She inched into the lapping surf, searching for movement. Reflection off the water made the task harder than expected. Wasn’t the Caribbean supposed to be teeming with fish? Now that’s something she’d had a lot of instruction in. Almost every marooned-on-an-island movie had a scene where the heroine learned to catch fish. Six Days. Father Goose. Blue Lagoon. All you needed was your hands and patience. She could do this.

Wading out further, she stopped just before the water hit her now dry shorts. “Not gonna have a damp crotch all night.” The words reminded her of exactly what she had hoped for. “At least not from wet shorts!” She headed back to shore to remove them and draped them next to her shirt. The bandeau was a different story. Still damp, even after several hours, and uncomfortable. Might dry better if not next to her skin anyway. “Screw it! Live dangerously.”

Standing as good as naked on the deserted beach, she smiled as the warm breeze caressed her bare body. The sense of being slightly naughty added to her delight in the sensual feel of the air as it dried her breasts. Her nipples peaked as the wind cooled them. She strutted down to the water’s edge to sink her toes in the sand, the salty tang in the air adding to the perfect moment.

“If you’re skinny dipping, you forgot to remove one very important piece of clothing.”

She whirled around. Roger stood on the beach behind her, a green bottle of Perrier in one hand. His gaze played up and down her naked torso and his salacious grin widened. “Mind if I join you?”