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fell to her knees, the sleeves hanging far below her
wrists. But it was comfortingly warm and she huddled
into it with gratitude. She rummaged in the cupboard
when she was dressed and found a pair of rough
trousers and a long white shirt which she thought would
fit Marc.
He came back, laden with wood, and grinned at her,
his glance running over her sweater and the long bare
legs beneath. “You do look a picture,” he teased.
She slipped her feet, shuddering, back into her
sodden plimsolls, then took her wet clothes outside to
hang on the wire line which stretched between two
small posts. When she got back Marc had coaxed the
fire into life and was standing beside it, in the goat-
herd’s baggy trousers, the shirt in his hand. She stood
at the door, looking at the bare brown shoulders turned
towards her. Under the smooth tanned surface of his
skin his muscles rippled as he moved. Her breath
caught as she felt an insidious warmth deep inside her,
and Marc, hearing the little sound, turned quickly.
“You don’t mind being alone here with me like this?”
he asked, slipping into the shirt.
“Why should I?” she answered offhandedly.
He buttoned the shirt front, staring at her with
narrowed eyes. “Some girls might feel ... threatened ...
being alone with a man in such circumstances. This is a
very isolated spot.”
She forced a laugh. “I have too much common sense.
You’ve just narrowly escaped drowning, after all. You’re
cold, tired and hungry. The last thing on your mind is
