onto the job and the money he’d make doing it. That was what mattered. That was real, not some crazy emotion that he had no more business feeling than a pig did sprouting wings. He grimaced, pulling his jaw into a tight, hard line. “Okay, it’s your call,” he growled as he gripped her elbow and steered her up the steps. “But this is your idea, not mine.”
In the candlelight he caught the edge of her green glance, full of gratitude and heartfelt relief. He jerked his gaze away, knowing he didn’t deserve that, either.
I’m getting married.
The words buzzed through her head like persistent flies as she knelt in front of the altar rail. She tried to concentrate on the fact that this wasn’t a real marriage, and that the feather-garbed shaman performingthe ceremony had no more authority to pronounce her someone’s wife than the local dogcatcher, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Her thoughts kept straying to the man who knelt beside her at the rail, a man she barely knew. And what she did know didn’t make her feel very safe.
She glanced over at him. Candlelight shifted over the rugged planes of his face and illuminated the sheen of sweat on his tanned skin. He was still as the stone steps they knelt on, yet she could sense the cold fire burning inside him, the violence that both frightened and fascinated her. She swallowed, her gaze riveted on his remote expression, feeling a strange hunger build inside her. No,
safe
wasn’t a word anyone would use to describe Sam Donovan. But there were other words that came to mind, words that would send her proper New England ancestors spinning in their graves—
She yanked her gaze away, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. No luck. The soft, sacred cadence of Papa Guinea’s indecipherable words, the staring interest of the hundred people and the thousand gods, and the strange, seductive energy she’d felt since she’d landed on the island wrapped themselves around her like a second skin. Unable to resist, her gaze crept back to the man beside her.
Okay, I’m human, she admitted silently as she stared at his heartbreakingly handsome face. Her gaze drifted down the strong column of his throat, fastening on a glistening bead of sweat sliding down hisskin. She bit her lip, fighting an urge to press her mouth to that throat and lose herself in the hot, heady taste of his flesh. She’d always repressed her fantasies, seeing them as part of the bad blood that ran through her very proper veins. But for once she didn’t feel guilty. After all, what was the harm in it? He wasn’t interested in her physically—he’d made that more than clear with that “old maid” crack. So why not let her imagination live a little? Why not pretend, just a minute or two, that this was a real marriage?
So she pretended. She imagined that she was madly in love with him, and that he was madly in love with her. She visualized him taking her in his arms and kissing her—not the predictable, measured kiss that Hayward gave her, but a kiss as wild and unpredictable as the waves that thundered against the island shore. She closed her eyes, drowning in the lush, forbidden fantasy. But there’s no harm in it. No harm at a—
“Oh hell,” he muttered.
Noel froze. Had he read her mind? It was impossible, but the impossible seemed an everyday event in this weird, magical place. She cleared her throat, making a titanic effort to keep her voice steady. “What’s a matter?”
“Something I forgot, something about the ceremony. I have to kiss you.”
“What?”
“Pipe down,” he growled, gripping her wrist. “We’ve come this far. Don’t blow it now.”
“But a kiss!” Her mind reeled from a harmlessfantasy that had suddenly become dangerously real. If he kissed her he might realize what she’d been fantasizing about. And she’d die if he found out, she’d just die.
He said nothing, but his expression hardened, growing still and deadly. Papa Guinea and the crowd faded to
In the candlelight he caught the edge of her green glance, full of gratitude and heartfelt relief. He jerked his gaze away, knowing he didn’t deserve that, either.
I’m getting married.
The words buzzed through her head like persistent flies as she knelt in front of the altar rail. She tried to concentrate on the fact that this wasn’t a real marriage, and that the feather-garbed shaman performingthe ceremony had no more authority to pronounce her someone’s wife than the local dogcatcher, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Her thoughts kept straying to the man who knelt beside her at the rail, a man she barely knew. And what she did know didn’t make her feel very safe.
She glanced over at him. Candlelight shifted over the rugged planes of his face and illuminated the sheen of sweat on his tanned skin. He was still as the stone steps they knelt on, yet she could sense the cold fire burning inside him, the violence that both frightened and fascinated her. She swallowed, her gaze riveted on his remote expression, feeling a strange hunger build inside her. No,
safe
wasn’t a word anyone would use to describe Sam Donovan. But there were other words that came to mind, words that would send her proper New England ancestors spinning in their graves—
She yanked her gaze away, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. No luck. The soft, sacred cadence of Papa Guinea’s indecipherable words, the staring interest of the hundred people and the thousand gods, and the strange, seductive energy she’d felt since she’d landed on the island wrapped themselves around her like a second skin. Unable to resist, her gaze crept back to the man beside her.
Okay, I’m human, she admitted silently as she stared at his heartbreakingly handsome face. Her gaze drifted down the strong column of his throat, fastening on a glistening bead of sweat sliding down hisskin. She bit her lip, fighting an urge to press her mouth to that throat and lose herself in the hot, heady taste of his flesh. She’d always repressed her fantasies, seeing them as part of the bad blood that ran through her very proper veins. But for once she didn’t feel guilty. After all, what was the harm in it? He wasn’t interested in her physically—he’d made that more than clear with that “old maid” crack. So why not let her imagination live a little? Why not pretend, just a minute or two, that this was a real marriage?
So she pretended. She imagined that she was madly in love with him, and that he was madly in love with her. She visualized him taking her in his arms and kissing her—not the predictable, measured kiss that Hayward gave her, but a kiss as wild and unpredictable as the waves that thundered against the island shore. She closed her eyes, drowning in the lush, forbidden fantasy. But there’s no harm in it. No harm at a—
“Oh hell,” he muttered.
Noel froze. Had he read her mind? It was impossible, but the impossible seemed an everyday event in this weird, magical place. She cleared her throat, making a titanic effort to keep her voice steady. “What’s a matter?”
“Something I forgot, something about the ceremony. I have to kiss you.”
“What?”
“Pipe down,” he growled, gripping her wrist. “We’ve come this far. Don’t blow it now.”
“But a kiss!” Her mind reeled from a harmlessfantasy that had suddenly become dangerously real. If he kissed her he might realize what she’d been fantasizing about. And she’d die if he found out, she’d just die.
He said nothing, but his expression hardened, growing still and deadly. Papa Guinea and the crowd faded to
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