The rough floor was hard beneath her weary body, making her wish she wore something more than a swimsuit. The unforgiving rasp of iron around the chafed skin of her wrists and ankles was bearable if she didn’t move.

But she couldn’t dispel the acrid taste of fear on her tongue. Or the brutal images of violence that replayed in her mind.

Shivering, she looked down at Duncan. Her colleague was pale, but mercifully asleep on the narrow pallet. She’d splinted his leg as best she could, and the bleeding had stopped. There wasn’t anything more she could do for him.

Except pray.

She’d done little else for thirty hours. Since their kidnappers had dumped them here: not merely isolated in this ramshackle hut, but the only people on the whole blisteringly hot islet.

Yesterday she’d explored, scouring it for anything they could use to summon help or to escape. She couldn’t have missed anything. She’d had to crawl on her hands and knees since the heavy shackles had kept tripping her up.

If she’d been able to walk properly she’d have circled the island in five minutes. A bare atoll: sand, a couple of palm trees and this ruined hut. No help. No supplies.

Unwillingly she let her gaze stray to the single large water bottle their captors had left behind. She hadn’t tasted water since sunrise, knowing Duncan needed it more. Now the bottle was perilously close to empty. Her tongue was thick and swollen from dehydration. Had they been left to die? Her empty stomach cramped savagely at the thought.

None of this made sense. Not the abduction from their dive-boat nor their abandonment. She and Duncan weren’t typical kidnap victims. They weren’t rich or powerful. They hadn’t offended local sensibilities with their survey of a sunken first-century trading ship. Everyone in Q’aroum had been so friendly and helpful.

Belle chewed her lip, trying not to dwell on the possibility that two marine archaeologists might die of thirst before they could be rescued. The Arabian Sea was vast, and this island so tiny it wouldn’t be on a map.

Would they be back, those brutal men who’d looked as if they’d enjoy nothing better than slitting her throat?

Even with masks hiding their faces, she’d known they wouldn’t hesitate to kill. There’d been callous excitement in their hard, glittering eyes. Sadistic enjoyment of their victims’ desperate fear.

Belle shuddered and blinked her gritty eyes against scalding tears of fury and fright. She would not give in to panic. Her only hope, hers and Duncan’s, was to be strong. To concentrate on staying alive. No matter what the odds.

Deliberately she turned her thoughts to her family in Australia. She drew strength from the knowledge that, if she survived this ordeal, her mum and sister would be waiting for her.

When, she reminded herself, not if she escaped.

Belle pressed her palms to her aching eyes, ignoring the burn of unshed tears against her lids. She hadn’t slept and exhaustion sapped her strength. She couldn’t stop shaking. She slumped, fighting the despair that welled up inside her, clogging her throat and weighting her heart.

Gingerly she settled herself on the floor. She wouldn’t sleep, but she needed to recruit her strength.

Reluctantly she closed her eyes.

The noise woke her. A yowling wail that tore through the air and made the roof groan. They were in for a storm.

Belle opened her eyes and realised where she was. And that they weren’t alone any more.

Her heart thudded frantically, the sound of it swelling to a deafening roar in her ears. Her parched throat closed as she watched a man bend over Duncan. A torch propped on the floor illuminated the puckered scar that lined the man’s cheek and ran up to his short grizzled hair. A large gun was slung over his shoulder, and on the floor beside his boot she saw a long, curved blade. The Middle Eastern version of a Bowie-knife.

He reached out a hand towards Duncan’s throat, and Belle knew with terrified certainty that she had to act fast. Her colleague was in no state to save himself.

And yet she had to force herself to move. Dread was a physical weight pushing down on her. She knew she had no hope against the stranger.

Her stiff muscles screamed in protest as she shifted, centimetre by centimetre, till her fingers closed on the knife handle. It was heavy, smooth and well worn. Her arm wobbled as she lifted its deadly weight in her damp hands.

The intruder grabbed Duncan’s neck, and in that instant Belle struggled to her knees, unsteady but determined. Her clumsy movement took their gaoler by surprise, and she thrust the wicked blade against his neck. He froze.

‘Move and you’re dead,’ she snarled, her voice a raw, broken whisper.

For a moment there was stillness.

Then out of the darkness a large hand clamped onto hers. Fingers strong as a vice closed on her, shutting off the circulation till her hands throbbed.

But she wouldn’t let go. The knife was all she had to protect them.

‘Quiet, little tigress.’ The voice came out of the gloom, deep and mellifluous. ‘We’re friends: here to help.’

Turning her head towards the voice, she saw the gleam of eyes close to hers. Now she felt the heat of his body too. She shivered at the sensation of power that emanated from him.

The pressure of his fingers strengthened just a fraction and she cried out. The knife clattered to the floor as stars exploded across her vision.

Immediately he released his grip, and blood pounded agonisingly into her fingers. She bit down on her lip, cradling her hands against her chest as she blinked back scalding tears of pain and fear and frustration.

There was a scraping noise, and the man who’d threatened Duncan scuttled out of reach, taking the knife.

The man at her side grabbed the torch, and she winced as light dazzled her. The beam swung down to illuminate her hands. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from across the room. And from beside her came the soft sound of swearing, furious and unmistakable, in unintelligible Arabic.

The light moved on, flicking over her briefly but comprehensively. Then, mercifully, he put the torch on the floor, tilted once more towards Duncan, who still slept.

‘It’s all right, Ms Winters.’ The man with the deep voice spoke again. Now she detected the hint of a lilting accent in his precise tones. ‘We’re here to rescue you.’

Rescue! Her head spun and she slumped back on her heels. Could it be true? She struggled to take it in.

A hand, large and warm, settled on her arm.

‘You’ll be all right while we look after your friend?’

She nodded. ‘I’m OK,’ she croaked.

He said something to his companion, who returned to squat beside the pallet, reaching out to Duncan. Now she realised he was searching for a pulse. A flood of relief washed over her as she realised it was true. These strangers were here to rescue them.

‘Drink this.’ The man who appeared to be the leader of the pair held a canteen to her dry lips, tilting it so she could swallow a welcome trickle. Greedily she raised her hands to the canteen, tipping it further. Sweet water filled her mouth, ran down her burning throat.

‘Steady,’ he warned. ‘Too much and you’ll be sick.’

She knew he was right. But she was desperate for more. It was only his unbreakable hold on the water bottle that prevented her from guzzling.

‘That’s enough.’ His low voice burred near her ear.

If she’d had the strength she might have complained about his high-handedness. But her attack on his companion had used her last reserves of strength. She swayed drunkenly to one side.

Immediately the stranger put his big hands on her shoulders to steady her. Calluses scraped her bare sunburnt flesh and she flinched. He cursed again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m a bit unsteady.’

‘It’s a wonder you’re even conscious.’ His voice was harsh but his hands were gentle. ‘Here.’ He pulled her towards him, taking her weight easily.

She had a brief impression of heat and strength. A tantalising awareness of some unfamiliar scent: sun and salt and man. Then he lowered her onto a cotton blanket. ‘Lie still while we see how Mr MacDonald is.’

‘You know our names?’ she whispered.

‘It’s not often we have kidnappings in Q’aroum. Much less the abduction of two foreign nationals. Of course we know who you are.’ His voice was grim. ‘There’s been a co-ordinated air and sea search for the pair of you ever since your boatman reported the abduction.’

He brushed her tangled hair back from her face and she shut her eyes, feeling absurdly close to tears at the tender gesture.

‘Rest now,’ he murmured, and she sensed him move away.

She ached in every joint, and her throat was as painfully dry as the hot wind that swooped south towards them off the Arabian Peninsula. Her head pounded and she knew she’d reached the limit of her endurance.

But there was soft fabric against her cheek and under her body. And the caress of that big callused hand had invested her with hope again. Hope and reassurance. She recalled his voice, low and velvety. Her body had tingled into feminine awareness at the sound of it, despite the extremity of her situation.

If this was a hallucination she didn’t want it to end. She could drift off happily now, resigned to her fate.

She may even have dozed. The low murmur from the two men as they investigated Duncan’s injuries was as soothing as the sound of waves lapping on a beach.

She frowned, registering through the muddled haze of her thoughts that the wind was still picking up. Palm fronds slapped against the roof and there was a dull roar in the distance, like a freight train heading towards them.

Opening her eyes, she looked blearily at the strangers. A second powerful torch added light to the scene. She recognised the pattern of desert-coloured camouflage gear and heavy boots. Army? Or perhaps mercenaries? Right now she didn’t care, as long as they were here to rescue them. Then the guy with the grey hair moved to one side, and she sucked in an astonished breath as she saw the second man in the light for the first time.

She’d been rescued by a pirate!

Belle shut her eyes, realising it was some trick of the light and her tired brain. But when she opened them to stare again there was no mistake.

His black hair was combed back ruthlessly, revealing a fighter’s grim face: one of stark, slashing lines. Despite its severity his was one of the most breathtaking faces she’d ever seen. Every inch was hard and uncompromising, from his long, commanding nose to his solid jaw and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth. Every inch except for that mouth, which in repose spoke of sensual knowledge.

The angle of the torch highlighted the fanning lines at the corners of his eyes: the telltale sign of a man who spent his hours outdoors in this hot climate.

But, despite his army issue gear, the man deftly bandaging Duncan’s leg to a professional-looking splint was definitely in no one’s army. A heavy-looking hoop of gold caught the light at one earlobe as he moved. And behind his head she glimpsed hair pulled back in a ponytail. Absolutely not army regulation.

Abruptly he raised his face to meet her gaze, and she sucked in a stunned breath. For a long moment they watched each other. Long enough for her to imagine a pulse of something hot and knowing in his eyes.

He looked like a buccaneer who’d just spied a trophy ship.

She swallowed at the frisson of something very like fear, staring back into his ruthless face.

Abruptly he gave an order to his companion, who moved immediately to her side, holding out the canteen. It was only as she reached gratefully for it that the leader of the pair looked away, and she felt the tension that had spun tight round her dissipate.

She propped herself up on an elbow and drank, careful this time to take it slowly. The man with the scarred face nodded approvingly and murmured something encouraging. He too looked as if he belonged on a tall-masted ship where the rules of civilised society didn’t apply.

Hell! She must be weaker than she’d thought. Maybe heat and stress and lack of water were making her delusional.

One of her rescuers looked like a typecast villain, and the other as if he’d stepped out of some swashbuckling fantasy. It had to be a trick of the poor light.

Reluctantly she handed back the water bottle, then let her head sink to the cushioning blanket. Soon, perhaps in a few hours, she’d be back in the Kingdom of Q’aroum, receiving the best of modern medical attention.

The two men packed their medical supplies. And still Duncan slept. ‘Is he all right?’ There was a telltale quiver of fear in her voice that brought the buccaneer’s gaze up to meet hers.

‘It’s a bad fracture,’ he replied. ‘And he’s lost a lot of blood. But he should recover quickly once we get him to hospital.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘He doesn’t seem to be dehydrated. You’ve done a good job looking after him.’

And not such a good job looking after yourself, his stare seemed to say. But what else could she have done? Drunk all the water and left Duncan in need?

‘He’s still asleep,’ she said. ‘Or unconscious?’ Surely the pain of bandaging his leg should have woken him?

‘I’ve given your colleague a strong painkiller that’s knocked him out for the moment. It’s best if he doesn’t wake while we move him.’

Belle nodded, knowing he was right. But she’d be relieved to see Duncan conscious again. He’d drifted in and out of delirium for too long now.

She watched, heavy-eyed, as the men conferred in Arabic. The older one, with the scar, pointed to Duncan and herself. And all the while the wind gusted and swirled, making the shack’s walls creak and the roof shudder. Then the conversation was over. The younger man spoke once, decisively, and it seemed they were in agreement.

They turned to the hut’s rough wooden door, working together: the older one heavy-set and methodical, the younger man lithe but broad-shouldered and strong. It only took a few minutes to get the door off. Then they laid it beside the pallet, ignoring the whirling gusts that hurled sand through the gaping doorway.

Of course. It was a makeshift stretcher for Duncan.

Time she got ready. Carefully Belle inched herself up, wincing as she scraped her chafed ankles. By the time she had manoeuvred herself to her knees, ready to rise, she was breathless, and pain thrummed in her hands and feet.

‘What are you doing?’ That deep voice was dangerously low, sending a thread of renewed tension spidering up her backbone. She looked up as he loomed over her, a tall pirate. In the shadows she could see his sensuous mouth was a taut line. His brow furrowed.

‘I’m getting ready to leave.’ Obviously.

‘Not yet.’

‘But I—’

‘It will take two of us to get Mr MacDonald to the boat. I can’t look after you and carry him.’

‘I don’t need looking after!’ She’d survived this long virtually alone. She could make it to the boat by herself. All she wanted was to get off this godforsaken island. After what she’d been through, scrambling to the shore would be a doddle. She wouldn’t feel completely safe till she’d left this prison behind.

He hunkered down in front of her, blocking off the torchlight so she couldn’t read his features. But she felt his warm breath on her face. Inhaled the spicy scent of his skin.

Somewhere low in her abdomen a quiver of excitement flared.

‘You’re hurt, Ms Winters.’ His tone was patient. Almost. ‘You’ve done everything you could in the circumstances. Now it’s time to let us take care of you.’

It made sense. Even to someone as desperate to escape as she was. Reluctantly she nodded.

‘Good.’ He reached for the blanket and draped it over her shoulders, pulling it round her as protection against the grit laden wind. She winced at the abrasion of cloth against tender skin.

‘I’ll leave a torch,’ he said, placing it so its light shone towards the door. ‘And I’ll be back soon.’

Then they disappeared into the howling darkness, carrying Duncan. Leaving her to wonder who they were.

Or, more precisely, who he was. The man with a voice like a caress. If it weren’t for that hint of an accent she’d have thought him English. Well-educated English. But he was probably local. His deep olive complexion was the norm in the Arab world.

Not that Q’aroum was a typical Arab country. As a fiercely independent island nation in the Arabian Sea, it had been home for centuries to adventurers and buccaneers from the Middle East, Africa and beyond.

The proud tilt of his head, the way he walked, as if he owed allegiance to no man, made her think of long ago princes. Or pirates.

She really had to find a new fantasy, she decided wearily as she pulled the blanket closer, huddling into its comfort. If only it could block out the lashing sand and the sound of the rising storm. Experience told her this was no minor gale. This was seriously nasty weather. And she wanted to be back on the main island when it hit.

It took a moment for her to realise he was back, his approach hidden by the storm. She raised her eyes from his boots all the way up to his face as he stood in the doorway.

His expression was unreadable, but his watchfulness and the way he obviously masked his thoughts made her shiver.

There was something wrong. She could feel it.

‘What is it?’ she whispered as fear clawed its way back up her throat, drying her mouth once more.

The torchlight cast heavy shadows on his face, emphasising the compelling personality she sensed in him. This time it didn’t reassure.

He moved into the room, pacing slowly towards her in a way that made her shrink back a little under her covering. He stopped, folded his legs beneath him and, in a single supple motion, sat cross-legged in front of her.

‘There’s a complication to our plans,’ he said.

Belle swallowed hard as apprehension shivered through her. She didn’t want to hear this. She looked into his gleaming eyes and tried to draw on his strength. She wasn’t alone any more. Whatever it was, she would cope.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Dawud and I came over on an inflatable,’ he explained. ‘It’s a small boat.’

She nodded impatiently. She knew inflatables.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean this one is small. Too small for all four of us now that Mr MacDonald is strapped across the length of it.’

‘I see.’ The disappointment was so strong she felt like weeping. Ridiculous, since all she had to do was wait for Dawud to come back to collect them.

Patience, Belle. Just a little longer.

‘Well, we’ll just have to wait for Dawud to return.’

He paused for a second before shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

She really had a bad feeling about this now. Foreboding sliced through her. She hunched lower under the protection of her blanket.

‘There’s a storm coming this way. A cyclone.’ His voice was steady, unemotional.

Her heart plunged and her hands clamped, white-knuckled with effort as she willed herself not to shake.

‘Dawud’s left. He should just have time to reach port before it becomes too dangerous. But it would be suicide for him or anyone else to return tonight.’ The buccaneer scrutinised her, as if watching for signs of weakness. ‘We’ll be stranded here until the storm passes. Maybe for another twenty-four hours.’

Twenty-four hours. It sounded like a lifetime.

And, if the cyclone hit head-on, time enough to die.

She felt sick with disappointment after the certainty she’d been rescued. Nausea welled and she swallowed hard, oblivious now to the raw abrasiveness of her throat.

At least Duncan had got away safely.

Belle stared at the man before her. His gaze was impenetrable and his utter stillness gave nothing away. Neither urgency nor the fear that would be natural in the circumstances. The fear that froze her own limbs right now.

But something about the set of his shoulders, the casual grace of his hands resting at his folded knees, told her he was ready for anything, even a hysterical woman.

She gnawed at her lip, willing the trembling to subside. She’d seen tropical cyclones as a kid on the Great Barrier Reef coast. She knew how devastating they were. Involuntarily she looked up at the barely-there roof. It shifted and groaned in the gale. ‘How can we prepare?’

He inclined his head and the waiting stillness left his body. As if she’d passed some test. He’d expected her to panic, had braced himself to handle a distraught woman.

He gestured to her blanket. ‘If you’ll permit?’ When she nodded he folded it back to reveal her bare feet. She shuddered as the torchlight illuminated her, and she felt a ridiculous urge to tuck her feet back out of sight.

They were filthy with sand and dried blood. Each ankle ringed with red welts where the shackles had bitten into her skin as she moved.

In the gloom his face was impassive. Yet she read tension in his clamped jaw as he surveyed her injuries. And the air between them was electric, charged with some fierce emotion that radiated from him in waves.

Anger? Or frustration that he had this to deal with as well as the approaching storm?

She shrank further under her cotton wrap as she felt his eyes on her face. She wished she could read his expression. Instinct warned her to be wary of this man. It was crazy. She had to trust him. He was risking his life for her, a stranger. What danger could she be in from him?

Despite the fine, dusty sand swirling around them Belle could identify what had to be his own natural scent: clean male skin with a slight salt tang. She shivered.

‘Shouldn’t you release my hands first?’ Then she could help strengthen the shelter. And she’d be less dependent on him. She’d feel better if she could help herself.

‘Later. It’s important that your legs are free.’

Why? They had nowhere to go. And with the sea churning in the strong winds the surface of their atoll could only get smaller. It was only a couple of metres above sea level—that was nothing if the cyclone hit them full-force.

The truth was sudden and horrifying.

He must have sensed the immediate tension in her. He looked up, his eyes darkly gleaming. ‘Are you all right?’

Oh, she was just dandy. Wearily she inclined her head. Now she understood his reasoning. ‘It’ll be easier to swim with the shackles off,’ she said. ‘If we get swamped.’

He shifted, and the torchlight glanced off his strongly honed features. It revealed a calm certainty and a strength that, beyond all reason, reassured.

‘I will look after you,’ he said slowly. ‘I promise you.’ It sounded like a pledge. In that moment she had no doubt he’d give his all to save her.

But would that be enough to preserve either of them?

‘Have faith, Ms Winters,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘I will see you through this. The eye of the storm is predicted to track further west. It will be unpleasant here, but we will survive it—together. Now, sit still while I do my best with the lock.’

He spread a small packet of tools beside him. Then one large, warm hand cupped her heel and she sucked in a stunned breath as her reeling senses reacted to his touch. It was impersonal, she assured herself, merely steadying her foot to give him better access to the heavy shackles.

But she couldn’t ignore the tiny, trembling waves of awareness that spread up her leg. Reaction to her ordeal. That was what it was. No man, no matter how starkly sexy, had the power to generate electricity with his bare hands.

She shut her eyes to block out the image of his dark head bent low over her, the light gilding the aristocratic ridge of his cheekbone and glinting on the barbaric-looking ring at his ear.

The gale roared around their refuge and the air swirled, heavy with grit, presaging the devastation fast approaching. Yet tucked in this corner, her world limited to the scope of a torch beam, she felt cocooned in a fragile, dream-like world. Protected by this remarkable man.

Remarkable? She didn’t know anything about him except for his extraordinary good looks. And his palpable aura of authority. The sense that he would cope: not just survive, but triumph, no matter what the odds.

A jarring movement broke her reverie and she opened her eyes. He’d attempted to pick the lock. Blood covered his wrist from a long gash—his hold must have slipped.

‘Are you all right?’

He raised his head and she could have sworn she saw a flash of humour lurking in his eyes. But he didn’t laugh at the absurdity of her, trussed before him like a sacrificial victim, worrying about his injury. ‘I’ll live.’

The chain at her feet jolted, then blessedly gave way. Relief washed through her. Without the shackles wearing her down she had a slim chance of staying afloat.

Now he did smile. A dazzling grin that lit the uncompromising angles of his face into a less austere, but still riveting male beauty. Dazed, Belle’s eyes widened. She’d thought him sexy before. Now he was simply stunning.

No real-life pirate had ever looked that good!

‘Your patience has been rewarded,’ he said, dropping the metal to the floor. ‘And just in time.’ The rain had arrived, a thunderous downpour that swept in through the door and gushed through the holes in the roof. Belle shivered as her covering grew wet. The wind was notching up too. Soon they wouldn’t be able to hear each other.

‘My hands…’ He shook his head and held up the discarded lock. The tool he’d used had broken, jammed in the rusty metal.

Hope died in her breast, flattened by the solid weight of despair. Would she ever escape this nightmare? It grew worse and worse by the hour.

‘No time,’ he said as he hefted the torch, directing its beam upwards. It played over the roof that heaved like a living thing. And then the bulging walls.

She heard a whisper of a curse from the man before her. Then he was on his feet, shouldering his backpack.

He loomed before her, big and solid. She caught a glimpse of his determined face before he bent and the light went out. Then his hands were on her, pulling her up. ‘Lift your arms,’ he said in her ear.

She felt the brush of his hair against her arms. He pulled her wrists so that she strained up against him, her arms encircling his head. Then he lifted her in a single easy movement, tucking her close. A wall of solid muscle supported her, warmed her. Strong arms bound her and she sank gratefully into him, finding comfort in his strength and the steady, calming rhythm of his heart.

Despite the roar of the storm, the living pulse of the waves smashing on the shore, she could almost believe nothing bad would happen while she was with him.

‘It’s not safe here,’ he shouted over the screeching wind. ‘Hold on tight.’ He turned and strode out through the door.

And then the storm swallowed them.

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