The Castaway Bride by Kandy Shepherd Page A

freed from their plastic extensions, were short, practical, get-down-and-do-it. And yet she obviously knew the value down to the last dollar of that obscenely large diamond.
    What made Cristy tick?
    His curiosity about her was growing almost as rapidly as his desire. He found himself hoping the rescue boat wouldn’t arrive too quickly. Getting to know her wasn’t off limits. But so long as she wore that ring, touching her was. He had to deny that desire.
    “That was a lifesaver, thank you,” she said with a smile, handing him back the empty mug. “I thought I was going to die of thirst.”
    Then she sneezed. It was a small, delicate sneeze—like the kitten Danny had had when they were kids—but a sneeze just the same.
    He eyed her sodden dress, still clinging to her luscious curves, then averted his eyes when he spoke. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.” He tugged at his uncomfortably damp T-shirt. “So do I.”
    Cristy’s eyes widened. With alarm or anticipation?
    Wishful thinking, mate. She must be as embarrassed as hell at her over-the-top glad-to-be-alive reaction in the water. She regretted it. He did not. But he had to stop remembering the way she kissed, the way she straddled him with her strong, slender thighs, her astounding sensuality. But that was impossible if she was half-naked.
    It would be best all round if she covered herself with something dry. For her health’s sake. For his libido’s sake. What could he find in the line of emergency clothing for stranded brides?
    He wrenched at the door of the large, rusting locker that stood in the corner opposite the sink. “Could be something we can wear in here.” When the guys came on surveying trips they brought their own camping equipment with them. But perhaps there was stuff left that had belonged to the hut’s original inhabitant.
    “Can we recover something from your boat?”
    “Too dangerous,” he said. Swimming out to the rocks and attempting to board Wayfarer would be a suicide mission.
    The door gave and creaked open, releasing a musty smell. But there was a shelf stacked with household essentials. Better than he had expected. He pulled out two gray, threadbare towels, shook them out in case they harbored spiders, and handed them to her. “We’re in luck.”
    Cristy couldn’t disguise her horror. “Is that it?”
    “They’re dry. Be thankful.” He didn’t mention the spiders.
    She pulled a face. “I guess so. What else is in there?”
    She peered around him, her bare shoulders brushing against him, the scent of roses tantalizingly close. He had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Those shoulders were eminently kissable. But strictly off limits.
    He pulled out an outsize pair of waterproof fishermen’s waders and held them out in front of him.
    “They’re for you,” she said. Her eyes sparkled with laughter and her nose wrinkled up in a way he found delightful. Again, he marveled at her attitude, so at odds with her princess appearance.
    He hauled out a few sheets and two scratchy, army-issue blankets. “These sheets are meant for the beds but we’ll use them to improvise as clothes while our own dry off.”
    “You mean we wear sheets?”
    “Yeah. Like a toga party.”
    “A toga party?”
    “You know, you get dressed up like ancient Romans. In togas.”
    Why did he have to go and say that? All he needed to add was, you know, like for an orgy, to have her run screaming out the door.
    Cristy looked at him like he needed to have his head read but her eyes gleamed with good humor. “Right, a toga it shall be. I’ll just be glad to get out of this soggy dress.”
    She started to tug at her bodice and Matt couldn’t help but stare at the swell of breast that was revealed. She stopped. “I’d appreciate it if you turned your back.”
    He turned away, looked ahead at the rough wooden wall, and forced himself to think of anything but Cristy removing her clothes. Of Cristy revealing her centerfold-lush body.
    He