Free Paradise Island by Charmaine Ross Page B

closed eyes. Small lines were etched into the corners, fanning outwards. His nose was straight, strong, the nostrils slightly flattened over the somewhat severe line of his mouth. His lips were full but remained harshly masculine. She decided he had a handsome well-formed male face. It was a face she could get used to looking at.
    She snorted rather indelicately, settled comfortably against the rock wall and continued her lazy perusal. His chest rose and fell with each breath. The flickering fire sent a delicate sublime light over him that made his skin even more golden because of his deep tan. His square shoulders were relaxed, coated with an array of interlacing muscles. The flickering light drew sharp contrasts between the undulating planes of his physique, his well-defined pectoral muscles. Her eyes dwelled on the rigid line that ran from his breast bone to his navel. Even in sleep his stomach muscles contracted, hardening the line the defined his midsection.
    Her eyes grew greedy and they traveled lower, over his toned long legs that were stretched before him, his knees bent a little, his feet tipped outwards. The material of his pants were stretched tight over well-defined thighs and fit snugly over his lean hips. Her primal flicker of interest sparked a physical response deep within her. He would be a man she might have chosen for a few hours of play, if the situation was not as it was.
    But he was a sleek, lethal animal, a dark predator, powerful, intelligent, strong in mind and body with a dark ruthless edge and if she had half a wit about her she should not forget it.
    She had more pressing issues to think about. Her missing friends; her crew; her ship. A forlorn dread seeped deep into her bones and she rubbed her hands on her arms in a sudden grip of cold. Too many questions filled her mind.
    Too much horror.
    She hoped wherever they were, they were safe. She had to believe that Dalia’s gift had worked somehow, and that she had been able to save them from Cutlass’s attack. She had to believe they were saved, and that maybe only she and Gregory found themselves in this position.
    If she didn’t believe that they were alive, then she didn’t know if she could go on. Hope was a tenuous thing. It gave purpose, a reason to keep going in insurmountable odds and that was what she drew on. Hope that somehow her dearest friends were still alive and well and that they had survived the attack and were on their way back to Paradise. If something happened to her and she never made it back, she knew her friends would keep the island alive and that the lives of all those that lived there would continue. She could trust them with that.
    And what of her father?
    She was shaken to the core with Gregory’s revelations. To think that her father might still be alive was more than she could ever wish. In Gregory’s position, she would say anything. He was a man in a dire situation. Trusting what he said would take more than mere words. There had to be some solid evidence, or she had to logically conclude that they were just hollow, desperate words.
    The thought grounded her, pushed the heavy sludge of fear, threatening to overpower the hope that she desperately clung to, drove home the dire circumstances in which she found herself. The only course of action would be to discover where in the world they were and find her way home. With Captain Gregory Marshall as her prisoner. A steely reserve kicked down the heady tide of desperation.
    Estelle pulled her gaze from Gregory into the fire and she watched the burning yellows and reds flicker, dance and weave upon the burning driftwood. She tucked a large piece of wood into the center of the fire and watched blue and white sparks drift upwards and twirl to the roof of the cave.
    As the shower of sparks disappeared, she saw an intricately, quite beautiful painting on the craggy ceiling of the cave. She ignited the end of a long stick and brought the flame to the roof