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  She kicked the skirt in the direction of the jacket, knowing full well that before the hour was up, she’d have both items on hangers and in the closet. In the meantime, though, she was going to let the island work its magic, and she stood in the doorway of her isolated cabin, breathing deep, wearing nothing but a soft silk shell and panties.

  Free. For one week, she had nothing but an unsure future in front of her. No Day-Timer, no appointments, no obligations.

  It felt wonderful. Weird and unfamiliar, but wonderful.

  A fresh wave of guilt crested in her gut, but she firmly quashed it. She deserved this. For the last sixteen years, she’d lived her life for her father and brother, holding the family together, being the rock, just as she’d promised her mother when the cancer had made it only too clear that Kyra was soon to be the sole female in the Cartwright household.

  A heck of a lot for a ten-year-old to shoulder, but she’d never once complained. Not when she’d taken over the chores instead of playing with the neighborhood kids. Not when her father’s failing health had forced her to sacrifice her college social life so that she could help him with the day-to-day operations of Cartwright Radio. Not even when she’d given up her own chance at an M.B.A. so that her brother, Evan, could go to medical school.

  She adored her father and brother, and she loved everything about working in radio. And for those simple reasons, her choices had never seemed like sacrifices.

  Now, though…

  Her father’s health had worsened, and Kyra’s world was on shaky ground. For over thirty years, Milton Cartwright had been the backbone of their family-owned chain of radio stations, his own syndicated show the company’s cash cow. Almost everyone in the country tuned in for Milton’s peculiar brand of Texas humor mixed with a dash of Dallas sophistication.

  What most folks didn’t realize was just how poorly the radio guru had been getting on these past few years. Now everything her father had struggled for was threatened. The moment Milton retired and his show went off the air, the advertising dollars would dry up. And that meant the family business would be dead and gone.

  Of course, Milton Cartwright knew that as well as all the vultures circling the station’s offices in downtown Dallas. To Kyra’s infinite frustration, her dad was determined not to give them the satisfaction. He was going to stay on the radio until the last possible second.

  As much as she wanted the business to survive, Kyra was more determined to make sure her dad stayed as healthy as possible for as long as possible. According to his cadre of doctors, that meant early retirement. But the man was as stubborn as they came, and unless Kyra found some way to ensure the station would continue to bring in key advertisers, he wasn’t about to turn over the reins of the company to anyone.

  After months of pounding her head against the wall, Kyra’d been on the verge of conceding defeat when she found her answer—a good luck charm in a pinstripe suit. Harold Stovall, President and Chairman of United Media Corporation. A longtime friend, he’d recently promised to let Cartwright Radio acquire not one but two of his key on-air personalities.

  And, really, he hadn’t asked that much in return. After all, the business meant everything to Kyra’s father, and Milton Cartwright meant everything to Kyra.

  She held on to the doorjamb, feeling her body go rigid as the knowledge of what lay ahead settled into her bones. Truly, Harold was a dear, and fifteen years wasn’t that big an age difference. They’d even dated for a while, back when Kyra had lived in New York while she learned the ropes of working at a major radio station.

  So what if he’d never made her toes tingle or her knees go weak? He’d always been kind and gentle. And he truly adored her.

  Most important, she knew with absolute certainty that he’d protect her father’s business as if it were his own, something Kyra couldn’t do alone. Without Harold, Kyra would lose everything.

  In a way, Harold was giving her the world. It was only fair that she give him herself in return.

  So she’d decided to agree. After this trip, she’d tell him, and in just a few months, she would become Mrs. Harold Stovall. She’d give herself over to a marriage based on respect, if not love.

  She’d always thrown herself into her work. Now, her work would be her life.

  Except there was still that one, traitorous little part of her. An unsatisfied, rebellious, needy part of her. She hated to even let it in, hated to admit she didn’t have the strength to ignore the piece of her that longed for…she wasn’t sure what.

  Her best friend, Mona, had said that Kyra was coming to Intimate Fantasy to sow her wild oats, but that wasn’t it. Not exactly. She’d lived her entire life in a cocoon. A warm and loving cocoon, true, but that didn’t make the binds any less tight.

  Her whole life, she’d done the right thing, been the good girl. And her future promised to be exactly the same. But for one week, Kyra wanted to see what else the world offered.

  For twenty-six years, she’d been living a perfectly ordered existence doing what everyone expected. But here, now…she wanted the whole enchilada. Wanted to take a running leap off a cliff and fly out into life.

  She would marry Harold, yes. And, once spoken, she would honor her wedding vows.

  But here…now…

  Now, she was at a fantasy resort. She’d cashed in the savings bonds her mother had left her, emptied her meager savings account, and come here for the fantasy of a lifetime. Not responsible, not reasonable, but something she had to do.

  With a sigh, she ran her fingers through her hair. Right now, she wanted passion. Weak-kneed, heart-pounding, scream-inducing passion. And not just sex, but a passion for life. She wanted to feel the blood pulsing in her veins. Wanted a week of adventures—sun, sea and sex. An entire week to really experience being alive.

  That was her fantasy. And she wanted it so badly she could taste it. So desperately, she sometimes cried herself to sleep.

  She blinked back an unexpected tear, frustrated that her control could slip so easily. A balmy breeze drifted in from the water’s edge, caressing her bare arms, evaporating the tiny beads of sweat on her collarbone. With a light finger, she traced the swell of her breast under the designer silk shell. Her impractical city-girl clothes would be the first to go.

  With a jerk, she grabbed the hem and yanked the shirt over her head. She tossed it in the corner with the rest of her suit, then unclipped her bra.

  “Chic-a-boom, chic-a-boom, chic-a-boom, boom, boom!” She twirled it above her head and then, with one final jut of her hip, she let it sail across the room, where it landed on top of a pink lamp with a conch-shell base.

  Delighted, she laughed out loud, then realized she was standing almost naked in a doorway for all the world to see.

  She stepped behind the wall and poked her head outside, trying to decide if the beach was as secluded as Ms. Weston had promised. Not a soul in sight, and not a sound except for the rhythmic lap of waves against the sand.

  “Kyra,” she whispered, “it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.”

  She slipped her finger under the elastic of her panties, wiggled a bit, and let them drop to the ground. Then she stepped out of her sandals and tried to judge the distance from her doorway to the ocean, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she worked up her nerve.

  On the pro side, these kind of wild excursions were exactly what she was on the island for: adventure, unpredictability, thrills. On the con side, she’d be royally embarrassed if anybody saw her.

  On the pro side, the water would feel wonderful. On the con side, she had no idea if the Florida waters were home to jellyfish.

  On the pro side, Stuart had pointed out the cabana’s first aid kit. On the con side—

  “Just do it already!” Before she could stop herself, she tore out of the cabana at a full run, buck naked, sprinted across the dunes, then ran straight into the ocean. The water felt glorious against her skin, and she waded out further, finally treading water when it became too d
eep for her to stand.

  She stayed like that for a while, enjoying the decadent sensation of the water against naked flesh. She leaned her head back, soaking her hair as she listened to the rhythm of the ocean, her mind drifting. She ought to find a giant shell for a souvenir. Then, whenever she wanted, she could press it to her ear and remember this week.

  Eyes closed, she moved her arms in slow, languid movements. Just enough to keep afloat. The beach was silent. She was alone and free. Just her and nature.

  Nature? She opened her eyes, looking down into the clear water to her feet and the grayish-blue blur beyond that. Was that the ocean floor? Or something else? With a sudden blinding memory, she recalled the opening scene of Jaws. A girl, naked, in the ocean. A shark. One heck of a creepy theme song.

  Faster than she would have thought possible, she half-swam, half-ran back to the shallows, then climbed out of the water and collapsed onto the beach, inhaling gulps of air.

  That was so not the kind of adrenaline rush she’d planned on. Closing her eyes, she let the warm sun go to work drying her wet skin. There was no one else around. No reason she couldn’t lie there and enjoy the afternoon.

  She bit back a self-satisfied smile. Yesterday she would never have been caught dead skinny-dipping. And lying in the sand—getting all those itchy grains all over her—well, she’d end up tracking the stuff all over the cabana.

  Very messy. Very impractical.

  Stifling a laugh, she picked up a handful of sand and dribbled it on her belly. For years, she’d been the responsible one—good, old, dependable Kyra.

  Not anymore.

  Over the next week, she was going to wear impractical clothes and let her long hair tangle in the ocean breeze. She was going to play in the surf and wear revealing bathing suits and drink fruity bar drinks with exotic names. She’d sleep until noon and dance with strangers and let someone else shoulder all the burdens for a while.

  But most importantly, she was going to have adventures. Sailing. Windsurfing. Maybe even searching for sunken treasure.

  And sex.

  The chance to finally, fully, experience primitive, hot, wild sex. To succumb to a man’s erotic touch. To feel that sensual trill as his fingers stroked and played her. That, perhaps, was the biggest adventure of all.

  She was going to do all that and more, and she didn’t feel even a tiny bit selfish. Well, maybe a little, but she was working really hard to quash the feeling. This was her fantasy, after all. She’d come to this island to lose herself…and, hopefully, to find herself, too.

  She’d told Ms. Weston she wanted the sun, the sea and sex. If that combination didn’t make her feel alive, then nothing would.

  Next week, when her fantasy was over, she’d return to Dallas—to Harold, and to her obligations. But this week… This week, she was going to make enough memories to last her the rest of her life.

  * * *

  THE JEEP bounced along the uneven terrain, and Kyra grabbed on to the roll bar to steady herself. After an hour-long shower to get rid of the sand, she’d changed into a sundress, and now her skirt billowed with the vehicle’s motion. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, but the wind had loosed a few tendrils. Now she pushed the renegade locks out of her eyes and mouth, making a mental note to buy barrettes in the gift shop.

  In the driver’s seat, her coconut-scented, college-aged chauffeur kept a nonchalant hand draped over the steering wheel. “It’s just this one patch that’s rough,” Stuart said, his sun-bleached hair and deep tan making him look like he should be riding a wave instead of driving a 4x4.

  He nodded toward a cluster of palm trees standing like sentries guarding the entrance of the little cove. “The road’s just past those trees, and then the restaurant’s less than a mile away.”

  “I’m fine,” Kyra said, meaning it. The heady island atmosphere had worked its way into her blood, just like the sand from the beach had worked its way into every crevice of her body. Despite still feeling a little itchy, she felt vibrant and excited, and a bumpy ride wasn’t about to change that.

  “They haven’t cut the road through to the outlying cabins.” He glanced at her, the zinc oxide on his nose reflecting onto the lenses of his fluorescent orange sunglasses. “But it’s safe, so don’t worry.”

  “Worry?”

  He turned toward her for just a second, then looked quickly away, clamping both hands onto the steering wheel. “Nothing. Really. Just that a few folks have gotten lost out there until he found them. But so long as you’re careful and stick to the path, you’ll be fine. So forget I said anything, okay? It really is safe.”

  Kyra had no idea who he was, but if the awe in Stuart’s voice was any indication, he was pretty impressive. “He who?”

  His neck flushed crimson, a remarkable feat considering the depth of his tan, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

  Well, that did it. Now her curiosity was really piqued. “Come on, Stuart,” she nagged in her best big-sister voice. “Tell me. You might as well. You already started.”

  He shook his head.

  “Stuart…”

  “Aw, man,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  She just stared at him, one eyebrow lifted in question.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, and Kyra stifled a triumphant smile. Piece o’ cake.

  He turned onto the main road, then shifted in his seat to face her. “The Avenger,” he said, his voice low and serious.

  O-kayyyy. That made no sense whatsoever. “What Avenger?”

  He turned back, focusing on the road. “Well, that’s not actually his name, but I like to call him the Avenger ’cause he’s, like, so totally cool. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached into the back seat, swerving a bit, and hauled a battered duffel bag into his lap. With one hand on the wheel and very little attention to the road, he rummaged in the bag, finally tossing a tattered sketch onto her lap.

  Though obviously dashed off quickly, the sketch was quite well done. Through the use of bold strokes and subtle shading, the artist had managed to convey not just the image of a man standing in the shadows, but an aura of mystery as well.

  Kyra’s focus was drawn immediately to the man’s face, mostly hidden by a low-slung cap and a thick evening beard. A pirate-style patch covered one eye, but despite the odd accoutrement, he had the face of a steady, serious man, with a firm jaw. From beyond the charcoal lines and smudges, the man’s gaze seemed to burn into her, following like the eyes on the Mona Lisa. The kind of eyes that could see a woman’s secrets. The kind of man who could fulfill her fantasies…

  Her pulse beat an irregular rhythm in her throat, and she licked her lips. With a sigh, she tried to get her breathing back under control. It was dangerous to let her thoughts wander down that path—dangerous and intriguing. Never in her life had she experienced such a visceral reaction to a man. And not just a man, but simply the idea of a man. She shivered, her mind toying with the possibility that this mysterious, masked stranger was, in fact, her fantasy.

  Stuart took a sharp corner, the abrupt movement pulling Kyra fully back to the present. Unnerved by the decidedly erotic direction of her thoughts, she tried to concentrate on the drawing itself, not the actual image. Certainly, the intensity of her reaction was a credit to the artist’s skill, and Kyra looked up at Stuart with a new perspective. “Did you do this?”

  He shrugged. “A hobby.”

  “You’re good.”

  “Thanks. It turned out okay. I keep meaning to go back in with some color. Michael’s got the most amazing green eyes.”

  “Michael?”

  Stuart’s smile was broad and proud. “Yeah. I was sketching the dock. He, uh, didn’t see me until later, and when I asked him his name, that’s what he told me.” He shrugged. “Ms. Weston says I’m being silly, but I still like to call him the Masked Avenger.”

  She stifled a giggle, wondering how many comic books Stuart had stowed in his staff locker.

  “He’s totally cool. That
’s Maria’s little nephew. Michael had just rescued him.” He nodded toward the sketch.

  “Oh, right.” Embarrassed, Kyra realized she’d been so drawn to the enigmatic man in the sketch that she hadn’t even noticed the child and woman huddled off to one side. “Rescued?”

  Stuart swerved, steering around a pothole. “Yeah. Maria works in the administration building, and her sister’s kid was visiting. He managed to wander away and we had everyone out looking for him, but no luck.” He cocked his head indicating the photo. “Turns out Carlos had crawled into one of the small boats, and Michael got to him just as the kid was trying to stand up. The boat went over and, well…”

  He sucked in a loud breath. “If my man hadn’t come along, it coulda been bad.”

  Kyra’s heart twisted. The little boy was one lucky fellow. “Who is this guy? A guest? How come he was right there? And why the patch?”

  Stuart shrugged, focusing on the road in front of them. “Um… I don’t have any idea. He ran off right after Maria showed up. Like I said, I was lucky to get a good look at him, much less learn his name. He never hangs around long enough to chat.”

  Interesting. Kyra traced a finger over the coarse paper as a chill raced up her spine. She imagined that it had been her in the capsized boat. She closed her eyes, her body tightening as she imagined his arms grasping her firmly below her breasts, his breath hot on her neck. He would have eased her back into his own boat, then bent over her, his lips nearing her skin, his eyes boring deep into her own. And then…

  Oh my. She crossed her legs to quell a flood of purely sexual heat, then shifted in her seat as the Jeep bounced along. She needed to get her imagination under control. This man…this island…and suddenly her libido was in overdrive.

  “Pretty wild, huh?” Stuart said.

  “Very wild,” she whispered. Then, determined to block the decadent images, she turned to better face him and scrambled for something mundane to discuss. “So you’re just here for the summer?” she finally asked.

  “Yup.” He swung the 4x4 around a graceful stand of trees, then shifted gears. “I’ll be a sophomore at U.C.L.A.”