He turned back to her, his clothes in his hands, and leaned over to pick up her discarded dress. "I don't wear underwear," he said. "That's my real bathing suit."
Before she could realize his intent he'd tossed all the salt-stiffened clothes into the water, including her only decent piece of clothing. She dived for it, hoping to save it from a watery fate, but it sank beneath the surface before she could make it. then he was in the water with her, swimming towards her with clean, long strokes, unhampered by the soap and shampoo he was carrying.
And suddenly he was close, too close, in the water. "Need some help?" he asked.
Her wrist was feeling better with the cool water surrounding it, and she wondered again whether she'd imagined the pain. It didn't matter. Even if it was broken, she wouldn't ask him for any kind of help that would require him to put his hands on her again. His touch was too overwhelming in her current fragile state. "I can manage," she said, backing away from him.
He let her go, a fact that surprised her, moving away through the water to gather the scattered wet clothing. She turned her back to him, using the shampoo and soap he'd given her to manage a fitful bath, then dived beneath the water to rinse the bubbles from her hair. When she surfaced she saw she was alone in the pool. Michael was standing by the cookstove, and the damp, oversize trunks were low on his hips, clinging to the black strip of material.
She grimaced. At least he had something baggy to cover his modesty. Except that she didn't think he was in the slightest bit modest. If she said anything at all about it, he'd probably strip off the baggy trunks. And she didn't think that would be a good idea at all.
"It's getting dark," he said, his back to her. He had a beautiful back, she noticed now, even through the gathering shadows. She'd never really noticed a man's back before, but his was quite extraordinary. Strong shoulders, narrow hips, golden smooth skin. She sighed, treading water, and a stray chill rippled through her skin.
"I'm not finished," she said, taking a few strokes to warm herself.
"You can't spend the night in the pool, Francey," he said with a great deal of patience. "You'll have to come out sooner or later."
"Later will do me fine," she said, swimming backward, then diving under the water again. Later might not be such a good idea. He was busy right now, managing some sort of dinner with his Boy Scout training. She could probably manage to slip out unnoticed and wrap herself in one of the scratchy wool blankets Cecil had thoughtfully provided in lieu of clothing.
She surfaced by the far edge of the pool, shaking the water from her face, and she realized with sudden horror that he was gone. The camp stove was untended, the clearing vacant, and she was alone…
Strong hands caught her, hauling her out of the lagoon with seeming effortlessness. She struggled for a moment, but he stilled her with the simple expediency of wrapping his body around her chilled, almost nude one. "If you make us both fall back into that lagoon, Francey," he growled in her ear, "I'm going to be very irritated."
She stopped her struggles. Not so much because of his threat, but because her skimpy bikini wasn't made for wrestling matches. And the more she struggled, the more her chilled, damp body rubbed against his warm, dry one. The effect it had on her was disturbing and undeniable. And she didn't even want to consider whether or not it was having an effect on him.
He released her then, abruptly, only his hand steadying her from tumbling back into the lagoon. If he'd made a smutty remark, tried to touch her in any way, she would never have forgiven him. But he kept his gaze on her face. "Dinner's almost ready," he said. "And I found a T-shirt in the bottom of one of the boxes. Now, I'd much rather wear it. For one thing, it's getting cooler, and I'd just as soon keep you wearing as little as possible. But as we've already ascertained, I'm a perfect gentleman. So the T-shirt's yours."
She didn't know what to say. Except that his blue eyes were looking steadily into hers, and his manner was back to what she was accustomed to. Calm, sexless, friendly. She was the one suffering from an excess of awareness, an excess of imagination. Not Michael.
"That would be very nice," she said politely. "What's for dinner?"
His mouth curved up in a smile. "Now, that's the bad news. Cecil might have left us plenty to eat, but it's all godawful. Tonight we have freeze-dried shepherd's pie. Fresh shepherd's pie is bad enough, but freeze-drying it is a crime against humanity. After that, I suggest we try to get some sleep. It's almost full dark, and there's not much we can do once the sun sets completely. I don't think it would be wise to keep a fire going after dark."