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represented a whole different galaxy of human bile. Drug and slave trades, espionage, terrorism, you name it. If it was high level and expensive, Jauhar was involved. Who the hell is this chick?
    As bad as they were, Grant didn’t flinch at hearing those names from her otherwise innocent looking lips. Hearing them together was a little off balance, as they ran in completely different circles. Being lumped in with them made his skin crawl a little, but no, it was the woman herself who was driving him completely mad.
    He’d cleaned her up and cooked her food. He’d even brushed her goddamn hair! He honestly hadn’t expected a thank you or even a smile, but damn if he was going to bend over and let her shove her foot up his ass just because she felt like it.
    He’d tried. He really had. B eing nice just wasn’t his thing. And if he’d ever met anyone who was less adept at living with the rest of the human race than him, it was her. I made her fucking crutches, for God’s sake! The floorboards of his cabin creaked and groaned beneath his feet as he stomped inside the single room. Winston screeched when he slammed the door, using the cot as a springboard to escape out the window onto the palm tree just outside.
    She was the most stubborn, suspicious, obstinate, guarded, powerfully compelling, beautifully resilient piece of work he’d ever seen. “Ahh!” Grant laced his fingers behind his head as he paced the one room retreat, trying desperately not to punch something. He of all people understood why she pushed herself so hard. She was on her own, or at least he thought she was. He got that. When you have no one to pick you up after being cut down, you have to push yourself ten times harder. He’d lived by the laws of singularity for the last thirteen years. Hell, he’d thrived on them. He admired her for the strength and fortitude it took to push herself that hard.
    What he didn’t understand was the sudden, gnawing need driving him to help her. When he wasn’t sitting on the floor beside the cot watching her sleep, he was sleeping on the floor beside her, determined to make her as comfortable as possible. He’d stayed up the night before, weaving her a makeshift belt out of some spare five-fifty cord he had stashed away. He’d managed to fold up the length of his shorts to fit her better, but they were so big she had to hold them up around her waist to walk. She needed both hands to hold onto him for balance.
    He’d added ext ra pepper to their soup because she’d said she liked spicy things. He was already planning a trip over to Rodrigo Island to pick her up some clothes that fit and a pair of reef shoes. Her boots would take a week to dry out, and they weren’t any good for beach life.
    He didn’t do needy or helpful, or even nice for that matter. The strange part was he liked doing those things. He wanted to do nice things for her. All evidence to the contrary, considering her reaction to his attempts, he was good at helping her.
    Then there was the constant ache in his groin. That alone was enough to drive any man insane. He’d turned his jack shack into a private port-o-let for her, so he’d found himself a giant banyan tree a little farther down the beach and set up shop between two tall root walls. During the two days she’d been conscious, he’d already visited it enough times to cause suspicion if he offered any more excuses to walk to that end of the beach. It didn’t help anyway. By the time he’d blown his wad and made the walk back to the cabin, all it took was one look at her bare legs and he was as hard as granite. Again.
    He wasn’t going to spend another infuriating second trying to understand what was going on inside his head or hers. He’d pack her torn clothes, her boots and a few staples into one of his cargo sacks and send her on her way. No matter how good she felt or how much his body was pulled to hers, he didn’t need the kind of trouble she was peddling.
    Resigned to cut