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He advanced on her, his bare toes touching hers as they peeked from her sandals. For a second he didn’t say a word, just studied the contours of her face, and her breath got lost somewhere between her lungs and throat. She stared into eyes a deep, mysterious blue, eyes that seemed to see into the most secret parts of her. Her palms began to sweat a little, and for a breathless instant she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Get a grip, Nikki!
“I just want to get you out of here before you really get hurt.”
“So you’re superstitious.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Because the accident happened here, you want to leave. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Unless you think I’m only accident-prone when I’m on Salvaje. Or unless you know something more than you’re telling me.”
“Like what?” Frowning, he locked the door firmly behind him.
“I have nightmares, Trent, and I relive falling over the cliff, only I don’t just take a misstep and pitch toward the ocean on my own,” she said, catching his full attention. His head snapped up and the muscles in the back of his neck grew strident. “I know someone was chasing me and that same person gave me a shove over the edge.” The room was suddenly so close, she had trouble getting enough air into her lungs. His gaze narrowed on her, and he didn’t move.
“Who?”
“I…I don’t know. I don’t remember. But it’s so real, it’s got to be true.”
“You think I pushed you,” he said, his voice flat, his nostrils flaring slightly.
Her pulse throbbed in her brain. “I don’t know what to think. But I know that you haven’t been completely honest with me.”
“Oh, Lord,” he said on a heavy sigh. Rubbing a hand around the back of his neck, he shook his head. When he looked at her again, his gaze had sharpened. “Part of your dream is real, part illusion. It’s true I didn’t see you fall over the edge. I was already at the mission, waiting for you. But no one was following us.”
“You’re certain?”
He didn’t answer. “Why would anyone push you, Nikki?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, trying to remember.
“Oh, Nikki.” Muttering a curse under his breath, he placed his hands on either side of her body, trapping her against the bureau. He leaned forward, his nose nearly touching hers. “I know you don’t like the idea, but you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll get you home. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
“You’ll be honest with me?”
He hesitated, but only briefly, then one side of his mouth lifted into a sardonic smile. “Of course I will, darlin’,” he drawled, and she knew in an instant that this man was an inveterate liar, a man who would say or do anything in order to accomplish his goals.
Despite all that, regardless of her gut feeling not to trust him, a part of her wanted to lean on him, rely on him, trust him with her life. If only she could let herself feel safe with him. He smelled clean and male and… She bit her lip as he tilted her chin with one finger and whispered, “Just trust me, Nikki. We’ll be home soon and you can see your own doctor. You’ll get your memory back. Things will be better.”
Trust me. Her heart twisted. She wanted to trust him. More than anything in her life, she wanted to believe that he was telling her the truth, that they were married, that there wasn’t anyone on Salvaje or anywhere else who would want to hurt her.
He kissed her then. Slowly and deliberately, his hands placed on either side of her head, his body pressed close to hers. His lips were warm and persuasive, his tongue a gentle prod against her teeth. She knew she should stop him, that kissing him was courting disaster, yet she closed her eyes and parted her lips willingly, and his hands moved slowly down her face to her shoulders and lower still to her buttocks. His bare chest rubbed against her T-shirt, and she was lost in the smell and feel of him.
With a groan, he drew her closer, pulling her hips against his so that she could feel the hardness of his desire against her abdomen. Her blood was pounding through her veins as his kiss deepened.
As suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he let go, swearing and planting his hands on his jean-clad hips. He closed his eyes and his jaw became hard as granite. “Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamned bitch!” Raking his hands through his hair, he growled, “I’ve got to get out of here…. We’ve got to get out of here.”
She couldn’t agree with him more. Being cooped up in the small room, with only each other, was playing with fire.
“Come on,” he said, stuffing his arms through the sleeves of a bleached denim shirt. “Let’s have some breakfast and then we’ll check out Santa María. Do some sightseeing. Something. Wait a minute.” He closed the gap between them once more, and with his shirt still open, he surveyed her wounds. His thumb brushed across the scab still clinging to her cheek. “But we can’t be out long. The doctor doesn’t want too much sun on—”
“I know. I’ll wear a hat,” she said, angry with him or herself, she didn’t know which.
“I just wouldn’t want that beautiful face to scar.”
“I’ll be careful.” She felt a sudden elation at the prospect of escaping the prison walls of the hotel room and realized this would be her chance, if she ever was alone, to have the film she’d found in her camera developed.
A sharp needle of guilt stabbed at her, but she quickly shoved it aside. She had the right to learn everything there was to know about her “husband,” even if she had to sneak behind his back to uncover the truth.
He changed into walking shorts and a T-shirt, slipped a pair of aviator glasses over the bridge of his nose and headed outside. The sunbaked driveway to the front of the hotel was filled with idling cabs and cars. Trent took her hand and led her past the taxi stand to a shaded bench where the driver of a horse-drawn carriage was dozing.
