Trading Secrets by Jayne Castle Read Free Book Online

surroundings down here. More and more Matt was aware of having to
     keep the seediness at bay.
    He frowned as he watched Sabrina swim close to the edge of the
     reef and wondered if she knew how sharp sections of the underwater
     barrier were. A careless movement could leave a neat slash down
     the length of an arm or leg. Just like a knife wound.
    Sabrina would probably also not be too interested in hearing that
     warning, either. Matt's mouth turned downward sardonically. The
     image of the knife sizzling past him and burying itself in the
     corridor outside her room was one that would haunt him for a long
     time. He'd argued with women before, but he'd never come quite
     that close to losing so badly. All in all it was probably the most
     interesting thing that had happened to him in months.
    No, not quite, he corrected himself. The most interesting event
     had taken place just before the knife-throwing scene when he'd
     been about to make love to Sabrina Chase. Perhaps he should
     rephrase that; when he had been about to have sex with Sabrina
     Chase.
    That still wasn't right, but somehow, even in his laconically
     honest mood this morning, Matt was having a tough time admitting
     that he had almost tried to rape a woman the previous evening. The
     part of him that had once respected the phrase an officer and a
     gentleman preferred not to have to cope with the reality of last
     night.
    The realization that he'd been a prize ass had hit him during the
     last few moments of the struggle. He'd known then that he'd thrown
     away the chance at something good; something unique.
    Another brilliant Matt August snafu. Situation normal, all fucked
     up.
    The question that had been hammering at him relentlessly since
     he'd left the hotel flashed into his head once more. What would it
     have been like if he hadn't screwed up last night?
    Christ, what an idiot he'd been. If only she'd calmed down a bit
     there at the end. If she hadn't gotten hold of the knife, and if
     her temper hadn't exploded so suddenly, he could have put
     everything right. He was certain of it. The next time he held
     Sabrina Chase in his arms he wouldn't let her go until he'd wiped
     away the memory of last night.
    Idly he gnawed on his lower lip, watching her dart back to the
     surface for more air. The next time was going to take some
     arranging. Sabrina probably had plans never to speak to him again,
     much less get close enough for him to get his hands on her.
    He watched her slip through the water and remembered with painful
     clarity how she had slipped into his hands and out of them again
     because of his own stupidity. Jesus, she'd felt good under him
     last night. Like a sensuous little cat, all soft and neatly made,
     from her delicate breasts to the luscious curve of her bottom. And
     those smoky green eyes. He'd remember the changing expressions in
     those incredible eyes for a long time.
    He'd certainly made life more difficult for himself, Matt thought
     with an inner groan. Sabrina wasn't going to have any problem
     finding another male on whom to practice her approach. Something
     told him he hadn't deflected her from her ultimate goal. When she
     got over her shock and anger she would probably be hell bent to
     try her tactics again, if only to prove to herself that she could
     do it right. Matt understood that need to prove something to
     yourself.
    Grimly he rose from squatting position and started down the cliff
     trail. The knife was safely tucked inside his boot again this
     morning and the lightweight stone-colored slacks he wore fell
     neatly over the top of the leather sheath. He'd picked up his
     laundry earlier from the little shop that catered to the few
     tourists like himself who cared about neatly pressed clothing in a
     humid climate. The fresh khaki shirt he had on was still crisp.
     Another hour or two in the eighty-four-degree temperatures of the
     early summer sun and there would be little left of the strict
     creases,