whenever a roll became too fierce. She practically staggered like a drunkard the last few steps to her door, but before she could get there, a great roll knocked her sideways and propelled her against the opposite cabin's door. She would have been all right except for the fact that Vashon's door was not securely latched. It swung open with her weight and she was hurled onto the carpet right inside his quarters.
Shocked by what had happened, she quickly got to her knees and prayed that the cabin was empty. Yet as she looked up a terrifying sight met her eyes. A fiery green dragon, more ruthless and lifelike than the one on the prow, loomed above her, ready for attack. With the rocking motion of the ship, it actually seemed to move. As she knelt on the carpet transfixed, it took her a moment even to begin to comprehend that the dragon was not real, much less make the connection that it was a painting—a painting done on the flesh of a man's naked back.
Before she could even tear her eyes away, Vashon turned and suddenly the dragon was gone from her view, to be replaced by the scowling face of the cabin's occupant.
"Shouldn't you knock first, Miss Dayne?" Vashon commented before he grasped her wrists and pulled her to her feet. The vessel dipped then, and though she suspected he possessed quite enough strength to steady the both of them, he let the ship toss them against the door, which closed with a thud.
"Your—your back—" she stammered, unnerved by his closeness and by what she had seen.
"Yes, it's called a tattoo," he commented dryly.
"But how could you have painted such a thing on yourself? It's on your back," she whispered.
"I didn't paint it—a pretty Chinese maiden put it on my back. In Peking. In the Forbidden City." He looked down at her and suddenly seemed quite pleased with what he saw. A ghost of a smile played on his lips.
"In China?" she asked, looking up at him with bewildered aqua eyes. "But if you got it in China, wouldn't it have come off by now?"
"It doesn't come off." He turned slightly and presented part of the dragon to her. "Touch it and you'll see for yourself."
She had never touched a man's back, but this one demanded she do it. The dragon was so ferocious and detailed, she could hardly believe it was on his skin. Timidly she reached out her hand. Her fingertips met with the creature's scaly tail. The thing whipped down his lower back serpentine fashion, only to disappear beneath the waist of his trousers. But though the dragon seemed much too real, all she felt was warm, smoothly muscled flesh. If she'd had her eyes closed, she would never have known the dragon was there at all.
"But why doesn't it come off?" she asked in a hushed voice.
He turned back to her. The ship lurched and he held fast to the door, steadying her between his arms. "It doesn't come off because it's not on my skin, it's in my skin. It was put there with a needle and dye."
"Then it must have hurt terribly . . ."
He suddenly laughed, and she was struck by how white and even his teeth were, and how fascinatingly handsome he was when he smiled. If he wasn't so barbarously "eccentric," as Mrs. Lindstrom put it, he would surely have women swooning at his feet. As she watched him from such close proximity, she wondered if there weren't a few swooning anyway.
"It did hurt. A great deal, in fact," he said as he looked down at her. "But this little Chinese wench was skillful with the needle . . . and when she was through I recall quite clearly her unusual methods to take my mind off the pain."
Aurora stared at him. She wasn't even sure what he was implying, but somehow she knew instinctively a proper gentleman would never speak such things to her.
The ship rolled and she was thrust against his hard, naked chest. Once more his scent—so wild and mysterious—assailed her. She didn't want to touch him again, but with her back to the cabin door he was the only thing to grab. Her one hand wrapped around his steely upper
Shocked by what had happened, she quickly got to her knees and prayed that the cabin was empty. Yet as she looked up a terrifying sight met her eyes. A fiery green dragon, more ruthless and lifelike than the one on the prow, loomed above her, ready for attack. With the rocking motion of the ship, it actually seemed to move. As she knelt on the carpet transfixed, it took her a moment even to begin to comprehend that the dragon was not real, much less make the connection that it was a painting—a painting done on the flesh of a man's naked back.
Before she could even tear her eyes away, Vashon turned and suddenly the dragon was gone from her view, to be replaced by the scowling face of the cabin's occupant.
"Shouldn't you knock first, Miss Dayne?" Vashon commented before he grasped her wrists and pulled her to her feet. The vessel dipped then, and though she suspected he possessed quite enough strength to steady the both of them, he let the ship toss them against the door, which closed with a thud.
"Your—your back—" she stammered, unnerved by his closeness and by what she had seen.
"Yes, it's called a tattoo," he commented dryly.
"But how could you have painted such a thing on yourself? It's on your back," she whispered.
"I didn't paint it—a pretty Chinese maiden put it on my back. In Peking. In the Forbidden City." He looked down at her and suddenly seemed quite pleased with what he saw. A ghost of a smile played on his lips.
"In China?" she asked, looking up at him with bewildered aqua eyes. "But if you got it in China, wouldn't it have come off by now?"
"It doesn't come off." He turned slightly and presented part of the dragon to her. "Touch it and you'll see for yourself."
She had never touched a man's back, but this one demanded she do it. The dragon was so ferocious and detailed, she could hardly believe it was on his skin. Timidly she reached out her hand. Her fingertips met with the creature's scaly tail. The thing whipped down his lower back serpentine fashion, only to disappear beneath the waist of his trousers. But though the dragon seemed much too real, all she felt was warm, smoothly muscled flesh. If she'd had her eyes closed, she would never have known the dragon was there at all.
"But why doesn't it come off?" she asked in a hushed voice.
He turned back to her. The ship lurched and he held fast to the door, steadying her between his arms. "It doesn't come off because it's not on my skin, it's in my skin. It was put there with a needle and dye."
"Then it must have hurt terribly . . ."
He suddenly laughed, and she was struck by how white and even his teeth were, and how fascinatingly handsome he was when he smiled. If he wasn't so barbarously "eccentric," as Mrs. Lindstrom put it, he would surely have women swooning at his feet. As she watched him from such close proximity, she wondered if there weren't a few swooning anyway.
"It did hurt. A great deal, in fact," he said as he looked down at her. "But this little Chinese wench was skillful with the needle . . . and when she was through I recall quite clearly her unusual methods to take my mind off the pain."
Aurora stared at him. She wasn't even sure what he was implying, but somehow she knew instinctively a proper gentleman would never speak such things to her.
The ship rolled and she was thrust against his hard, naked chest. Once more his scent—so wild and mysterious—assailed her. She didn't want to touch him again, but with her back to the cabin door he was the only thing to grab. Her one hand wrapped around his steely upper
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