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lip. She realized again how vulnerable she was, alone with this man somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
    What should she do? Barricade herself in the bathroom until they reached Hibiscus Island—or do her best to try and find out the truth? She could be quite wrong, might be unfairly judging someone’s fortune by his appearance and his attitude. But she had to find out.
     
    T he delicate scent of roses that wafted ahead of her told Matt that Cristy was back in the cockpit even before he heard the rustle of her skirts.
    Immediately he sensed a change in her. She was nervous, like a high-spirited thoroughbred filly, her eyes darting everywhere but unable to meet his.
    Damn! He’d frightened her. He cursed himself for reaching out to trace the pout of her lips. He’d fought the impulse but had found it impossible to resist. Now she was backing away from him.
    She would think he’d been harsh. Insensitive. All those things Julia had accused him of before she started boinking his brother.
    This was a runaway bride. A heart-broken bride, wounded by the man she loved. She was hurt, vulnerable. The last thing she’d welcome were advances from another man.
    Advances he must be insane to have made. He’d come up to these islands to take time out from a life that had become untenable. The last thing he wanted was the complication of a woman.
    So she was beautiful.
    So she was intriguing.
    So what?
    She was another man’s bride he had let undermine his defenses. He could not allow this to happen.
    He’d allow himself no more distractions, no more wasted moments of indulgence while he puzzled over why he found Cristy Walters so fascinating. And so very desirable.
    It was just as well it was only two hours sailing time to Hibiscus Island. There he could off load his unexpected passenger, wave her goodbye and watch her walk away from him, taking that lingering, tantalizing rose of her scent off his boat forever.
    Right now he did not want to partake in any sort of conversation of a personal nature. It came as a relief when she started to ask him questions about Wayfarer . Questions about the equipment. Questions about the fittings. Questions that were ridiculously easy to answer as with every word she displayed her total lack of knowledge of any kind of watercraft.
    He was amused at first—her ignorance was kind of cute. But then he began to suspect that he was being tested. And when he realized what she was up to, his amusement evaporated.
    “Hold with the twenty questions. You think I’ve stolen this boat, don’t you?”
    She paled until her face was only shades warmer than her bridal veil. But, though he could see her eyes widen with apprehension, she met his glare without flinching.
    She stumbled over her words. “Not exactly. I didn’t say that. But you don’t seem like... like the kind of person who would own a boat like this.”
    Did he look like the type of guy who went around stealing luxury yachts?
    Mentally, he surveyed his worn jeans, scruffy T-shirt that dated back to his construction site days, hair that inched toward his shoulders. Yeah, dressed like this maybe he could be misconstrued as a boat thief.
    By someone so hung up on appearances she couldn’t see past the clothes a person wore.
    For all her unconventional upbringing, for all her open, expressive face Cristy was, after all, the superficial, empty kind of woman he’d initially judged her to be. He knew he should have let that white charger stay at home in its stable and munch on a carrot.
    His disappointment made him speak more harshly than he should have. “Look, you’re here against my better judgment. I don’t particularly want you on my boat.” He continued to speak over her gasp. “So hold off with what you’re saying.”
    Miss Too-Good-To-Be-True Bride had obviously moved a long way from the commune to feel quite at home in a circle where money and appearances ruled all.
    Let this runaway bride think he was some kind of a boat