Tycoon's One-Night Revenge by Bronwyn Jameson Page B

up quickly in the late morning, as if summoned by his own turbulent mood. He’d tried to run that from his blood in a controlled set of sprints up and down the sandy curve of beach. It had worked for the time he’d taken climbing the steep incline back to the house.
    Lost in contemplation of the lunch he aimed to prepare after a long, relaxing shower, he started shucking his sweat-dampened shirt as he came in the door. Susannah sat curled up on a sofa. A book lay open on her lap but her gaze was fixed on those billowing clouds until his arrival startled it back toward the door.
    Then she focussed on his bare chest and Van’s post-exercise relaxation evaporated under her silent scrutiny.
    When her sea-green concern shifted to his face, she must have read the warning signs in his hardened expression. Smart woman; she didn’t say a word about the scars, but as he crossed to his bedroom he felt the incendiary touch of those eyes track his every step.
    “Is Gilly coming today?” she asked.
    “No.” And he felt mean and moody enough to pause with his hand on the door to add, “If you’re concerned about this weather coming in, there’s a small runabout in the boatshed. We can leave now.”
    “How small?”
    He turned back. Her fingers had quite a grip on the book; but she still held her chin high and proud. Despite her fear, she was actually considering this option, and while he showered, he recalled a snatch of conversation from the previous evening. When she’d told him about her grandfather who’d gone out fishing and never come back.

    He came out of his room fifteen minutes later with an apology ready, but she was gone. From the veranda he caught sight of her down by the boathouse—checking the size of the runabout?—and he cursed himself for mentioning it.
    Two hours later, she still hadn’t returned. The concern gnawing away inside took a stronger bite. Surely she wouldn’t do something so stupid. She didn’t only dislike boats, they straight-out petrified her.
    Then he saw movement on the track just above the pier. The white of his shirt—this morning he’d left it and a pair of his trackpants outside her door—as she loped into view. Not dawdling, but not exactly making haste.
    His chest tightened with a contradictory mix of intense relief and annoyance.
    If she didn’t get a wriggle on, she’d be caught out in the storm. Right on cue, the clouds growled ominously and the first fat drops fell from the darkening sky. Van hit the steps at a run.
    He found her a couple of minutes down the track, just as the heavens opened. By the time they made it back to the house they were both drenched and Van itched for a confrontation. The island’s terrain was barely friendly at the best of times. In the rain she could have lost her way, slipped, fell.
    Beneath the shelter of the porch, he rounded on her. “Have you no sense of self-preservation?”
    Gathering her wet hair in hand, she paused. Her eyes met his and held. “I thought I did. I didn’t take the boat.”
    Hell. She had considered it.
    Fear, cold and fierce, held him in its talons for several rough heartbeats. And when he caught up with her at the door he saw that she wasn’t only wet, she was shivering cold. He pushed the door open and, when she didn’t move, urged her forward with a firm hand at her back.
    “You’re freezing.” Shouldering the door shut behind her, he indicated the unused bedroom with a curt nod. “That shower’s closest. Go warm yourself under it. I’ll get you dry clothes.”
    “I’ll use—”
    “Don’t argue, or I’ll pick you up and carry you in there myself.”
    When her mouth tightened mulishly, Van took an advancing step. She took several backward, her hands held up in a stay-right-there gesture. They were trembling with cold.
    “I’m going. I can manage.”
    Van wasn’t so sure. Eyes narrowed, he watched her retreat. Despite the trembling hands she started to unbutton the shirt as she walked. “Are you