Page 49 of Storm over the Caribbean
“No comment.” Reaching out, he captured my chin in his hand. “In fact, I think we’ve talked more than enough. It’s time for action.”
Eyes blazing, he leaned down towards me—and once again bumped against a certain bulge. He stopped in his tracks.
There was a moment of silence.
An intense, prolonged moment of silence.
It was quite impressive what a superb facsimile of cursing Mr Rikkard Ambrose could manage to produce without saying a single word.
Taking a deep breath, he made a renewed attempt. He tried to come at me from the left, then from the right, then in any number of positions that would make the authors of the kama sutra break out into a fit of giggles. I, meanwhile, of course, maintained perfect decorum as a proper lady. I didn’t laugh at all.
Finally, he froze, snarling in frustration.
“Having problems?” I enquired, my voice growing progressively more innocent with every word. “I could think of a solution, you know.”
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Which is?”
I grinned. “You could let me be on top.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Out of the question.”
“What? Is the great and powerful Mr Rikkard Ambrose afraid of surrendering to a harmless little woman?”
“Setting the ‘harmless’ part aside for the moment—no. I am not afraid of anything. But currently, we do not have time for this. We should be focusing on ensuring our survival.”
“Ah.” I nodded, understandingly. “Unlike five minutes ago, when you were intent on ravishing me under the open sky.”
His eyes narrowed again, ever so slightly. “I might still do that if you continue to provoke me.”
I batted my eyelashes at him. “Please do. Just lie back and let me do all the work. I’ll be sure to be gentle with you.”
He was off me quicker than I could say “feminism”. Hm…was it just my impression, or did he not appreciate the idea of being “beneath” a woman, in any sense of the word?
One corner of my mouth quirked up.
“Well, well… Now I know what to say if I ever need to chase your lazy arse out of bed in the morning.”
Rising to his full height, he towered over me. “Mrs Ambrose…Did. You. Just. Call. Me.Lazy?”
“Of course not,” I assured him, like any demure little wife would. “Only your arse.”
He speared me with an arctic gaze—then reached out and plopped a de-husked, unopened coconut into my lap. Apparently, cuddle time was over. At least for now. “Open,” he commanded. “Drink.”
“Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!”
My fingers, not being granite implements of doom like those of a certain living statue, weren’t quite up to the task of piercing a coconut shell, even at its weakest point. Luckily, it didn’t take me long to find some shells on the beach. After smashing them with a rock, they gave me some nice, long shell-shards that were perfect for stabbing through eyes.
Coconuts’ eyes, of course. Yes, that’s really what the weak points at the top were called, apparently. Talk about a morbid naming sense.
Soon the sweet, splendidly delicious taste of coconut milk filled my mouth, moistening my dry throat. And, oh my, was it dry! Distracted as I had been by a certain someone, I’d forgotten again how thirsty I was. Only now did I notice the salty taste that had pervaded my mouth ever since we were stranded. Soon, it was washed away by sweetness.
“Aaah!”
With a sigh, I sagged against a nearby palm.
But it wasn’t enough! Grabbing another coconut, I punched through one of the eyes and lifted it to my mouth.
Mmm…yes, that hit the spot!
