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hippie commune.
    On the surface she seemed to be every thing he distrusted and disliked in a woman. But could someone with such an open face be as mercenary and calculating as Julia and her ilk?
    Maybe, just maybe, he had misjudged Cristy Walters. She appeared to be a high-maintenance Miss Perfect who single-handedly supported a small army of hairdressers, beauty therapists and manicurists.
    But now Miss Perfect was beginning to look less deserving of the nickname. The bride’s frantic race to the jetty, the humidity and the wind were wreaking havoc on her beauty parlor polish.
    Her hair was escaping from its bridal coronet in wavy tendrils around her face, her mascara was smudging like soot under her eyes and her luscious mouth was being gradually rubbed freed of lipstick.
    To Matt, staring in unabashed appreciation, the natural, moist pink of her lips was more alluring than any cosmetic could ever be.
    He found himself wondering once more if her mouth tasted as delicious as it looked, and how far her hair would tumble down her slender, pale shoulders if he freed it from its gauzy veil.
     
    C risty didn’t know why, but she began to feel uncomfortable under Matt Slade’s intense gaze. It was as if he were summing her up and she wasn’t too sure what verdict he’d reached.
    She put her hand tentatively up to her face. Maybe she had a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Is there something wrong?” she asked, unable to keep a slight tremor from her voice.
    Matt smiled. That warm, devastating smile that transformed his face from piratical to princely and had such a disconcerting effect on her senses.
    He reached down and lightly traced the outline of her mouth with a callused thumb. The roughness of it was unbearably pleasurable against the sensual softness of her lips and a tremor of delight reverberated right through her body.
    “No. Nothing’s wrong. You’re lovely, that’s all.” His deep, husky voice made the compliment sound supercharged.
    Mesmerized, Cristy gazed back up at him.
    She noticed the laugh lines creased around his green eyes, the surprise of two or three silver strands hiding in his dark hair, the firm sensual strength of his mouth.
    Her own lips still tingled from the touch of his fingers. She was so close she could feel the heat from his body, smell his spicy maleness. His eyes were shadowed and she could see a pulse throbbing under the tan skin of his temple.
    Surely, surely he wasn’t going to kiss her? And surely she wasn’t swaying toward him in anticipation of a kiss, her heart pounding, her lips swelling and parting in welcome?
    But no.
    Abruptly, Matt Slade stepped back from her, and returned his attention to the wheel, giving it a particularly savage twist to starboard that caused Cristy to stumble at the sudden change of direction. She staggered, caught her balance, and sat down heavily on the soft cushions of the cockpit seat.
    She was left to stare at him in bewilderment, feeling bereft and confused, her mouth aching for what until a moment ago she hadn’t known she wanted—the exciting pressure of his mouth on hers.
    She fisted her hands in the folds of her skirts, bewildered and more than a bit angry at herself for her reaction. Whatever this feeling was that made her tremble at his touch, she knew with utmost certainty that it could not be trusted.
    Feelings like this if nourished and allowed to blossom could only wither in pain and disillusionment. She knew that from hard-earned experience. Thank heaven she only had a few more hours left to bear of Matt Slade’s company.
    He was silent, concentrating on navigating his boat with its magnificent billowing white sails and Cristy was glad of it. Glad and grateful that he had something to concentrate on other than herself.
    Perspiration beaded on her forehead under the tight headdress that held her veil in place. In spite of the brisk breeze, she felt warm and sticky in the confines of the cockpit. The close-fitting gown with its boned