Page 2 of Desert Island Duke

He was one of those people for whom everything seemed to come easily. In addition to sinful good looks, he possessed a fierce intelligence, a quick wit, and considerable charm—not that he’d ever wasted those last two attributes on her. He was irritatingly good at everything he tried; whether it was fencing, riding, or gaming at his club.

And, it seemed, surviving a shipwreck at sea.

He turned his head and caught her eye, and Caro’s heart gave an uncomfortable little thump. She’d always both craved and hated his regard.

“You’re right. I’m definitely not dead,” he said. “If I was dead, you’d be naked.”

Chapter 2

Caro’s mouth fell open in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“If I was dead,” Hayworth repeated, his voice a deliciously low rasp from the salt water he’d ingested, “and in heaven, then the beautiful woman who greeted me would most definitely be naked.”

Caro blinked. Beautiful? Had Maximillian Cavendish just called her beautiful?

She glanced around at the sky, the white sand, the palm trees swaying on the shore. What bizarre alternate universe was this? Was she dreaming? It was the only logical explanation. She pinched herself on the thigh, to make sure.

Nothing happened.

Hayworth didn’t seem to notice her confusion.

“Then again,” he used one hand to ruffle the sand from his tousled hair, “I might be dead and in hell. That’s very possible. In which case, being greeted by a fully-clothed siren who looks like she should be naked, but never takes her clothes off, well, that would be the very definition of punishment, wouldn’t it?”

Caro assumed that was a rhetorical question.

“You’re delirious,” she said stoutly. “Did the lifeboat hit you on the head when it overturned?”

He rubbed his scalp again, as if searching for lumps. “Don’t think so.”

“Look at me.”

He glanced at her again, and she stared deeply into his eyes, searching for any sign of recognition. Or, indeed, sanity.

He stared back at her solemnly. And then his mouth curved into a slow, wicked, openly appraising smile that made her stomach swirl dangerously. His gaze dropped to her lips, as if he was thinking of kissing her.

What on earth was happening?

“Stop being ridiculous,” she scolded. “I’m not an angel or a devil. You know who I am. I’m Caroline. Caro Montgomery. William’s sister.”

“Caro.” He repeated the name with a kind of wonder, rolling it around his mouth as though saying it for the first time. “Hello Caro. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“As am I,” she muttered uncertainly.

Maybe that was it. Maybe she was the one who was dead, and in some dreadful underworld where her only companion was the one man guaranteed to drive her mad for all eternity. It made a horrible kind of sense. He’d cursed her when she was alive. It stood to reason that he’d haunt her when she was dead, with his irresistible smirk and his perfect, unattainable body.

He reached out and smoothed a strand of salt-encrusted hair back from her forehead. His palm stroked her cheek, and Caro froze in surprise at the appreciative look on his face.

What was wrong with him? He’d never looked at her in such a way before. He usually regarded her with a mocking expression that suggested she was the amusing, unwitting, butt of his jokes. Did he really not recognize her?

“So, we’ve established that you’re Caro,” he murmured. “Which would make me . . ?” He let the sentence trail off in a questioning uplift of sound.

“Cavendish,” Caro said irritably. The idiot was clearly fooling with her, pretending he’d forgotten his own name.

“Huh,” he said, sounding surprised. “Do people call me Cav?”

She was getting more exasperated by the second. “No, they don’t. Cavendish isn’t your first name. It’s your family name, you dolt. Your Christian name is Max.”

“Short for Maximillian, I assume?”

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