Shipwrecked with Mr. Wrong - By Nikki Logan Page 0,32

‘In that order?’

She shrugged. ‘For them, maybe.’

‘And what about for you?’

She hesitated. Her spine grew rigid, her voice tight. ‘My order would be a little different.’

‘What would you value highest?’

Passion. Intelligence. Integrity. Charisma...if she was being honest. ‘We’re not talking about me.’

‘I’ve never found any...permanent interest amongst those women. They weren’t what I was looking for.’ He glanced down, his smile pasted on. ‘And...uh...my attempts to broaden my horizon haven’t been particularly successful.’

Honor could believe it. Women like herself would give a man like Rob the widest possible berth out of sheer self-preservation. Demi-gods and bookworms weren’t the most natural fit. A tiny part of her felt sorry for him. But only tiny. ‘Does that surprise you—with the lifestyle you lead?’

‘I didn’t understand it, then. But when I look at how you perceive me—and I consider you to be the best of women—I begin to see the flaws in my approach.’

The best of women.

The words hit her like a bullet. She’d been downright unfriendly towards him several times in the few days they’d known each other, yet he still rated her so highly. Shame and awkwardness and a trembling heat she couldn’t name washed over her. Even in the moonlight, she could see the appealing stain of colour in his cheeks and she knew he’d said more than he meant to. The knowledge slid between her ribs like a seductive blade.

‘Rob...’

He looked at her. ‘Your turn.’ But as she opened her mouth to refuse, her eyes drifted past his shoulder, where a small patch of sand high in the dunes began to ripple.

A hatching! She really hadn’t expected one tonight, but it was happening! Not in one of her survey sites, which meant she could just relax and enjoy it. Probably the first laying of the season. Rob twisted in his spot to follow her gaze.

The sand seemed to bubble and boil well outside the marker squares. Parts caved in while other parts erupted and the surface looked, for a moment, as though it were breathing.

‘It’s alive!’ Rob cried.

‘It is.’ She laughed and leapt to her feet as dozens of tiny black creatures erupted from the nest and scrabbled over the edge in the moonlight. Ten...twenty...fifty tiny, rubbery reptiles raced each other down the dune and across the beach.

Four frigatebirds, smart enough to stay up late on the night of a full moon, immediately swooped in and began picking off individuals. Honor knew their excited squawks would draw their brethren. Many. And soon.

Rob’s hands clenched at his sides and his body twitched visibly to get in there.

‘No, Rob. It’s nature.’ She turned her eyes back to the seething nest. It was a spectacular sight.

‘I can’t keep track of them, there’s so many.’

‘Pick one as it emerges from the nest and then follow it to shore. It helps keep it in perspective.’

The hatchlings were virtually identical, so picking one was more of a token act, but Honor fancied she saw one lighter than the rest and chose that one to focus on. It scrabbled over the edge of the sandy nest and weaved its way down the beach, darting left, darting right. It would be there by now if it had just taken a straight course to the ocean.

Immediately, she had a flashback—Nate teaching three-year-old Justin how to weave with a soccer ball. He’d scampered as directionless around their back yard, too, trying to keep the ball on track. A lump immediately grew in her throat even as she smiled at the memory. Her heart reached out to her tiny turtle as it finally hit the surf and was gone. It was on its own now.

‘No!’

Her head whipped around at Rob’s outraged cry.

‘My guy’s going the wrong way! And there’s a whole bunch going with him.’

Honor had to smile. Ironic, that the turtle he picked would turn out to be hyper-energetic and completely devoid of good sense.

‘I’m going in.’ He kicked off his shoes.

Her hand held him back. Stronger than she felt. ‘I have to observe the non-intervention policy—’

He shrugged off her grip, scrambled to his feet and shot forwards. ‘I don’t.’

‘Rob!’ Honor’s whispered reprimand had no impact. She angled the UV spotlight his way to help him pick his way along the beach between the kamikaze reptiles. They blindly sprinted—faster than a newborn should ever be able to move—down the sand towards the water’s edge. Survival instinct drove them on. He moved like a morris dancer up the beach—side-stepping a tiny scrabbling turtle one moment, stopping and letting one run