me, Cathy. Charles should have told you I can’t resist teasing young ladies. Forgive me?”
Kindness was the last thing she wanted from him just then. It stripped her of her defenses, and Sinclair MacDonald already made her far too vulnerable.
“How entertaining for you, Mr. Mac-Donald,” she said, avoiding the last part of his speech. He was still much too close. Holding her breath,
she edged past him, her arm inadvertently brushing against his lean, taut body. She pulled back as if burnt, and practically ran the remaining distance to
the cabin, dashing down the steps and collapsing on a cushion, her heart pounding. They would all be laughing at her up there, she told herself, wrapping
her long arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. Nothing but silence came from the deck for several moments, and slowly Cathy’s deep,
shuddering breaths slowed to normal.
“Are you all right, Cathy?” Meg’s voice was soft with concern and guilt as she followed her sister below. “I didn’t mean to
make matters worse. I thought—”
Cathy took a few deep breaths, whipping off her sunglasses in the darkness of the cabin. “You didn’t think,” she said bluntly. “You
call
that
”—
her tone was filled with deep loathing—
”
that,
fairly good-looking? I suppose
you’d describe Robert Redford as just all right.”
“Well, I guess I understated it a bit. I just thought you should realize that a handsome man can be nice too,” she replied defensively,
dropping down on a cushion beside her sister.
“Sinclair MacDonald hasn’t yet convinced me. Macho pig,” she added bitterly.
“Well, I can’t argue with macho, but I really wouldn’t call him a pig.”
“I would,” Cathy shot back, rising from the cushion and wandering toward the porthole. Sin MacDonald was directly in sight, and for the first
time Cathy allowed herself a long, leisurely look, trying to inure herself to his undeniable attractions.
He must have been at least six foot three or four, with broad shoulders, a trim waist and hips, and those long, beautiful legs encased in faded denim. He
wore ancient topsiders and no socks, and the V-neck of his polo shirt revealed a triangle of curling golden brown hair. Cathy had always detested hairy
men; Greg had been smooth and hair-less. But somehow the sight of those brown curls was having an inexplicable effect on Cathy—one she told herself
was disgust. She found herself wondering how far down his stomach the curls went. She hoped he didn’t have hairy shoulders.
And she hadn’t even taken his face into account yet. The square chin, and the wide, sensual mouth gave him a faintly piratical air. Add to that lean,
weathered cheeks with that seductive single dimple when his mouth curved in a smile, a straight, decisive nose, laugh lines radiating out around those
smoky, unfathomable, uncomfortably
kind
hazel eyes, and the combination was as potent a blend of masculinity as Cathy had ever been subjected to.
The slightly long, curling brown hair had a splash of gray in it, and as Sin pulled his sunglasses from the top of his head and placed them on the bridge
of his nose, Cathy bit her lip, turning back to her sister’s knowing gaze.
“Macho pig,” she repeated defiantly. “But a handsome one, for all that.”
“I thought you’d see it that way,” Meg said with a satisfied smirk. “Do you want to see what Sin brought for us to work with? I
brought a salad and French bread—he said he’d take care of the rest.”
Cathy busied herself rummaging through the picnic basket on the pocket-sized table, pulling out a surprising assortment of things. “Does he have a
cook?” she inquired silkily, unwilling yet to refer to Sin by name. Given the contents of the picnic basket, Sin’s disclaimer of kitchen
abilities seemed a blatant lie.
“Not that I know of,” Meg replied. “He prefers complete independence and self-sufficiency, or so Charles tells me. Why?”
“There’s