Читать книгу Irresistible Greeks Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 25

‘WHAT do you think? Worth the long-haul flight?’

The familiar note of amusement was in Athan’s voice as he posed his question. He knew what the answer would be. Had known it from the moment they’d landed, stepped out into the balmy, tropical heat seven thousand miles south west from bleak, icy London. Knew it now, as they stood side by side on the little wooden veranda of their beachside cabana.

Marisa turned to gaze at him. ‘How can you ask?’ she breathed. Then she turned back again. Back to look at the scene in front of her.

It was exactly like the photo in the brochure—but real. And she was here—here in the middle of it all! Like a dream—a wonderful, exotic dream.

And the Caribbean beach—silver sanded, backed with palms swaying in the gentle calypso breeze that rustled the scarlet hibiscus and the fragrant frangipani blooms—was not the only dream come true.

So was the man at her side.

She could feel her breath catch as it had caught over and over again during their journey here, cocooned in first class seats. Her eyes had been wide with the excitement not just of travelling abroad for the first time, or because it was first class, with all the pandering and luxury that came with it, but most of all because of the man sitting beside her.

She had made the right decision in accepting his invitation to come here. She knew it—felt it. For how could it be otherwise? How could she possibly have resisted what he’d offered her? The question was rhetorical; her answer was a given. It was impossible to resist Athan Teodarkis! Impossible to resist his invitation—both to this wonderful holiday with him and, she thought, with a shiver of quivering awareness, to what else he was inviting.

There had been, it was true, a momentary pang when she’d thought of Ian—but it had been swiftly quenched. Ian was far away—and if her alternative was to stay languishing in London, without him, what was to hold her there when she might be here … on this palm-fringed tropical beach?

With Athan.

Day after day, every time she met with him, her response to him intensified. She became more and more vividly aware of the effect he could have on her. It might be foolish, it might be rash—but it was so powerful this rush that came whenever she thought of him, whenever she was with him.

I can’t resist him—can’t resist what he’s offering me. I can’t …

And for this brief idyllic time, here in this tropical paradise he’d brought her to, she would resist nothing of what he offered her.

She gave a little sigh of pleasure at the view ahead of her—the time with Athan ahead of her. Happiness filled her, and a wonderful sense of carefreeness. Whatever else was complicated or difficult or troubling in her life this time was not going to be part of. This time was for her—and for the man she was with so willingly.

‘I’m glad not to disappoint,’ he said.

For a long, bewitching moment his eyes caressed her. Then, as if reluctantly, his expression changed.

‘What would you like to do first?’ he asked.

She had no hesitation as she answered, ‘I can’t resist that sea! It’s calling out to me!’

He gave a laugh. ‘And to me. OK—let’s hit the beach, then.’

He ushered her indoors and she stepped through into the shady interior of the cabana. It was designed as if it were a simple, palm-roofed hut, but it was a simplicity that belied a level of luxury that went with the whole ambience of the resort.

On the flight over Athan had regaled her about the island and what awaited them there.

‘St Cecile has been fortunate to escape mass tourism,’ he’d told her. ‘It’s a little too off the beaten track, so until recently it’s been something of a backwater. But to my mind that’s all to the good. In the last ten years or so there has been some very careful development for tourism, but at the most upmarket end, so the handful of resorts are well separated from each other, and beautifully sited and landscaped. It’s a little gem of an island, to my mind.’

Even without anything to compare it with, having seen it, Marisa could only wholeheartedly agree. It was like stepping into one of those luxury travel magazines, she thought. A place most people could never visit.

And I am! she thought, with another little rush of excitement.

With a companion anyone would swoon over …

She slipped into the bedroom. As they had followed the bellhop from the main resort building along sandy, shell-lined paths amongst the palm trees and entered their cabana she had felt a little flutter of nerves on seeing the one bedroom. Somehow it had made very real just what this holiday would entail.

So was it nerves she had felt, or a flutter of excitement?

Anticipation?

She felt it again now, as she searched through her suitcase for her bikini. She had bought it in a mad hectic rush spent raiding the West End stores the day before flying out, and now, as she looked at it lying on the counterpane, she felt another flurry of nerves. In the changing room she had felt brave about it—its brevity had seemed entirely right for such an exotic destination. But now, realising that she was about to don it and emerge in it, displaying herself to a man who up till now had only seen her in high-coverage winter clothes, it was unnerving to say the least.

Nevertheless, she had bought it to be worn and to be seen in it. Even so, before she emerged on to the veranda she draped a matching voile sarong around her, which gave her a layer of veiling she was thankful for when, some moments later, Athan emerged as well.

His eyes went to her immediately, visibly drinking her in. For all the fine voile veiling her, she still felt acutely revealed. But if Athan were drinking her in, she had to acknowledge she was doing exactly the same to him. He was wearing a pair of hip-hugging dark blue boardies, and his torso was completely exposed. Marisa felt her eyes widen automatically.

Bare-chested, Athan was everything she’d imagined him to be—and more. Lean packed, with not an ounce of spare flesh on him, yet not overtly muscular. His smooth, tanned skin moulded over taut muscle, planed down over perfect pecs and delineated abs to arrow towards the low-slung waistband of his board shorts.

She dragged her gaze away.

‘Race you to the sea!’ she exclaimed, with slightly forced gaiety.

She turned to descend the wide shallow steps that led down to a path to the sea, a dozen metres or so beyond, set between palm trees framing the vista. But a hand stayed her, catching her shoulder.

‘Wait—have you got sunblock on?’

She twisted her head back. ‘Yes—loads.’

He nodded. ‘Good. It’s essential in this latitude. My skin can take more exposure than yours, being naturally darker, but even so I have to use it copiously. You—’ his eyes washed over her ‘—with your English rose complexion, must be totally protected. It would be sacrilege,’ he told her, his voice changing suddenly so that it seemed to caress her as much as his eyes, ‘to burn such pale, tender skin.’

As he spoke his touch at her shoulder softened, echoing the caress of his eyes and voice. She felt her pulse skip a beat, butterflies flutter in her stomach.

‘OK, let’s race!’ He dropped his hand and surged forward, vaulting down the steps to the sandy pathway.

‘Cheat!’ she called out indignantly, and unfastening her wrap started after him.

Inevitably he reached the sea first and plunged in, diving headfirst into the aqua water as soon as he was barely waist-deep. Moments later she followed suit, feeling the water close like liquid silk over her. She surfaced, hair streaming down her bare back, water droplets glistening like diamonds all over her body.

Athan could only stare. It was impossible not to. Thee mou, but she was glorious. Like a sea nymph, a nereid foam-born as the translucent water washed around her—and as divinely beautiful as such a creature of ancient myth.

He had known right from the first that she was beautiful, and had seen with his own eyes that her figure was perfect, but to see it all now, so gloriously displayed in only the skimpiest of coverings, veiled only by the water itself, was breath stopping.

But even as he stood and gazed he could feel conflict writhing within him. How beautiful she was—how he desired her … ?. He wanted only to catch her in a rush of diamond water and feel her body close to his. Yet, like a flicker across his synapses, seeking to block the vivid visual image before him, came a whisper of warning.

Take care. She is beautiful, yes, and you desire her—how could you not? But do not forget—do not allow yourself to forget—just why you are here. For what purpose …

Impatiently, he pushed the warning aside. There would be time for that later, when they returned to England, but for now he could set aside all that and focus only on the glorious fact that he was here with Marisa.

A sense of well-being descended on him as if from the hot, bright sun overhead. This was good—more than good. He was here, in this beautiful place, and the rest of the world with all its cares and worries, was an ocean away. This beautiful, breath-catching woman was for him—for him alone! Anticipation creamed through him.

‘This is heavenly!’ Marisa’s voice was full. She lay back, giving herself to the water, letting the buoyancy of the sea support her as she bobbed gently in the gentle swell.

The sun poured down its blessing on her, and she had to close her eyes fully against its strength. Her arms drifted out as she rested on the bosom of the sea. How long she floated she wasn’t sure, because time was drifting now, just as her body was. Until she felt two hands lightly on her shoulders, slowly starting to turn her like a starfish.

‘I don’t like to wake you, but I think, for the first time in this climate, you should probably come out now,’ Athan told her. ‘Your body feels cool, but the sun’s rays still do their work, and more, even reflected off the sea.’

Reluctantly she let her feet sink down to the soft sand and stood up. Sunlight was glancing off Athan’s tanned body, turning him to bronze, a sculpted work of art. She could not tear her eyes away, and he gave her his slanting smile.

‘It’s the same for me,’ he said, his voice low, his meaning clear.

She felt her cheeks flush and dipped under the water again, making a show of smoothing out her hair as she re-emerged. She waded towards the shore and as she gained the beach could feel the sun baking down on her back.

‘Time for a shower,’ Athan said, and immediately Marisa wished he hadn’t. It conjured images that she had to banish straight away.

‘Me first,’ she said laughingly, and ran up the steps of the cabana, gaining the tiled bathroom before him.

The water sluicing down on her was not tepid and brackish, but beautifully refreshing, and she quickly gave her hair a light shampoo with the courtesy bottle provided. Feeling naked, she wrapped herself in one of the generous soft fleecy towels and emerged, wringing out her hair, and then her skimpy bikini, and wandered out on to their veranda to drape the wet bikini over the rail. It would dry fast, she knew, even in the shade.

The sun was lowering in the sky. Facing westwards, towards the sheltered Caribbean shore, the beach would be a fabulous place to watch it set, she realised. A little to the left of their cabana was a structure like a fixed palanquin, with a huge bleached canvas mattress and a matching awning. Generous cushions tumbled on the surface, and the edges turned into a kind of tabletop—to put drinks on, she reckoned.

Combing out her hair, she gazed out at the peaceful scene. She could tell there were other cabanas along the shoreline, but such was the distribution of vegetation and palms that each seemed to have its own portion of beach. It was designed, she realised, to be totally private.

Intimate.

Another of those electric flutterings skittered across her nerve endings. How would the evening end? she wondered.

But she knew—of course she knew! There could be only one way to end such an evening. Only one outcome beneath the tropical stars.

She would be in Athan’s arms … She felt her heart give a little skip, her lungs a little squeeze.

How wonderful life was! To grant her this—so idyllic a place—and such a man as Athan to experience it with.

To experience far more than this beautiful island …

With a delicious shiver of anticipation she headed indoors to get dressed. It was too early yet to change for dinner, so instead she put on one of the lovely loose fine cotton sundresses she’d bought, with narrow straps and almost ankle length. Not bothering to put on a bra—it was too hot for that!—she slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops, shook out her hair the better to dry it, and wandered into the little lounge-diner that the front of the cabana opened into.

She could hear the shower running, indicating that Athan had taken her place there, and she wandered across to the fridge set into the mahogany sideboard. She took out a carton of mango and orange juice, diluting it with chilled water before heading outdoors again. The shaded palanquin looked so inviting that she drifted in its direction, settling herself back with a comfortable sigh against the piled-up cushions.

‘So this is where you are.’ A deep voice sounded lazily behind her.

Marisa half crooked her neck and saw Athan approaching. He had changed into a pair of long cotton shorts and a pale blue short sleeved shirt, open at the neck. He looked cool, casual, and completely devastating.

He, too, had a glass in his hand.

‘It’s a little too early for a sundowner, but the moment that sun hits the deck I’m going to crack open the bottle of champagne that’s in the fridge,’ he told her with a grin. ‘Till then, it’s fruit juice only.’

‘Me too,’ she answered with a smile.

He climbed lightly up onto the mattress, but lounged back at the far end. Marisa was grateful. It was so overwhelming, this whole experience of being here with Athan, knowing what was to come, wanting to savour ever step of the journey.

I don’t want to rush things, she thought. I want them to be perfect.

Unforgettable!

So for now it was perfect just to sit there, comfortably in her own space, with Athan unpressurised company, relaxed and carefree.

‘I can’t really believe I’m here,’ she mused. ‘It is just so unbearably gorgeous. Like being in a dream.’

‘Oh, it’s real all right.’ Athan’s voice was dryly amused.

But there was something else in it—some note she couldn’t identify. She glanced at him.

He was looking at her, but just as in his voice there was something in his eyes she could not see—as if he were holding something back from her. Then, a moment later, it was gone as he leant forward to clink glasses with her.

‘To a holiday we’ll never forget,’ he said. His eyes were warm, caressing.

‘I’ll never forget this!’ she breathed.

For the briefest second that strange, half-hidden look was back in his eyes.

‘No, you won’t,’ he agreed.

Then it was gone, and he was taking a long draft from his glass, turning his head to look out over the sea, where the sun was lowering its golden orb towards the waiting embrace of the ocean.

Just like I am waiting for Athan’s embrace … thought Marisa dreamily.

They sat half in silence, half in companionable chit-chat, listening to the warm wind soughing in the tops of the palms, the gentle susurration of the wavelets breaking on the silver shore. It was so incredibly quiet and peaceful they might have been the only people on the beach or even the island, Marisa thought.

‘Is that actually a coconut?’ she asked, her gaze drifting to the top of one of the nearby palms.

Athan gave a laugh. ‘Do you think it’s a fake one, then?’ he challenged, amused.

‘Maybe the hotel ties fake ones to the tops of the palm trees to impress the visitors,’ she responded, entering into the spirit of the banter.

‘We’ll ask one of the garden staff to get it down for us, if you like,’ Athan said. ‘You should see them climb palm trees. It’s quite ingenious—they use a short length of rope which they hook around the trunk, then use it to lever themselves up to the top—it’s quite a skill!’

‘You sound like you’ve seen it before,’ she said.

‘Well, not here,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve never been to this resort before.’

That, of course, was why he’d chosen it. He wasn’t known here, and he was unlikely to bump into anyone who knew him. Or his sister. Besides, this resort was specifically aimed at couples who wanted to get totally away from it all—including any other couples.

That was what made it so ideal a place for him to bring Marisa Milburne.

Remote, luxurious, discreet. Perfect for his intentions.

A shadow of a flicker fleeted across his face. She was so trusting of him—lounging there, sipping her juice, gazing out over the vista ahead, her pose relaxed and graceful.

Should I really do this?

The question he didn’t want to hear came from nowhere—sliding like a needle under his consciousness.

His conscience?

You’ve brought her here to make her want you instead of him.

And she did want him! Wanted him as much as he wanted her—all his senses told him so. And for that reason he crushed down his disquiet.

England, his sister, his philandering brother-in-law—all seemed very, very far away.

And Marisa … ah, she was blissfully close.

He raised his glass to her again. ‘To us,’ he said softly.

And her eyes glowed like jewels in the golden light of the setting sun.

Marisa narrowed her eyes in concentration, listening intently. One of the serving staff was talking to another islander, and she was trying to make out what they were saying.

She abandoned the attempt, turning her attention back to Athan, sitting opposite her at the table.

‘Do you know, I can’t make out a single word?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t even sound like English.’

‘It isn’t,’ he told her, amused. ‘The island Creole is French-based, dating from the time when St Cecile was ruled by France, but it also includes fragments of African languages, as well as the original Carib languages. Don’t worry if you can’t understand it—outsiders seldom do. All the island Creoles across the Caribbean have virtually evolved into their own languages. They have their own literature as well, and these days there’s a real effort to preserve them for future generations of islanders.’

Marisa shook her head. ‘It doesn’t sound like French, either,’ she admitted.

She glanced across at Athan. He was looking, as the habitual little catch in her throat informed her, lethally attractive. Since lolling on the palanquin—where they had, as he had promised, toasted each other in champagne as the sun set—he’d changed into tan chinos and another short-sleeved open-necked shirt, and he looked disgustingly, casually gorgeous. His sable hair was slightly feathered, and his relaxed pose seemed to emphasise the lean, muscled power of his body.

What she wanted to do, she knew, was simply sit there and gaze at him. But what she had to do, she also knew, was keep chatting to him to stop herself being reduced to such a gormless level. It was hard, though—and not just because of her own sharpened awareness of him. It was also because he had the devastating habit of relaxing back in his chair and letting his gaze wash over her, making no bones about showing that he liked what he was seeing.

That he liked it very much …

Again that flutter in her stomach came, and she knew that the effort she’d made to look her absolute best tonight was paying off. After the champagne on the beach she’d disappeared into the bathroom, taking excruciating care over her make-up—not too much for the climate and setting, but enough to enhance her eyes to the maximum—glossing her lips with dew, and styling her hair so that it looked artlessly tumbled. Her choice of clothes was equally careful. A long dress in a swirling mix of vermilions and gold, with spaghetti straps and a high waist that made her seem taller and more slender. She’d wrapped a piece of filmy gauze picked out in the same vermilion and gold thread around her shoulders. The temperature had dropped, but by very little—the night was sweet and balmy, as caressing as a silken touch to her skin.

Now, as she lifted her wine glass to her lips, the golden sheen from her narrow gilt bangles catching the candlelight, she knew that she had got the look just right. Other couples were dining in the main restaurant as well, though each table was afforded privacy by potted palms and brilliant bougainvillaea, and the whole dining area formed almost a semicircle around the resort pool which glowed, unearthly, with underwater lights.

All my life, she thought hazily, I’ll remember this. This wonderful, magical place, this wonderful, magical evening.

This wonderful, magical man who had made it all come true for her …

But she couldn’t just go on staring helplessly at him.

‘So, when did the island become English, then?’ she asked, infusing interest into her voice.

‘I believe it swapped hands several times—depending on the fortunes of war and various treaties between France and England during the eighteenth century. But it ended up being definitely English after the Napoleonic Wars. One of the perks of victory,’ Athan said dryly. ‘The French owners of the plantations kept their property, however, so they didn’t mind too much. As for the slaves—well, I guess they benefited in the end by being emancipated in 1834, which was earlier than in the remaining French colonies.’

A troubled expression lit Marisa’s eyes. ‘It casts a long shadow, doesn’t it, slavery? Over such a beautiful place?’

Athan reached for his wine glass, taking a reflective mouthful. ‘It’s long been one of the ironies of Greek civilisation,’ he observed, ‘that whilst the modern world pays tribute to ancient Greek democracy their economy relied entirely on slave labour.’

She frowned. ‘It seems dreadful that slavery was able to flourish again after Europeans discovered the Americas. It was so obviously an evil thing.’

‘Oh, it’s easy enough to persuade yourself that your behaviour is justified when it benefits you materially,’ Athan replied.

His eyes rested on her, and he saw a momentarily discomfited expression in her face. Was she thinking about how she herself was perfectly happy to let Ian Randall house and keep her?

Yet even as he speculated he felt his own thoughts prick at him.

And you—what about you? You say you are doing all this to help save your sister’s marriage—yet you are benefiting from it yourself, aren’t you? Having this beautiful, desirable woman for yourself!

But he didn’t want to think about being back in England. Didn’t want to think about what he would have to say to Marisa then, and why. Didn’t want to think about his sister, let alone his pernicious brother-in-law. Didn’t want to do anything at all, except savour this moment to the full—enjoy the time he had here, the days and nights he would have with Marisa.

All to himself, without the outside world to trouble him with its disquieting, uncomfortable imperatives.

And that was just what he would do! Enjoy this time, relish it and experience it to the full.

He set down his glass, resumed his meal. It was exquisitely cooked—a concoction of grilled fish, caught that day, flavoured with sweet spices. Marisa was eating breaded prawns, each on a separate skewer, with a rich coconut dipping sauce.

She’d picked up another skewer a moment or two after he’d made his pointed observation, and now busied herself swirling it into the sauce.

‘Are they good?’ he enquired. The amused, lazy note was back in his voice. The mordant expression in his face gone completely. He would keep it that way. Why spoil what this evening would bring? What each golden day here would bring? Each velvet night …

‘Fabulous!’ she said. ‘Though I think each one’s about a million calories.’

‘You can atone by only having fruit for dessert,’ he said smilingly.

She glanced at him again as she took a delicate mouthful of the sauce-swathed prawn. That sudden austerity in his face had gone, and she was relieved. She wondered what had caused it. But it was gone now, and that was good enough for her peace of mind. She didn’t want anything to spoil this idyll …

Atoning for her rich main course by eating fruit for dessert certainly didn’t spoil things—the slices of luscious tropical fruit, served on crushed ice, were as delicious as the most calorific pudding. Athan dipped in and out of the heaped mound sporadically, lounging back in his chair, swirling a glass of brandy in his fingers. For herself, she wanted no more alcohol. The earlier champagne, together with wine over dinner, had made the world a sweet, hazy place.

A sense of absolute well-being filled her. Absolute happiness … That was the thought coiling in and out of her synapses. Because how could she be happier than to be here, in this warm, balmy paradise, with a man like Athan Teodarkis? Who was looking at her now with such an expression in his incredibly gorgeous eyes …

She gave a little inward shiver of excitement—anticipation, feelings that only mounted as, coffee consumed, Athan got to his feet.

‘Shall we?’ he said, and held his hand out to her.

She took it, and he drew her up, not relinquishing her hand. They strolled around the pool, and it seemed, Marisa thought, so absolutely right to be doing so hand in hand. He made casual conversation and she answered in kind, keeping the note easy and relaxed, even though inside her she could feel her blood pulsing.

Beyond the pool the landscaped gardens gave way to more sandy ground, with low green vegetation, and the tiled paved area dispersed into multiple little pathways, each one marked by shelled edges and lit at strategic intervals by lights set either low at the base of palm trees or hung high on ornamental stands. As they neared their cabana she could hear the gentle shooshing of the sea, the endless chitter of the cicadas in the bushes, and the insistent chirruping of the tree frogs.

They strolled down on to the beach that fronted their cabana. A moon was hanging low over the sea, and there was a sheen of moonlight on the water. A mild breeze teased, but the night was warm. She could feel the humidity in it like an embracing net around her.

She gazed upwards. Stars as brilliant as golden lamps blazed in the heavens. She felt dizzy just gazing upwards—dizzy on champagne, on the sweet tropical air, on the blood pulsing in her veins. She seemed to sway …

Hands came around her waist, steadying her. Her gaze dropped down to mingle with his. Even in the moonlight she could see his expression. What he was telling her. She felt his hands at her waist, light and warm, fingers splayed. The pulse in her blood strengthened.

He murmured her name, and then came what she had been waiting for, yearning for all evening. From the moment she’d first seen him and felt her heart flutter at the sight of him, at the impact he made on her. Slowly, exquisitely, agonisingly slowly, his mouth descended.

His kiss was light, like a feather, teasing at her lips, playing with them, playing with her desire for him, with his for her. Only when it seemed to her she could bear it no longer did she feel the sudden impress of his splayed fingertips and the simultaneous deepening of his kiss—as if he, too, had been unable to resist longer.

Sensation made her swoon, and she could feel her heart turning over and over as his mouth took hers richly, deeply, with a warm, insistent passion that dominated every sense in her body. There was only this moment, only this kiss, in all the world …

It lasted an eternity—it lasted only the briefest moment of time. He drew back from her, his gaze pouring into hers. She felt liquid, boneless.

‘I want you so much …’ His voice was a low husk.

She could only sway in his clasp, lifting her mouth to his again, aching and yearning for his touch.

‘I am yours,’ she whispered.

Triumph glistened in his eyes and he gave a low rasp in his throat as he kissed her again, hungrily, voraciously, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her off the beach, up on to the veranda and into their cabana.

The air was warm inside, for they had not put the air-conditioning on, and in the bedroom, as he lowered her to the turned-down bed, the heat was a cocoon around them.

Her body seemed aflame—all her senses aflame. Swiftly, skilfully, he slid her dress from her body, baring her to his view in the dim light. She slipped her arms up above her head, so that her breasts lifted. His eyes were hungry for them, his lips hungrier. She could hear him murmur something in Greek, but her whole being was focussed only on the sensations he was arousing.

Dear God, but it was blissful—blissful! Like softest velvet, finest silk, laving and teasing and arousing her, until her body was flickering with unseen fire, her head twisting, her stomach taut. Then his mouth closed over the crested coral peaks, suckling and caressing with his lips, his tongue. A sound came from her throat—primitive, powerful. His mouth slipped from her breasts, easing down over the smooth, taut line of her abdomen. His hands shaped her slender waist, splaying upwards so that the tips of his fingers could continue to tease her straining nipples, squeezing and nipping them so that eddy after eddy of sensation shimmered through her, each setting up a wave that was growing in power as he drew from her the response he sought.

Restless hunger started to fill her. She wanted more—so much more! She wanted him. Her hands reached for him, clutching over his shoulders, tugging his shirt from him in movements that became increasingly hurried and impatient. He paused in his ministrations, shrugging the garment from him, and while he was at it shedding the rest of his clothes as well. With a gasp, she realised that he was completely naked now—completely hers!

With a little moan she drew him down on her, feeling the warm, hard length of his body—feeling, too, with a thrill, the full power of his masculinity. Her reaction was instinctive. Her hips lifted to his as he responded, one iron hard thigh slipping between hers. His mouth was on hers now, and her hands were running along the sculpted lines of his back, eagerly tracing its moulded contours. His skin was like cool satin, and she gloried in the sensations she was clearly able to arouse in him as she trailed her fingertips delicately along his spine.

Urgency filled him. Desire was peaking in him and he wanted … needed … to fulfil it. She was afire for him, and he for her. The sweet softness of her body, yielding to his, was all he craved. He sought her, shifting his weight until he found what he desired. He arched over her, his hands shaping her shoulders as her hips arched questingly to his. For one long, endless moment he gazed down into her face, transfixed by what he was arousing in her.

Theos, but she was so, so beautiful! Her hair streaming across the pillows. Her face alight with an unearthly beauty. Her slender body aroused and yearning for his. It was a yearning that he matched, met … surpassed in every aching part of him.

Now, now he needed fulfilment—needed to be fused with her, melded to her core, to become one with her.

He heard her murmur his name, sounding urgent, so urgent in her need for him. Felt her hands press at his back to close him to her, to fuse herself against him.

With a surge he was there, filling her deeply, fully, feeling her close around him, hearing her cry out, hearing his own voice soothing her even as every synapse in his brain started an insistent, driving firing that swept across his consciousness.

His body started to move in an age-old, primeval rhythm, possessing him even as he now possessed her. She was threshing against him and it drove him wild, crazy for her, for what she was doing to him, for the way her incredible body was lifting to his, fusing to his, with a hunger, an insistence that he was answering. He was taking her with him on his urgent, storming journey to more and ever more peaks of sensation that heated every portion of his flesh to a white heat.

Her eyes were fluttering, their pupils so distended they seemed to flood her eyes even as sensation flooded her body—sensation such as she had never felt before. A storm of quickening that was sweeping her higher, always higher, higher—

Time stopped—it had no meaning. There was only this moment, this endless, incredible now of sensation, rippling through her body, melting her, fusing her. Her hands clung to him, her throat arched back, her hips pressed against his to take him within her, catching at him again and yet again. And with each stroke he was taking her further and higher and deeper. And the pleasure, the bliss, was so intense, so incredible, so absolute that when the storm broke within her she seemed to be consumed by it, as the storm drove through her, buckling and convulsing her.

She cried out. She could hear it. And it was a cry that went on and on, just as the storm within her went on and on, and it was another world, another existence, another her … one she had never known, never dreamt existed.

Then another voice joined hers—deep-throated, hoarse, as urgent as hers, as insistent. She felt his body fill her, felt the culmination of that endless driving rhythm, felt him soaring with her into that other world that was consuming her, so that her whole body had become a living, burning flame.

For long moments she was bathed in the fire, as if its flickering heat enveloped them both, making them one, making them unified, melded together. Then, when their sated, exhausted bodies could take no more, she felt the burning begin to ebb, the throbbing of her core lessen, die slowly to stillness. Ease. Leaving in its wake not ashes, but a sweetness—a sense of wellbeing so absolute that it bathed her in a profound wonder.

She could only let her fingers drift across his back, feeling the exhaustion of every limb as they lay wound about each other and the last lingering flickers of the consuming flames died gently away.

How long she lay there, entwined with him, she did not know. Knew only that she had found a place to be that she never wanted to leave. Here in Athan’s arms, in his enveloping embrace, was world enough for her. Drifting in and out of sleep, she lay holding him close against her breast.

Close against her heart …

Marisa swam lazily towards the pool’s swim-up bar. As she neared it the pool shallowed, and she waded the rest of the way before perching herself on one of the little half submerged stone stools. The barman sauntered along to her from his side, and asked in the lilting island accent what she would like. Opting for a virgin strawberry margarita, Marisa sat sipping through the crushed scarlet-coloured ice and gazed peacefully out over the turquoise water of the pool and the azure sea beyond.

Even after nearly two weeks here she still could not get enough of the vista before her. She gave a little sigh of happiness. Just as she could not get enough of Athan.

Not that she had to do without him. She was with him just about twenty-four-seven. There was only a brief daily interval when, as he was doing now, he checked into the resort business centre and communicated, as briefly as he could get away with, his direct reports, and received any unavoidable updates. But he was seldom gone for more than half an hour. Other than that they were together all the time.

A ripple of wonder went through her. She had known from the moment she’d yielded to his invitation to come here with him that this time with him would be unforgettable, but never had she realised just how much so.

And it wasn’t just the sex—although even saying ‘just the sex’ was a universe away from describing the incredible, transforming experience it was every time. No, it wasn’t ‘just sex’ at all. How could it be when it seemed to her that her very being caught fire, was consumed like a phoenix, to be reborn in that moment of ecstasy, enveloped in his arms? Surely it wasn’t ‘just sex’ to be so consumed by passion for him—to want him and crave him not only in the fires of consummation but in the peaceful, languorous aftermath that wrapped them in its sweet, honeyed balm, when they simply lay together, softly caressing each other, all passion spent, their eyes entwining with each other, drowsy with satiation. To sleep in his arms, cradled by him, holding him close to her, only to wake later, in the long reaches of the tropical night, when he would start to make love to her again, as if he could not get enough of her.

Yet even as her eyes softened with the memory of his ardent, transforming lovemaking a haunted look fleeted therein. This idyll here on St Cecile was nearly over. Soon, in a day or two, they would be headed for home—back to London. Back to their normal lives.

What would happen then?

Disquiet plucked at her, disturbing her contentment. What would happen when they were back in England, away from here?

Could the idyll continue?

That was the question that coiled and uncoiled inside her head. She had shut it out, not let herself think about it, but over the last few days, as their second week had started to ebb away, day by precious day, she had felt it plucking at her consciousness, wanting to be answered.

But she didn’t want to answer it. Didn’t want to think what the answer might be—what she feared it would be.

This was an idyll—a blissful, unforgettable intermezzo—in a tropical paradise where reality seemed as distant as the British winter. But what would happen when the intermezzo was over?

Oh, Athan was as passionate, as ardent as any woman could want—could dream of—but that was here. What would happen back in London?

Doubts fed her disquiet. Yes, Athan was hers here, but even here, these last days, she had felt him withdraw from her sometimes—only briefly, but distinctly. It was not a physical withdrawal but much more disquieting than that. It was a kind of mental withdrawal, as though their casual intimacy was draining away. Sometimes there was a look in his eye, she was sure of it, when he seemed to be looking at her with a stranger’s gaze. Then, a moment later, it would be gone and he would be his normal self again—and she would wonder if she had merely imagined it.

She could reason so well, she knew. He was a man of affairs who had a business empire to run—how could he possibly be confined only to focussing on her? She had to accept that his mind would go from time to time to matters of greater import.

Greater import than herself.

An ache started within her. A flickering of fear. A fear she didn’t want to face.

Fear of a time she did not want to face.

But it would come, for all that. The hours were ticking inexorably towards that time. The sun’s passage in the sky was arcing towards that time. It would come, fear it as she might—dread it as she did.

He says words of passion to me—but only passion. He smiles at me, and holds my hand, and walks at my side, and takes me in his arms—but what does he feel for me? Is it only passion? Only desire?

She could not answer—dared not answer. And dared not answer an even more fearful question.

What do I feel for him? Only passion? Only desire?

Yes! It had to be. It had to be only that and nothing more. She must allow it to be nothing else. Because when this idyll here was over, when the island was only a faint invisible sliver of land half a world away, and their reality was once more the busy wintry streets of London, then she would discover a truth she dared not know yet—a truth she feared.

What if he is done with me?

She took a heavy breath, staring sightlessly out over the blindingly bright water.

I have to prepare for that. I have to prepare for when he turns to me and tells me what I fear to hear.

That he was done with her.

No! She would not think ahead to that moment. She would not spoil these last precious days with Athan by dwelling on what might come. She would not cast the shadow of such fear over what she had now.

Resolute, she finished her fruit juice and got out of the pool. Athan would have finished at the business centre soon and be heading back to the cabana. Marisa wanted to be there waiting for him. As hungry for him as he always was for her. Mid-morning passion was so very, very enjoyable …

Putting her dark thoughts firmly aside, she set off, her steps eager.

Athan smoothed the silken hair, holding Marisa’s slender body against his. They were both drowsy in the aftermath of lovemaking. The low swirl of the overhead fan was the only noise. Soon they would rouse themselves and shower, and then dress for lunch. Not that lunch was in the slightest bit formal. Everyone wore beach clothes, possibly with the lightest cover-up and nothing more.

Lunch was a leisurely, relaxed affair, mostly salads and fruits, served from a huge buffet in the open air dining room shaded by wide awnings from the heat of the noonday sun. The constant gentle breeze gave a welcome cooling, and the lap of the pool water added to the lazy, easy atmosphere.

But then the whole resort exuded a lazy, easy atmosphere. Relaxation was inevitable.

Except that right now Athan was not feeling relaxed in the slightest. It was not because of their recent passionate consummation—it had another cause. An unwelcome one.

There were only two more days left of the holiday, and then they would be flying back to London.

He could feel his muscles tense momentarily. And in London he would have to confront Marisa—tell her just why he had taken her on holiday here, and what that reason meant for her. And for his brother-in-law. It would mean the impossibility of any relationship between her and Ian.

But even as he reminded himself of the reason he’d brought her here he could feel his mind rebelling. Maybe there was no need to spell it out to her. After all, surely if she’d just spent two weeks with another man she couldn’t possibly think of going back to Ian? Surely she would take it for granted that her time with Ian was over, and that was that.

So maybe I don’t have to confront her.

One thing was for sure: he didn’t want to. Right from the start he’d known it wasn’t going to be easy—that it was going to be unpleasant and uncomfortable. But now, after all that they had here, together, it was going to be a whole lot more than just ‘unpleasant’ … ?.

I can’t do it.

Revulsion filled him. How could he? How could he go from holding her in his arms to denouncing her as a marriage breaker? How could he make love to her and then accuse her?

He’d known, of course—he’d known all along—that that was what he was going to have to do, but it was one thing to plan cold-bloodedly to seduce the woman who was threatening his sister’s marriage and quite another, he thought hollowly, to spend two weeks with her and then have to face the ugly denouement that he’d envisaged delivering.

I must have been mad to think of such a scheme!

Mad to think that he could carry it out.

Madness to think that I could hold her in my arms like this and still be planning such a denunciation of her.

His eyes stared up at the rotating fan. Its movement echoed his thoughts, going round and endlessly round in his head. He knew what he had set out to do—what was coming closer and closer with every passing hour—knew that the very thought of it was building to a mountain of impossibility inside him.

An impossibility because of Marisa herself.

Even as he said her name silently in his head he could feel his response to it. Felt his arm tighten around her waist as she slept against him. Felt the rightness of her being there, in his arms …

I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I knew I wanted her, desired her—but I never dreamt that the possession would be so … incredible!

Everything had seemed to come together. The passion flaring between them, their hunger for each other, the perfection of their union—and not just that, he thought wonderingly, if ‘just’ could ever be a word applied to what they’d experienced in their intimate exploration of each other. No, ‘more’ was what he’d never foreseen.

The little things—the time we spend together when we are not making love. The ease of being with her. The laughter. The silences that are a tranquillity, not a strain. The companionship.

Whatever they were doing—whether it was eating under the stars or lazily lounging on the beach, or by the pool, or taking a boat out on the water, watching the sun set in a blaze of glory, or watching the moon rise through the palm trees—it was all just so … so easy …

And as for the sex—

His eyes flared and he felt his body tauten despite its satiation.

How could he want her so much? How could he feel what he did—such incredible intensity every time, reaching such an incredible peak? Feel afterwards as he did now, every time, as if there was nothing more in life that he could want except to lie here with Marisa in his arms?

And he was going to have to end it. Ruin it. Destroy it.

Denounce her as the woman threatening his sister’s happiness. That would end it, he knew with biting certainty. Once he had told her what his intentions for her had been all along there would be nothing left of what they had here—now.

His eyes stared at the chopping fan blades, slicing through time, slicing up his thoughts, his emotions.

I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to tell her, confront her, denounce her, accuse her.

But if he didn’t …

He hardened his heart against himself. How could he bottle out of it? How could he put himself in front of his own sister? Put his own desires, his own longings first?

I have to do it. I don’t want to but I have to. If I don’t I’m just a selfish, self-indulgent coward, who cares more about myself and what I want than about my sister.

That was the brutal truth of it. The truth he couldn’t deny. Couldn’t hide from. He had to do it—finish what he’d started.

In his arms Marisa stirred, waking from the drowsy sleep that came after physical fulfilment. He felt her body move against him, felt himself respond. Her eyes fluttered open, met his, entwined with his. She smiled slowly, sensuously at him.

Lifted her mouth to his …

He answered her invitation, and in the velvet pleasure of her mouth he banished the disquieting thoughts that beset him.

London was far away—an ocean away.

Here, now, was all his universe.

All he wanted …