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The irony would almost be funny if it weren’t so damn aggravating.
The truth was, the main reason he’d bought Sunrise and built the house was so he could be alone here. He liked his solitude. The outdoor activities available when he needed downtime were a great way to stretch his body as well as his mind. And when he was working on a particularly tough or troublesome new design this was the perfect place to hole up and get it done without any distractions.
Right about now, though, he wished Mrs Mendoza and the rest of his staff were in residence, because he could use a cooked meal without having to do it himself. And having a buffer between him and his resident spy would also be useful.
The sunset cast a reddening glow over the kitchen’s granite surfaces, highlighting a mound of something on the main countertop, draped in a paper napkin. He lifted the napkin to find a mountain of bread and cheese and baloney, drenched in enough condiments to sink a battleship.
What the...?
His hollow stomach growled, but not with any particular enthusiasm. Then he noticed the passive-aggressive note jotted down on the napkin.
I made you a sandwich.
You can thank me later.
This mess was supposed to be a sandwich? It looked barely edible. Not only that, but it had clearly been sitting on the counter for the last eight hours. He pressed his finger into the bread to test it... Yup, hard as a slab of concrete.
Wrapping the whole mess in the napkin, he dumped it in the trash can.
He might be starving, but he had standards. And if she thought that pathetic attempt at a peace offering was going to go any way towards appeasing him after what she’d done, she was living on another planet.
By rights she should have taken the damn initiative and cooked them something decent for supper. The house was fully stocked, and she’d been sitting on her butt all day, doing nothing, while he’d been out trying to work out a way to get them off the island. Maybe that wasn’t going to happen any time soon, but he’d be damned if he’d let her freeload for the rest of her stay.
If he was going to be forced to keep her here—to keep his company safe from her shenanigans while he took a well-earned break—she could damn well make herself useful.
‘Cassandra!’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘Get down here now. You’re on kitchen duty tonight.’
* * *
‘But I already made you a sandwich.’
Cassie stared at Luke Broussard’s hard, handsome face and cursed the flush spreading across her collarbone. She’d figured out several hours ago that they wouldn’t be leaving the island tonight. So she’d spent the time trying not to let her anxiety go into free fall while she’d scoped out a bedroom for the night and hunted up a nightlight.
She had raided Mrs Mendoza’s closet again for more clothing, just in case Luke’s threat of being stuck here for more than one night played out. She did not plan to be unprepared for whatever he might throw at her. She’d also taken the opportunity to do some snooping.
To her astonishment, while looking through the wardrobes in his four guest bedrooms, she hadn’t managed to find any leftover clothes from previous girlfriends. Perhaps Luke had actually been telling the truth when he’d told her he’d never brought a woman to the island before... Not that it meant anything. The women he hadn’t brought here were the lucky ones—at least they hadn’t ended up stranded here.
Satisfied with her haul from Mrs Mendoza’s wardrobe, she’d headed to Luke’s study in a futile attempt to find an internet connected computer, or at the very least a phone charger in case the coverage returned, because her phone had now died. Unfortunately, the only chargers she’d found were for Broussard Tech phones, and all the computers had elaborate security systems so she hadn’t even been able to turn them on, let alone access the internet.
Seriously...who did that? Who had several layers of security on their computers when they were in a study in a locked house on a private island that no one could get to without a plane or a speedboat? Paranoid much?
After nearly an hour spent trying to crack his security, Cassie had returned to the guest room and dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep. She’d woken up about an hour ago, groggy and raw, still feeling the effects of the sweaty erotic dreams which had chased her in sleep...
Beyond grateful that the star player in every one of those dreams was still out of the house, she’d managed to figure out the coffee machine and made herself a cup to enjoy with the view of the sunset from her bedroom.
She’d spotted him coming up the stairs from the dock about twenty minutes ago, his head bowed and his body looking far too buff in a clinging wetsuit, his damp hair dishevelled, the way it had been last night when they’d come in from the storm.
Don’t think about last night.
As he’d entered the house, the surge of longing had convinced her to stay well clear of him for the night. Confronting him was pointless—all it would do was make her more aware of the desire that would not die, or more anxious about her predicament, because they clearly weren’t going to be going anywhere tonight.
She’d managed to find some crime novels on his bookshelves... They should keep her entertained, and might even contain a fiendishly clever and undetectable way to murder a man in his sleep.
But then she’d heard him calling her to come downstairs... Not calling her, summoning her—as if she were an employee instead of a hostage.
Ignoring him had been impossible, and it would have made her seem weak. So she had steeled herself against the inevitable surge of heat and forced herself to remain calm. Or calm-ish...
But then he’d demanded she cook them both dinner, because—as he’d put it so charmingly—‘I don’t like freeloaders any more than I like spies.’
