dripping wet. Chantal sat down on the boulder and took a long drink from her canteen.
She wrung the water out of her long braid and replaced the straw hat on her head to shade her face. She
caught Scout watching her closely. "Your father's?" "What?" Then, realizing that he was referring to the straw hat, she nodded. "Yes. I knew I could never fill his shoes," she said with a wistful smile, "so I thought I'd try his hat." "I figured something like that. And all that scribbling you do every night?" "The last chapter of the textbook he was working on." "You're finishing it for him." She saw no reason to lie.
"That's why I wanted to be unspecific about the date of his death. The publishers don't need to know that
he didn't compile and record all the data himself." "You won't get any credit for it." "I don't want any,"
she replied, surprised that he would even think that she might. "For all the courses I took, even in
graduate school, my father was the best teacher I ever had. The soul of the volcano was inside him. He
felt it like a heartbeat in his chest. He knew it intimately. The only thing I can take credit for is being his most devoted pupil." Scout continued to look at her, his gaze intent. "I've never laid a hand on that girl, Chantal. Surely you don't believe I did." Her brow puckered doubtfully. "In your condition-" "In my condition, I could have bedded a hundred women, but it wouldn't have done any good. There's only one
woman I want. You." Her belly quickened; she took a sudden little breath. She wanted to denounce this
burst of elation, but it was too strong. She had been disillusioned to think he could compromise a young
girl, but jealousy was at the root of her reaction to the alleged crime. She couldn't bear the thought of him
desiring another woman. It drove her mad to imagine him making love to someone else. This ungenerous
but very human attitude shocked her. Just how deeply did her feelings for Scout run? She was uneasy
with the answer that formed in her mind and for the time being refused to acknowledge it. "We'd better
go." She laced her boots and prepared to leave. When she hoisted the camera case to her shoulder,
Scout took it from her. "Let me carry that." "It's too heavy." "That's why I need to carry it.', He equalized his loads, dividing the weight of them between his shoulders. "There. Now I'm balanced. How much
farther?" "A mile, maybe more. It's rugged terrain from here on. "More rugged than it's been?" "I'm afraid so. Almost straight up." "Lead on," he said tiredly. "I'm right behind you. There was no path. They stumbled over rocky ground to reach the peak of the mountain nearest Voix de Tonnerre, which
provided them an excellent vantage point. It was hot; the very air they breathed scorched their lungs. Yet,
it was an exhilarating climb. Chantal's pulse began to pound with more than physical exertion. It raced
with excitement, which it never failed to do when she came this close to the volcano. Glancing over her
shoulder at Scout, she saw that he shared her feelings. He was staring with awe and wonder at this
powerful force of nature which seemed to have a distinct personality. From its mouth it spewed fire. The
lava runs were red rivulets that crawled down the slopes of the cone. The air thundered with each fiery
belch. The ground vibrated beneath them. "Goda'mighty," Scout said in awe, "it's magnificent, isn't it?" "I love it." "Just think, the material it's spitting out will be here millions of years from now. We're witnessing a birth." Chantal, gratified by Scout's insight, stood on a cliff, silhouetted against the red sky. The hot wind molded her clothes to her body. She removed her father's hat and unwound her braid, allowing her
hair to whip wildly around her. The glow in the atmosphere made her skin look like polished bronze. She
could have been a high priestess paying homage to her pagan deity. Scout moved up beside her. "Thank
you for sharing this with me." Her gaze swung around to his. They remained locked in each other's stare
until the earth trembled with a vigorous eruption. Rocks were shaken loose and went tumbling over the
cliff beneath them. Chantal smiled when Scout's face registered some anxiety. "If you're innocent of
seducing Margot, you've nothing to fear from Voix de Tonnerre. "I'm innocent, but I'll feel a whole lot
better once we leave this sack ofjunk, take our pictures, and get the hell out of here." Because each was
growing anxious, they resorted to humor to alleviate their fear. "I don't think your attitude is properly
penitent, Mr. Ritland,"she chided teasingly. "I'm new to this, you know. What am I supposed to do, spit into my palms and turn around three times while chanting something about being a good boy from now
on?" "You're making fun of us, of our culture." "Their culture. You don't believe in this hocuspocus any more than I do. You're only pretending you do to annoy me." He emptied the sack of offerings and
began scattering them around. "While I'm doing this, get busy on those pictures, will you? I think highly of Voix de Tonnerre, but I'm not sure how he feels about us." She set up a tripod and attached her camera.
Methodically, she began snapping pictures, each more fantastic than the one before. She went through
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one roll of film, then another. The sun set and the sky grew dark, although it was hard to tell because
Voix de Tonnerre bathed everything with a rich rosy glow. "Time to go, don't you think?" Scout asked
warily. "Yes. I hate to. It will be years before it has another eruption of this magnitude." Her voice was sad. Scout efficiently repacked her camera gear while she watched the exploding mountaintop with a mix
of reverence and regret. He touched her elbow, then laid his hand along her cheek and brushed away a
tear with his thumb. "Chantal? Princess? I know you hate to leave. I hate to make you. But we've got to
get down this slope before it gets any darker." "Au revolr," she whispered. Then she turned and placed her hand in the one Scout extended to her. Because he now carried a lighter load and gravity was
working for them, they made faster progress going down than they had on the climb up. Chantal knew his
leg must be aching, but his jaw was set against the pain. He seemed to care more for her safety than for
his own. Several times she lost her footing and would have slid down the steep incline if he hadn't
blocked her fall with his own body. "The volcano does realize that those offerings were from us, doesn't
it?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder worriedly as Voix de Tonnerre shot a geyser of fire and molten
rock into the night sky. The eruptions were coming quicKly on the heels of each other, with decreasing
time in between. "I'm not afraid. Are you?" "Hell no," he staunchly declared. Then both laughed and scrambled more hastily down the mountainside, giving up any pretense of not running for their lives. The
volcanic eruptions were increasingly violent. Ash and cinder fell around them like incendiary snow.
"Quick, into the water!" Scout shouted at her when they reached the pool where they had found relief
before. "Wait. This is fabulous." She whipped the camera out of the bag on his shoulder and began
clicking off pictures as quickly as the motor drive would allow. "Oh, look at that!" "Chantal." "If only Father could sea" "Chantal" He yanked the camera from her, tossed it onto the ground, and did a
cannonball into the pool, taking her with him. The water closed over their heads. Scout found the bottom
first and jackknifed his knees to shoot them to the surface. When their heads cleared it, Voix de
Tonnerre was exploding. Nothing to that point equaled this furious expulsion. Fire rained from the sky.
Cinders striking the water around them sizzled and died. They could do nothing but gape, awe
superseding their fear. Scout had likened it to a birth. It was as thrilling, as painful, as beautiful. It seemed to go on forever. And then it stopped. The sudden quiet was deafening. For long minutes they remained
standing chinhigh in the water. Finally, Scout took her hand and waded out of the pool. Only puffs of
harmless white smoke were being emitted from the volcano now. It looked benevolent. Chantal dropped
to her knees in exhaustion. Scout lowered himself beside her. It seemed inappropriate to speak, so
neither said anything. Eventually, Scout lay down and drew her close. He curled his body protectively
around hers. Overhead, clouds of ash were swept out to sea by a cooling bree ze. Chantal woke up and
disengaged herself from Scout's arms. Or, rather, she tried. He clasped her arms as she sat up. His eyes
came open. Holding her, he gazed up into her face. He touched her hair, her cheek. His expression was
inquisitive and eloquent. was he asking her if it had felt good to sleep beside him all night? Could he read
in her returned stare that it had? She wanted to bend down and plant a soft, sweet, good-morning kiss on
his lips. If she did, however, she wouldn't want to stop with that and knew that she must. If she lay down
with Scout a second longer, she would never want to leave his side. Calling upon reserves of
self-discipline that would have done a monk proud, she eased her arms from his grasp and stood up. She
examined her camera and discovered that it had suffered no serious damage the night before. The rolls of
film she had taken were all intact and still encased in their canisters. It took Scout longer to get up and
stirring about. His joints were stiff from having slept in wet clothing. Obviously, his wounded left leg was
sore again. She caught him unconsciously rubbing it when he bent down to refill their canteens with water
from the pool. "You don't have your hat," he observed as they left the area. "I lost it last night when we were running down the mountain. "You should have said something. I'm sorry." "I'm not. Father would like to know it's somewhere at the foot of Voix de Tonnerre." They had little to say, but, oddly, were
communicating better than they ever had. They were also distinctly aware of each other. Countless times
they stopped simultaneously and just stared into each other's eyes, as though their encompassing interest
had rendered them immobile. They had shared something unique, and it seemed to have forged a bond
that linked them together in an irreversible way. Or maybe this new sense of closeness stemmed from
having passed the night wrapped in the other's warmth. Something significant had happened. It went
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beyond the sexual and bordered on the spiritual. They felt the change; they just couldn't define it. And for
the present, each seemed content to savor it without labeling it. Their arrival at the village was heralded.
Drums began to beat long before they reached the ravine. As soon as they stepped through the foliage, a
cheer went up from the throng gathered on the other side. Chantal smiled, up at Scout. "It seems you're
the hero of the day. They carefully worked their way down the new steps on one side of the ravine,
crossing the incomplete bridge with caution, then climbing up the other side. By the time they got halfway
up, they were met by those who couldn't wait to pay homage to Scout. "What are they saying?" he
asked. Johnny had fought the other children for possession of Scout's hand. He was awarded the
privilege of walking beside the hero and did so with enormous pride. "The eruption last night was a sign
of Voix de Tonnerre's favor. They're convinced that their confidence in you was not misplaced." "Thank God. I'd hate to have to dynamite those steps out." He was grinning foolishly, enjoying the acclaim. He
graciously accepted bouquets and leis and the other tokens of appreciation that were pressed on him.
But suddenly a hush fell over the jubilant crowd. It neatly parted as a small figure wended her way
through. Chantal and Scout watched curiously until Margot stood before them with her head bowed so
low they couldn't see her face for a curtain of hair. In a barely audible whisper she spoke. When she was
finished with her heart-wrenching speech, Chantal looked up at Scout. "Well?" "She says that she lied about you." Chantal cleared her throat of emotional huskiness. "It seems her lover told her to accuse you of what he had done. She was afraid. She loves this man and wanted to do what he asked her to. But
she couldn't live with her lie. Last night, afraid of the volcano's wrath, she told her parents the truth."
Scout looked down at the contrite girl. His eyes were filled with compassion, not censure. "Tell her I
accept her apology and am willing to let the whole matter drop. "It's not that simple, Scout." "Why not?"
"They must be punished." He looked alarmed. "What'll happen to her?" "The council decided that her punishment is the shame she must bear." "What about the guy?" "It's up to you to exact his punishment, since he was the instigator of the crime against you." "Who is it? Chantal put the question to Margot.
Tears filled the girl's liquid eyes. Through trembling lips, she mumbled, "Andre." No sooner had the name been spoken than there was another disturbance at the edge of the crowd. It worked its way toward
them until Andre' was shoved forward to stand before the man he had falsely accused. To his credit, he
stood proudly, his chin at a belligerent angle. His hands were tied in front of him, but he looked at Scout
with open defiance, "What are you going to do to him?" Scout was swapping hostile stares with Andr~,
but when Chantal asked him the question, he looked down at her with apprehension. She repeated the
question. "You were the victim of his deceit. It's up to you to decide upon and inflict his punishment."
Scout raked his fingers through his hair. "If I'd wanted to be a judge, I'd have gone to law school. Can't we just shake hands and forget this mess?" "No," she said adamantly, shaking her head. "They expect you to punish him. He expects to be punished. It will be worse for him if you don't. He would rather you
kill him than lose face." Andre' remained silent, but his eyes echoed ChantsIs words. "All right," Scout said grimly. "Somebody give me a knife." Chantal gave a startled reaction, but the requested knife was passed from hand to hand until it reached hers. She laid it in the palm of his hand. "Remember, you got
me into this," he said in an undertone, then turned to confront his adversary. He pressed the tip of the
knife against Andre's belly as Andre had done to him two nights before. "Your punishment for taking
Margot's virginity is to marry her and give her many children. Andre hadn't flinched when Scout pressed
the knife against his abdomen, but he did then. He blinked and looked uncertainly toward Chantal, as
though he wasn't sure he had heard correctly. The villagers urged her to translate for them. When she did,
they reacted audibly. Margot's head snapped up. She abruptly ceased praying; her rosary dangled from
hands that had fallen still. "Ask her if she loves him," Scout directed Chantal. She posed the question to Margot. Her tears collected like dewdrops on her cheeks while she listened with breathless expectation.
"Oul, oul," she replied sincerely, bobbing her head. She babbled something more. Chantal translated for Scout. "She says that if she hadn't loved him, she wouldn't have slept with him. But loving him as she
does, expressing it was worth any price. Even shame. Even death." Scout's attention snagged on
Chantal's misty blue eyes for several seconds before he turned back to Andre. "You heard her. She loves
you. Marry her. Give her children." He stepped closer to the man, nudging his belly with the tip of the
knife, coming just short of breaking the skin. "If you ever mistreat her or even make her unhappy, I'll
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come back and make you a very unhappy eunuch." Easing back only slightly, he asked, "Do you accept
this punishment?" Andre, looking shaken, nodded. "Good." With a quick motion that brought a collective gasp from the crowd, Scout slashed through the rope binding Andre's wrists. Then he flipped the knife,
catching it by the tip of the blade, and extended the bone handle to Andre, who, in his contusion, took it.
"Now that that's over, let's get back to work and finish this damn bridge." "You've got them in the palm of your hand. Handing the knife to Andre and then turning your back to him won them over completely.
Before that they admired you. Now they worship you. Chantal and Scout were sitting together on a
woven grass mat that just as well could have been a throne. The celebration to commemorate the
completion of the bridge had begun at dusk. Since then, villagers had been presenting Scout with gifts.
Even as Chantal spoke, a giggling young girl placed a lei around his neck, kissed both his cheeks, then
bolted for safety among her friends, from whom she had taken the dare. "Lucky shot," he said laconically in response to Chantal's accurate observation. "The punishment I handed down seems to have worked."
He nodded in the direction of the newlyweds, who were nuzzling affectionately while Margot's parents
looked on with approval. "I guess Andre finally came to grips with the fact that he couldn't have you and
took the next best thing." Chantal avoided that touchy subject. "Margot will be a devoted wife. He's
already teaching her English, which indicates to me that he not only loves her very much, but considers
her his equal." She glanced over at Scout. "King Solomon couldn't have made a wiser judgment." "You know about King Solomon?" She sniffed her disapproval of his teasing. "I am not a heathen." "Sometimes I wonder." His voice turned soft and low. "I remember how you looked standing against that exploding
sky. I was scared spitless, but you gloried in the volcano's fury. "It was glorious," she said simply. Then, to switch the conversation back to him, she added, "The men of the village respect your bravery. The
women swoon over your handsomeness. They're all in love with you." "All?" For their entertainment, a ceremonial dance was being performed by a group of virile young men. Knives clacked, steel against
steel. Spears were twirled like harmless batons. One dancer was juggling burning torches, slinging them
end over end high into the air, then catching them before they reached the ground. The dancers' agility
and talent went largely unnoticed. Chantal and Scout had eyes only for each other. Since their return from
the volcano, the pull between them had been as strong as the tide, and as incessant. She loved him and
was finally able to admit it to herself. She loved his dedication to finishing the bridge. He worked hard
and diligently, never content with results being merely satisfactory. Everything had to be done to
perfection. He was a stern taskmaster, but asked nothing of his workers that he wasn't willing to do
himself. He treated each man fairly. He didn't criticize mistakes or laziness, but complimented initiative
and jobs done exceptionally well. He was a man of honor and compassion, as demon strated by the way
he had handled the problem with Andre' and Margot. She loved him passionately. But he would leave
her, and she didn't know how she would bear that. "You'd better drink some more." She felt compelled
to break the spell that had kept them starin at each other for a noticeably long time. "Ifyou don't enjoy the party, their feelings will be hurt. "If I drink much more, I won't have any feelings. My extremities are
almost numb now." Nevertheless, he raised the coconut shell to his lips and drank deeply of the liquor,
which he knew by now wasn as innocent as it tasted. "Monsieur?" An entire family approached and set a basket of fruit in front of him. "Mercl." Chantal was laughing at Scout's evident embarrassment as the man and his wife and children withdrew. "It still disconcerts you to speak to a barebreasted woman." "Too much of a Yankee Doodle Dandy, I guess." "Where did you get your name?" She selected a ripe papaya from the basket and began to peel it. "Scout?" He grinned boyishly. "When I was a kid, we used to play wagon train. I didn't want to be one of the pioneers going west to farm, see? I wanted to be the tough
guy with a murky past. So I always wanted to play the scout. Kids in the neighborhood started calling me
that, and it caught on." He shrugged. "Besides, it's a lot better than Winston Randolph, which is my real name." "No!" she exclaimed as she bit into a succulent piece of the fruit. "Yeah. Hell of a name for two people to stick on an innocent little baby, isn't it?" "What is your family lilce?" she asked as she continued to peel the papaya. "I'm all that's left. Both my parents are deceased." "Oh." "You're getting that stuff all over you." He reached up to wipe away the dribbling papaya juice from her chin, then sucked it off his
fingers. There was still juice on her lips. He studied it for several seconds, then leaned forward and licked
it off, lightly skimming her lips with his tongue. Her lips parted, but she pulled back. He groaned her name
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on a long, yearning sigh. His eyes roamed over her face touching on each feature. "You're so incredibly
beautiful. "You're missing the dance. And they're performing in your honor." She could barely make
herself heard above the drums and handmade flutes. "I don't need to see it. I can feel the beat. In my
head. In my heart. In my-" He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. "I've wanted you so damn
bad. You don't know what agony it's been for me night after night to lie there under the same roof with
you and not feel you against me as you were up there on the mountain." "Scout-" "Don't stop me. Hear me out. Something significant happened that night we slept together under Voix de Tonnerre." He spread
his hands wide in a helpless gesture. "I don't know what it was exactly, but up to that night I thought
maybe I was being seduced by this Bali H'ai and that you were just a part of it. But it's not like that,
Chantal. It's you. I swear it'd" The music ended abruptly. Everyone fell still. The dance was over. Scout's attention was momentarily diverted away from Chantal. He saw that the center of the ceremonial circle
had been cleared. On the far side of it there was furtive movement, but nothing was happening yet. When
he turned to make a comment to Chantai, she 'was no longer sitting beside him. Impossible. He hadn't felt
her move. He hadn't even felt the air stir. He swiveled his head this way and that, his eyes swept the
attentive crowd, but she had seemingly vanished into thin air. "Where the devil-?" The drums began to beat again, at a much slower rhythm. Scout wasn't interested In watching another dance. He wanted to
find Chantal and finish their conversation. But this celebration was being held in his honor. It would be
churlish to offend his gracious hosts. So he begrudgingly returned his attention to the center of the circle,
where two files of young women were moving toward him. Their grass skirts swished around their bare
legs. Their hips moved with hypnotic precision and grace. As before, the dance was sensual and
seductive without being lewd. When they reached him, the files divided, the dancers peeling off to the left
and right. He was enjoying the synchronization, the spectacle, until all that remained were the last two
dancers in the file. One moved away, following the others. One stayed. He was suddenly staring into a
pair of brilliant blue eyes. His heart skipped several beats. He was spellbound by the blatant invitation in
those eyes. She had removed the bikini top she had been wearing. Her breasts were bare and gleaming,
inadequately veiled by a garland of plumeria. The flickering torchlight made her skin glisten. Her hair
shimmied around her torso until she flung her head back. Then it swirled and swayed behind her. In time
to the evocative beat of the drums, she raised her arms above her head. They were fluid and graceful, her
hands expressive. He admired her grace and skill, but he was absolutely entranced by her seductiveness.
His eyes riveted on her sleek, supple belly and the undulating movements she coaxed from it. The grass
skirt rippled against her thighs, giving him glimpses of smooth flesh that made his mouth water. There was
a hammering inside his head. It was louder than the volcano eruption, more powerful than the effects of
the liquor. His blood grew hot and flowed thickly through his veins. It concentrated in his loins until he
moaned from the delicious, stretching pressure. With fingertips reaching heavenward, head thrown back
in pagan abandon, back arched, Chantal whirled madly. On a last pounding crescendo of the drums, she
collapsed in front of him, head bent low over her knees. Then, flinging her head up, tossing her hair back
like a black satin sheet, she glared at him with the fierce hunger of a woman and the proud challenge of a
lioness. Scout surged to his feet and thrust his hand down to her. She laid hers against his rough palm. He
helped her up, then swept her into his arms. Through the balmy darkness he carried her up the incline to
the house. The moon was so bright, no lights were necessary. He could see his way clearly into her
bedroom, though some force other than himself guided his footsteps, because his eyes never left
Chantal's. He ducked beneath the mosquito netting and laid her gently on the bed, following her down,
covering her body with his. His open lips took hers in a long, delving kiss. Gently but thoroughly, his
tongue plumbed her mouth 'while his hands stroked her body. He broke the band of the grass skirt and
tossed it to the floor, leaving her in only a pair of bikini panties and a necklace of fragrant flowers. He
levered himself up so he could look at her. Her breasts lay soft and full against her chest which tapered
into the flat, taut plane of her abdomen. Easing his hands into the tight fabric, he removed the bikini. Her
mound was soft, dark, feathery, beautiful with mysterious promise. He lowered his head, nudged the
flowers aside, and kissed her breasts. Languorously, he dampened the centers with his tongue and felt
them grow hard against it. He thrilled to the sound of her gasping his name. He wanted her to be pleased.
When he slid his hand between her thighs and felt the creamy welcome of her womanhood, he knew that
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she was. Quickly, he stood at the edge of the bed and began tearing at the buttons of his shirt. Chantal
was released from the web of sensuality his caresses had spun around her. She sat up and reached for his
hands, arresting their frantic attempts to get his clothes off. "Let me." "I don't know if I can wait," he said with a self deprecating smile. "You can." She assumed the task of undoing the buttons, delaying
completion as long as possible. When she peeled back his shirt, she pressed her open mouth against his
warm, damp flesh, kissing the very center of his chest. Groaning with pleasure, he sank his fingers into her
hair. As her lips dusted kisses on his chest, she removed his shirt and dropped it to the floor. She lined
her fingers up against his ribs, so that the heels of her hands met along that satiny stripe of hair that
bisected his torso. She delicately tracked it with her lips. His eyes were closed in ecstasy, his clenched
teeth bared as she slowly and delicately kissed her way down. But when she began lowering his briefs,
he opened his eyes and gazed down at her. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up and
rubbed his thumb across her moist mouth. "I don't expect anything. You don't have to do anything." "I know. That's why I want to." She took him, full and firm, between her hands. "Chantal," he groaned. She loved him with her mouth. Thoroughly. Languidly. With pleasure. Scout began to die a slow, marvelous
death. "Are you sure?" Her hands smoothed over his buttocks and drew him closer. "Oul. Yes." "Ah, that's wonderful. But I'm so deep I feel like I'm hurting you. Tell me if I hurt you. "You won't." Ch antal closed her eyes and savored the pressure he created inside her. She welcomed his heaviness on top of
her. The flowers of her lei were crushed between their bodies. Their perfume filled the sexually charged
atmosphere. The feel of his chest hair against her breasts was thrilling. She loved running her hands over
the hard muscles of his back, muscles she had admired when he went shirtless. "I can't... can't hold
back," he whispered raggedly. "Don't." He began to move within her, stroking the walls of her body. Her hips responded to the rhythm he set and matched it. He rasped intimate, erotic words into her ear, and
she spoke to him in a mindless blend of French and English. His thrusts became more powerful, creating
more friction. Chantal felt a tightening in all her muscles, a building tension that was unbearable yet
blissful. His mouth found the peak of her breast, and when he tugged on it, the tension snapped. Every
sensation she had ever known or imagined was funneled toward the center of her being. They exploded,
giving off more light and heat than a new star. Sparks shimmered through her. Even better, though, was
feeling the burst of life from Scout's body filling hers. "So I guess the reason I find it difficult to delegate responsibility is because I always had to assume it.,, "Didn't your parents applaud your ambitions?"
Cheek resting on his chest, Chantal idly strummed his nipple with her thumb. "Sure. But they were on a
fixed income. I knew if I was going to go to college and elevate myself above the factory job my father
had held for thirty years, I'd have to do it on my own. They couldn't support me financially. I worked
several jobs at a time to put myself through school." "It paid off. Obviously, you've done very well." "I got experience in several firms before going out on my own. My business started out small. That's why the
Coral Reef project was such a boost. It was my first contract with a major corporation." Mention of the
Coral Reef made the outside world seem uncomfortably near. Instinctively, she inched closer to him. He
automatically closed his arms tighter around her. "Until I came here," he said dreamily, "I thought the world revolved around the clock. I was obsessed with deadlines and schedules and the next big job." He
lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss into the palm. "You've taught me that things have a way of taking care of themselves in their own,, good time. I haven't even missed my wristwatch. She could feel
his smile against the crown of her head. "Since I grew up in this culture, the hectic pace of life in the
States frightens me. I realize that, of necessity, life there can't move as it does here, but there ought to be a happy medium," she said sadly. "I admit that I harbored a certain amount of contempt for so-called
civilization when compared to the simple life on the island," she added, "but I learned this week that this culture isn't perfect either." "How so?" "The business with Andre. I suppose every society has corruption and deceit." "Because societies are comprised of human beings and human beings are fallible. You, for instance, have a penchant for lying." "Oh!" She propped herself up and glared at him with mock ferocity.
Laughing, he hugged her hard. When they resettled, his wide grin faltered. He ran his knuckle down her
cheek, but his touch was tentative. "I wish I knew what you were thinking, princess. "About what?"
"About this. Us. I want you to know-" "No." She pressed her fingertips against his lips. She didn't want anything unpleasant to spoil this time of theirs, especially their own consciences. Margot had been willing
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to sacrifice anything to demonstrate her love for Andre. Chantal believed that Margot's choice had merit.
Scout would never belong to her. He belonged to a woman she would never meet, to a society where
she would no doubt be shunned. No, she wouldn't have Scout's life but, temporarily, she could have his
love. While he was giving it, she was going to take it and pay the price of heartache later. "Don't say
anything, Scout. I don't want justifications or explanations. Please." "There are things that should be said, that need to be said." "Please," she appealed earnestly. He sighed with resignation. "Okay, but you can't stop me from saying that you are without a doubt the finest specimen of woman I've ever seen. Your
face, your body," he said hoarsely as his eyes roved down her. "You are perfect and without equal. But it's more than just the way you look. You're exotic and rare and mysterious and intriguing and capricious
and unpredictable and sexy. And even all those adjectives don't paint the full picture of Chantal Louise
duPont." He rubbed strands of her hair through his fingertips as though marveling over its silkiness.
"Today, while you were overseeing preparations for the celebration, I read some of your manuscript for
the textbook." He looked at her and mused out loud, "You're brilliant, aren't you? I'm a reasonably
intelligent person, but I didn't know what the hell I'd read after I'd read it. Beauty, brains, sensitivity, a
real sense of self and yet concern for other people." He shrugged helplessly. "You are what every woman should aspire to be. " After a long, telling kiss, she sat up beside him and leaned back on her heels. "I don't know if I can be that poetic." "I wasn't being poetic. Just truthful." Lovingly, she touched his face. "I think you're very handsome." "Thanks." "I mean it. When you were pointed out to me at the gala, my heart fluttered. I was glad it was you I had to entice." She drew her finger around his chin. "You're stubborn. You get impatient with yourself too easily. But I admire a strong will. You're insightful and
never turn your back on a problem or responsibility. You're sensitive to and respectful of other people's
feelings." Her fingertips plowed through his chest hair and lightly coasted down his torso. "I like your hairy chest. Its very sexy." He growled. "I love being adored." Feeling cocky, he stacked his hands behind his head. "Tell me more." "I was just about to comment on how prominent your ribs are," she said impisNy, and laughed when his complacent smile collapsed. "You're thinner than when you arrived." "No wonder, with the healthy diet I've been on and how many calories I sweat off every day." Her fingers
trailed over his abdomen to his thighs. She gently touched the fresh scar. "I'm very, very sorry. "I know."
"I couldn't believe it when the gun went off in my hand and I saw your blood. I swear I didn't mean to
shoot you. I didn't-" He squeezed her hand. "I know." She lifted his hand and curved it around her throat.
"You were so angry when you regained consciousness and realized what had happened." "Yeah, I was.
But ..." His eyes moved over her with rekindled desire. "More painful than the gunshot was how badly I wanted you. I feel like I was born hard from wanting you." He pulled her down to his level. Several
exploratory kisses later, he murmured against her lips, "I want to touch you." "Like this?" She moved his hand down to her breast. He enfolded it. Sitting up, he took the stiff nipple between his lips and tantalized
it before drawing it into his mouth. "Scout," she cried breathlessly. "I want to be inside you." Within seconds he was, and she was moving above him. He slid his hands over her breasts and down her torso
until his fingertips played in the delta of soft hair. He slipped his hand between their bodies and intimately
caressed her with the pads of his fingers, while watching her face grow flushed with passion. Her
breathing was rough. Sensations washed over her like warm, breaking waves. She drowned in them. As
they climaxed simultaneously, her soul cried out, "I love you," though she was never certain if the words actually left her lips. Afterward, she fell forward upon his chest, too e:thausted and sated even to move
from him. Smoothing his hands over her dewy skin, he whispered, "You said that the soul of the volcano
was inside your father. It lives inside you too, Chantal. I can feel it pulsing around me, like a heartbeat,', It was day and he was leaving. She wasn't surprised. She had known he would. She pretended to be
asleep when he disentangled his limbs from hers, unsnared his fingers from her hair, and left the bed. He
silently collected his clothing and crept from the room. Eyes closed, she lay unmoving, listening to the
sounds of his packing. His footsteps reentered the hall. Though she kept her eyes resolutely closed, she
knew the instant his silhouette filled the doorway of her bedroom and his shadow stretched across the
floor. And she knew the instant he mentally bade his island girl good-bye because a great emptiness
opened up inside her, a yawning chasm that would never be filled. Without making a sound, he left the
house, never seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks onto the pillow they had shared. It was cold in
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Boston. He'd almost forgotten what cold, damp weather felt like, how it chilled to the marrow. The
heater in Jennifer's BMW was going full blast. So were her vocal cords. She hadn't stopped talking since
she had picked him up at the airport. "I really should be furious with you." Adroitly, she swerved to miss a taxicab on the entrance ramp of the highway. "When you called me from California I almost hung up on
you before you could explain where you had been and why. She had been waiting at the curb outside the
terminal and had gaily tooted her horn and waved at him as he emerged, carrying his one suitcase and
shivering in his insufficient clothing. As he stashed his suitcase in the backseat, she had apologized for not
meeting him at the gate. "But that would have enta iled parking and walking all the way through the
airport and, well, it just wasn't necessary, she had said, leaning over and proffering her lips, which he had
perfunctorily kissed. Now she reached across the console and tentatively patted his thigh. "I can't believe you were shot by a native! My God, Scout, it must have been just awful. You'll have to tell me all about
it. But first I want to fill you in on everything that's been going on while you were away. She launched into
a litany of births and breaknps that had occurred among her circle of friends and acquaintances. "Before I forget, Mr. Reynold~al though he insists I start calling him Corey--called yesterday. When I told him you
were on your way home, he invited us to have dinner with him and Mrs. Reynolds tomorrow night. I
accepted."Her voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "I think he wants to make you an offer you can't refuse. Isn't that exciting?" Had she always been this talkative? "Mother was so stressed out because she was afraid you weren't going to make it back in time for the wedding, she had to go to bed and was put
on medication. When you called, she had a miraculous recovery and started referring to you as 'that poor
dear.' So you're forgiven for being detained. Yesterday, arrangements for the wedding got back into full
swing. Wedding. Marriage. Scout looked at the woman who was combating Boston traffic for him and
wondered why he'd ever asked her to marry him. She was pretty, educated, cultured. After devoting
himself almost exclusively to building his business and seeing the ripe age of forty rushing toward him, he
had started giving some thought to his personal life. He wanted a family. He wanted kids. Jennifer had
come along about that time. She had been marriage material: bright, articulate, and presentable to
potential clients. He hadn't been involved with anyone else at the time, so... "Daddy says Hawaii, but
Mother says Hawaii is so blase. Everybody goes to Hawaii to honeymoon. Besides, I said that you were
probably sick of tropical climes, so I suggested they send us to Spain or North Africa, something
different. I don't know anybody who's been to North Africa on their honeymoon. Wait and see, we'll
start a trend." He gazed out the rain-splattered windshield. The soft floral-scented breeze, the sound of
the surf, the call of jungle birds, seemed light-years away. He was already homesick for them and had
been away for only three days. Four? How long had he been on an airplane? "Darling, you look
positively exhausted," Jennifer commented, catching him wearily rubbing his temples. "I'm taking you to my place for tonight because I'm sure your apartment needs to be cleaned and aired before it's fit for
human occupancy. I'm sending my maid over there tomorrow. "Tonight I want you to relax, first by
taking a long, hot shower. And please shave. I've never seen you looking so scrufly. In the morning you
can make an emergency appointment with your barber. Thank heaven I planned to have dinner in tonight.
You'd frighten any respectable maitre d' in town." She parked at the curb in front of her town house and
cut the motor. "Tomorrow you can start-" "Jennifer." She looked at him with surprise. "My goodness, do you realize that's the first thing you've said since you got in the car? Don't worry about it.,, She laid a
consoling hand on his arm. "After all the traveling you've done, you're entitled to be a little moody. You'll feel better once we get inside. I've got a fire burning in the den and margaritas in the fridge. Dinner's
ready to go into the oven. I'll put it in at seven, so we can eat no later than eight. Please make sure you've
showered and shaved before then." She was a lovely young woman, who would make an upwardly
mobile man a perfect wife. He had thought she was everything he wanted. Efficient. Organized. Bubbly.
Maybe that was it. She was just too... bubbly. "Jennifer, call Corey Reynolds myself and cancel our
dinner date." Her lips parted in stunned surprise, but he continued before she could interrupt. "I need to discuss business with him, but I'd rather keep the meeting strictly business." "I don't understand why, but if that's the way you want it, all right." Her mouth pursed petulautly. She hated for carefully laid plans to go awry. "And you cancel the wedding." He hadn't planned to break it to her so soon. He had planned to ease into it. But he saw no reason to delay the inevitable. It wasn't fair to her, and he couldn't bear the
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strain a second longer. He was amazed how quickly the tension in his chest began to subside. It was like
the stitches of a garment that was too tight suddenly popping free. After those first words were out, the
rest were easy. "I realize this is a hideous thing to do. Call me a bastard and you'll be right. But not as bad a bastard as I'd be if I went through with this marriage. You see -he paused and drew a deep
breath-"I don't love you. I love somebody else. Very much." "Gone?" Scout repeated. "Gone? Gone where? To the other side of the island? Swimming? Fishing? To Voix de Tonnerre? Where?" It had taken
him a month, one long month, to return the hundreds of messages his answering service had been saving,
sort through and respond to his mail, pay all his bills, and make necessary business contacts. Corey
Reynolds had been disappointed that Scout was no longer engaged to the charming Jennifer, but he
offered Scout three very lucrative contract jobs that would keep him busy for the next two years. Before
his signature on the dotted line had time to dry, Scout informed Corey that before he began the first
project he had some personal business to attend to, then hopped the next plane to Honolulu. Upon finally
reaching Parrish Island, he rented a jeep and struck out for the village. He had difficulty finding his way
along the winding, mountainous roads and ran into one dead end after another. He began to believe that
the village and Chantal were all a long dream from which he hadn't yet awakened. But keeping the
volcano at his right, he eventually came to the ravine. The thatched roofs on the other side testified that it
was real and not a figment of his imagination. He honked the horn of the jeep and shouted, waving his
arms over his head like a flagman on an aircraft carrier. Several villagers who spotted him first ran to alert
the others. He didn't see Chantal yet, but he scrambled down the steps he had so recently installed, ran
across the bridge, then up the steps of the other side. He was breathless when he reached the summit.
Johnny hurled himself against Scout's legs and hugged them hard. Andre approached, a smiling Margot at
his side. After the initial greetings, Scouts eyes eagerly scanned the crowd of faces but didn't see the one
he most hungered to see. When he asked for Chantal, Andre answered him with a phrase that echoed
like a death knell inside his skull. "Gone to America." "America?" Scout wheezed. "When?" "Weeks ago." Andre' seemed at a loss. Scout elbowed people aside on his rush toward her house. He ran up the
path and across the veranda. "Chantal!" he shouted as he flung open the door. Only silence greeted him.
The furniture was still Intact, but all personal items had been removed. No more books. No more
photographs. He ran through the house lIke a madman, throwing open closet doors and drawers, but It
became apparent that she was gone. More slowly, he walked through the house. He noticed that her
mother's dressing table was missing. With a detached, rational part of his mind, he calculated how difficult
It must have been to get across the ravine. She must have wanted it very badly. That she had taken it
Indicated she wasn't coming back. He sat down on the edge of the bed they had shared only once and
plowed his fingers through his hair, hanging his head between his hands, a living definition of despair.
"Miss duPont," he said with succinct impatience. "Is she on the faculty or not?" Once he had returned to the States, he had begun his search at UCLA. The secretary at the administration office of the earth
science college gave him a condescending once-over. "Sir, are you referring to Dr. duPont?" "Dr.
duPont? Yes, yes. Chantal duPont." He was given terse directions to her office building. He raced there
In his rented car, parked Illegally, and ran inside. After consulting the register, he took the elevator to the third floor and jogged along the hallway, counting down the numbers stenciled on the doors. When he
reached hers, he firmly twisted the brass doorknob and shoved open the door. She was standing at a
wide window with her back to him. It looked odd to see her dressed in a tailored suit. Her hair was
pulled back into a neat bun on her nape. "Chantal!" She turned. He was looking into the face of a total stranger. Her spectacular view of the Pacific sunset was suddenly blocked by a pair of trousers, rolled up
at the cuffs, and bare feet. She angled her head back and shaded her eyes against the sun, which was just
about to be swallowed by the horizon. "Scout!" The name that was never far from her mind rushed past
her lips on a breathless whisper. "I'm flattered. You remember." He dropped to his knees in the sand. His brows were drawn within touching distance of each other, forming a scowl that was achingly familiar and
endearing. "What are you doing here?" "What do you think? Looking for you. Why did you leave?" "The island?" Somewhat confused, she shook her head slightly. "I always planned to when Father died. There were only two things I had to do first. Finish his last book and-" "Build the bridge." "That was Father's last wish. He wanted it to be his legacy to the people of the village. When it w as completed, there was
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nothing to hold me there." "I thought the island was home to you. She gazed reflectively into the surf. "It was different for me there than it was for my father. He had Mother and me. His life there was complete.
I, on the other hand, have no family. There was important work waiting for me here." Her eyes moved
back to Scout. She lifted her shoulders in an expressive shrug. Scout was far from mollified. "Do you
know the hell I've gone through to find you? I flew back to Parrish, drove miles through that infernal
jungle, battled the heat, the insects, everything, only to discover when I got there that you were gone. He
took a breath. "Today I went straight from the airport to the university and turned the place upside down.
I got to your office and scared the living daylights out of your assistant. She had her hair~h, never mind.
That part isn't important. "I tried convincing her that I wasn't a maniac, but she called to confirm it was all right to give me your address. I made her let the phone ring at least a hundred times. I guess you were
out here." "I sit on the beach most evenings and watch the sunset." He glanced up at her house, a small, neat structure perched on the cliff above them, overlooking the beach. "It's nice here. Reminiscent of the island." "That's why I bought it. Go on with your story." "I threatened your assistant with bodily harm if she didn't give me your address. After one and a half death-de~ing hours on the freeway and two wrong
turns, I finally made it.', "You went to all that trouble to find me? Why?" "Why did you sleep with me?" he asked pointedly. In his present mood she didn't think it would be prudent to be either glib or evasive. His
frown demanded candor. "Because I love you." He looked skeptical. That touched her as nothing else
had. She reached for his hand and pressed it. "This isn't one of my tricks, one of my white lies. I give you my word about this. I knew I loved you the night we went to Voix de Tonnerre." It was a while before he
spoke. "Why didn't you tell me then?" "Because I knew you would leave me anyway." "And you didn't want me to feel bound.' "That's right." "I had to leave when I did, Chantal," he said, reversing their hands so that he was now clasping hers. "I tried to explain the night before, but you wouldn't let me, remember?
You thought I regarded you as an island girl, an object to amuse myself with until I returned home.
Believing that, you still made love to me?" Unable to speak, she nodded. "What that must have cost you,"
he said on a rush of air. Reaching out, he cupped her face in his palms. She felt the calluses against her
cheeks. "Listen to me. Jennifer is a thing of the past. I broke our engagement." "Oh, how horrible." "It was, yes. I couldn't continue making love to you while she was still officially in the picture, so for the sake of time I had to be blunt." "What did she say?" "Lots of things. But it wasn't so much what she said as what she didn't say. She went on at great length about inconvenience and embarrassment, but she didn't
once tell me that she loved me deeply and that I'd broken her heart. "Look," he said earnestly, "I'm not proud of treating her the way I did. But we would never have made it. In a few years, if that long, we
would have been going through a divorce, All her friends get divorces. It's fashionable. I was handy to
her, just as she was to me, at a point when both of us figured it was time to get married. So don't feel
guilty about ruining a grand love affair. It never was. If it had been, I wouldn't have followed you from
that ballroom. Chantal wanted to be convinced. "She seemed so right for you." "Yes, she did, but I wasn't in love with her. I fell in love with you. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong everything. But you are
the woman I love." He tilted her face up and kissed her extraordinary cheekbone. "You love me?" "Can you doubt it?" Her heart brimmed with love and joy, but she was still unsure of his plans for the future.
Much as she loved him, she wouldn't be his mistress, an exotic plaything, a novelty. "What's going to
happen?" "You're going to marry me, princess. And we're going to have babies, because I can't think of anything more rewarding than mixing my genes with yours. Her radiant smile lasted for only several
seconds before dimming. "But what about your work? Mine? Where will we live?" "We'll work it out," he vowed softly. "If we love each other enough, we'll manage to merge our lives successfully." Her eyes
were shimmering with tears. After weeks of thinking that she would never see him again, she couldn't
believe that he was kneeling in front of her, professing a love that obviously equaled hers for him. She
touched his hair, his brows, his shoulders, as if to reassure herself that she wasn't having a vivid fantasy.
"I'll want to go back to the island periodically." "Once a year, he said, apparently having already given it some thought. "We'll stay a month, It'll be our annual family vacation. We'll let the kids run naked on the beach, absorb a different culture, observe the volcano, learn about their French grandfather
and,Polynesian grandmother. Besides, I promised Johnny. "Scout," she whispered, laying her hands
against his lean cheeks, "can it work?" "Do you love me?" "With my whole being." "Then it'll work." His
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kiss conveyed as much confidence as his words. It was a hungry, searching kiss that left them weak with
desire. Her hair was already hanging loose. He combed his fingers through it, then unbuttoned the shirt
she was wearing and took it off. The brassiere surprised him. He'd never known her to wear one.
"Civilization," she said softly. "To hell with that." When her breasts were exposed to the lavender sky, the sand, the salt spray, and his lips, he eased her back onto the sand. Moments later he stretched out naked
beside her and pulled her into his arms. "I love all the women you are, but I think you're most beautiful
just as you are now, natural and uninhibited." He removed her shorts, knelt between her thighs, and
sweetly kissed her navel, then nuzzled her cleft. "You know," he said emotionally as he angled himself above her, "for all the time I spen,t in paradise, I never once made love on the beach. She curled her
hand around the back of his neck and drew him down, whispering, "Neither did I."