Читать книгу Bad Influence - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 6

‘MARRY you? Don’t be ridiculous!’ Georgia Geldard’s blue eyes had more than once been likened to polar ice, and they had never been more frosty than at this moment. ‘And if you think I’m going to consent to spending one single night on this yacht, you can just think again,’ she added on a note of withering scorn.

Unfortunately her sharp words served only to provoke her captor into a display of pure Latin machismo. ‘But, querida, you have no choice.’ He swaggered with overstated arrogance. ‘I can see that you have no weapons concealed about your person…’

Georgia felt a faint blush of pink rise to her cheeks. She was acutely conscious that the brief blue silk bikini concealed very little; if only she had at least paused to slip on a shirt or something before accepting César’s seemingly innocent invitation. The trouble was, she had known César Nunez de Perez since he was a lanky adolescent whose only interest was American baseball, and she still thought of him as a mere boy, so when he had zoomed up beside her yacht on his latest toy—a jet-ski—she had quite readily agreed to lay aside the very dull report on world coffee production she had been studying and go for a ride with him. And when he had suggested that they step aboard his yacht for a cool drink she had thought nothing of it. She would never have trusted a grown man in such circumstances.

But though he was now an extremely spoiled and self-important young man of twenty-two, she had no intention of letting him intimidate her. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, César, stop playing silly games,’ she rapped impatiently. ‘Tell your captain to take us back to Mangrove Bay at once.’

César’s handsome young face took on a sulky pout. ‘But, Georgia, you know how I feel about you,’ he pleaded. ‘I adore you—I worship at your feet.’

‘I have no desire at all to be worshipped,’ she retorted. ‘Besides, don’t you think you’re a little too old for that sort of adolescent infatuation?’

‘Infatuation?’ Oh, dear—she had affronted his fragile dignity again. ‘You call it that? I offer to marry you—no less! You cannot think me a fortune-hunter—my father is an extremely wealthy man, as you well know. As my wife, you would enjoy the highest status and privilege…’

‘I’m quite happy with the status I have, thank you. And being chief executive of one of the most successful companies in Europe is privilege enough for anyone.’

‘But is no life for a woman!’ he protested heatedly. ‘It is not good that you should be all the time concerning yourself with business affairs—it is not natural. I do not know what your grandfather could have been thinking of, to leave such a responsibility to you.’

‘He was thinking very wisely, as he always did,’ she countered, with brusque disregard for his sensibilities. ‘I was trained to run the Geldard Corporation from my cradle. I enjoy it, and I’m damned good at it. And I intend to go on doing it for the next fifty years, if I live that long! And, what’s more, I have no intention of marrying anyone—least of all you. That you could stoop to kidnapping me…!’

The handsome boy lifted his magnificently developed shoulders in a dismissive shrug, though two betraying spots of colour darkened his cheeks. ‘A little trick…’

‘A little trick? Is that what you call it?’ Those blue eyes flashed with cold fire. ‘You lure me aboard your yacht by the most underhand means; you lock me in…’

‘It was…how you say? An impulse,’ he argued fervently. ‘I had not planned. But I saw you there on your boat, so beautiful, like a golden goddess shimmering in the sunlight. It brought to my head a fever…’

‘Well, you should have taken an aspirin,’ she retorted dampeningly. ‘Now, will you please take me back to Mangrove Bay?’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot do that, mi querida,’ he insisted, his voice throbbingly low. ‘I would treat you with all honour, I swear it. If you would but be sensible, I would make you at once my bride. But if you will persist in this obstinacy, you leave me no choice. Once I have you in my bed, I will make love to you until you have no more will to resist me…’

Georgia decided on a strategic retreat behind a large onyx coffee-table—the yacht was furnished with somewhat flamboyant taste. ‘Listen, César,’ she coaxed, trying to throw the cold water of reason over his theatricals, ‘you really don’t want to marry me. Apart from anything else, I’m nearly six years older than you…’

‘Your age is immaterial to me!’ he protested ardently. ‘Besides, you do not look so old.’

‘Thank you,’ she responded with dry amusement ‘But I don’t imagine your father would be very pleased. I’m sure he would prefer for you to marry some nice, sweet girl of your own age, who would adore you and give you lots and lots of beautiful babies.’

‘My father does not dictate to me,’ he protested sulkily. ‘Besides, how could I even think of marrying my stupid cousin, when it is you I adore?’

Georgia smiled in gentle understanding. ‘So he has got someone lined up for you,’ she mused. ‘You wouldn’t be very wise to defy him, you know. What would you do if he cut you off without a penny?’

‘I would not care!’

‘No?’ She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow in cool enquiry. ‘Even though it would then mean that I would be the one to hold the purse-strings? I don’t think you’d like that very much, César.’

He coloured in anger. ‘It would not be so!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘In my household I would be the master. I would teach you to obey me!’

Her eyes flashed him a look of sardonic humour. ‘Oh, really? At the same time as worshipping at my feet?’

Recognising that he was in danger of coming off worst in the argument, the young man retreated into a display of affronted dignity. ‘I will give you a little longer to consider my offer,’ he declared loftily. ‘I am sure you will come to recognise the wisdom of accepting my proposal—as night-time approaches.’ And, sweeping magnificently out of the state-room, he closed the door behind him—and locked it.

Left alone, Georgia sighed with wry impatience. What a ridiculous situation to find herself in, with that silly boy imagining himself to be in love with her—it would be laughable if it wasn’t such a damned nuisance. Oh, she was quite certain that even in his present temper César would stop short of actually assaulting her, but she really didn’t have time to hang around waiting for him to come to his senses.

However well-trained and discreet her staff, her disappearance—in broad daylight, from the deck of her own yacht in the safety of one of Bermuda’s most exclusive hide-away resorts—was not something that could be hushed up for long. There would be all sorts of speculation, which could have a very destabilising effect on Geldard’s shares—it was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.

Over on the starboard beam, she could see that they would soon be rounding Spanish Point, leaving the island-dotted haven of the Great Sound behind; the powerful yacht would be able to pick up speed as they headed out for open water—across the vast, empty miles of the legendary Bermuda Triangle towards South America. If she was going to escape, it was going to have to be right now.

Most of the windows were sealed units, except for two of the rear ones which served as emergency exits. It was typical of César, she reflected with a trace of wry amusement, that in making his dramatic gesture of locking her in he had forgotten such a critical detail. Slanting a swift glance at the locked door, she knocked up the catch of one of the windows and slipped nimbly out onto the narrow gunwale that ran along the side of the boat

The blue water churning beneath her seemed to be racing by awfully fast, and for a brief moment she felt a little giddy. But she quickly regained her balance and edged her way to the stern, crouching low to avoid being seen from the bridge. If she remembered rightly, there was an inflatable tender at the stern of the yacht, similar to her own—if she could launch that without being seen, she ought to be able to paddle ashore. It would be a risk, of course—she wasn’t sure of the currents—but they couldn’t be much more than a thousand yards from land.

To her relief, the tender was where she had expected it to be. Keeping her fingers crossed that no one would be watching aft, she dragged the small dinghy to the rail and swung it over. No one raised the alarm as it bobbed away in the wake, not much bigger than a truck tyre. Stepping carefully over the rail, she launched herself after it in a long dive that took her well clear of the danger of the yacht’s twin propellors.

She was a strong swimmer—a mile in the morning before breakfast in the pool at her Berkshire home was her regular exercise. Striking out in a powerful breast-stroke, she reached the dinghy in a few minutes. It was no easy task to scramble up into the frail craft but she managed it, and then, using the late afternoon sun to give her an estimate of due south, she began to paddle for the shore.

It was hard to guess how deep the water was here—it was so clear that she could see the myriad schools of tiny fish darting across the sandy bottom. But there was coral, too—she would have to be careful to avoid jagging the bottom of the dinghy on its razor-sharp edges. Kneeling up in the bottom of the dinghy, she could only catch an occasional glimpse of the shore as she crested a wave. It seemed to be getting no nearer, but at least there was no sign of pursuit…

A warning horn blared urgently, and a gleaming white hull sheered past almost above her; the helmsman must have taken expert last-minute avoiding action, slewing the yacht around to avoid a collision, but the churning wake chopped into the flimsy dinghy, tossing it aside like so much flotsam.

The paddle flew out of her hand and she hit the water with an impact that knocked all the breath out of her. Half-dazed, she went under, choking as she fought blindly in the swirling undercurrent, desperate to find the surface. Her lungs were hurting and there was a buzzing sound in her ears…She could feel herself growing heavier, her limbs no longer under her control. She wouldn’t let herself drown…She wouldn’t…

‘Relax, Blondie—I’ve got you.’

A strong arm had slipped around her waist, lifting her to the surface, and she gasped thankfully for air, her head tipping back against a broad, solid shoulder. Exhausted, she could only dimly register that it certainly wasn’t César, nor any of his South American crew, who had come to her rescue. The accent was unmistakably, uncompromisingly Australian.

She closed her eyes in relief, letting him tow her through the water to the side of the yacht. As if from a great distance she heard her rescuer giving orders, and then she was hauled unceremoniously up onto the deck and felt the welcome comfort of a blanket being wrapped around her. And then someone lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her along the deck and into a cabin.

She was lowered onto a deep, well-padded sofa and she let her head fall back with a sigh. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured with heartfelt gratitude.

A deep, mocking laugh answered her. ‘Don’t mention it. The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine.’

She opened her eyes quickly, regarding her rescuer with some misgiving. He was big, and handsome in a disconcertingly rugged way. His hair, darkened now by the sea, would probably be almost blond, and cut rather longer than convention dictated—at present it curled in damp tendrils over his ears. His eyes were a shade somewhere between brown and hazel, deep-set beneath straight dark brows. And he was wearing only a towel, slung low around his waist.

Her heart gave a thud of alarm; had she escaped from the frying pan only to fall into a very much more dangerous fire? Of course—she tried desperately to rationalise—he had just dragged her out of the water; he would have had to take his wet clothes off…She closed her eyes again swiftly, but the image of that darkly bronzed body, hard-muscled and covered with a smattering of rough, male hair, seemed to have been burned onto her eyelids.

‘Brandy?’ he offered, a sardonic inflection in his voice.

‘Er…No, thank you…’ ‘You’d better drink it.’

Her eyes flew open in angry indignation as he sat down on the edge of the sofa beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to lift her to a sitting position. A strong whiff of alcohol assailed her nostrils, and as she opened her mouth to protest he deftly tipped the fiery liquid down her throat.

She gasped in shock, choking as she swallowed it. ‘How…dare you?’ she demanded, furious.

‘I don’t want you catching pneumonia on me,’ he taunted in that laconic Australian drawl. “That would rather spoil the game.’

She glared up at him, the heat of the unfamiliar brandy coursing through her veins and doing odd things to the rate of her heartbeat. This was clearly a man who was accustomed to having his every word unquestioningly obeyed; there was an arrogance in that strongly carved face that would make poor César look positively meek.

He lifted one questioning eyebrow. ‘What’s wrong, Blondie? Aren’t I playing it to the right script?’

She hesitated, struggling to get a grip on the situation. She wasn’t accustomed to being treated with such off-hand familiarity. Brought up by her grandfather with the knowledge of the substantial fortune she was to inherit, she had been taught from her cradle to keep any hint of emotion under the strictest control, and the image of chilling reserve she projected was usually enough to keep the world at arm’s length.

‘I…appreciate your rescuing me,’ she managed, her voice stiff with dignity. ‘However, I would prefer it if you didn’t call me Blondie.’

He shrugged those wide shoulders in a gesture of casual unconcern. ‘OK—so what do you want me to call you?’

She slanted him a measured glance from beneath her lashes. He didn’t know who she was. That wasn’t surprising, really—she was usually quite successful in avoiding having her picture in the papers, and even if he had seen it he was unlikely to recognise her with her hair soaking wet and slicked to her head.

Well, that suited her. She had no idea who he was either—she might easily find herself in a far more dangerous position than with César. ‘I…there’s no need for you to call me any-thing, ’ she responded as coolly as she could. ‘If you would just be so kind as to take me back to Mangrove Bay…’

He laughed that lazy, mocking laugh. ‘Don’t put on that haughty act with me,’ he advised drily. ‘You’re not the first pretty mermaid to get herself washed up alongside my boat. Though I have to admit,’ he added, slanting her a look of insolent approval, ‘you’re the best looker of the bunch so far.’

She stared up at him in shocked amazement. ‘You surely don’t believe I did that deliberately?’

‘Either that or you’re plumb crazy,’ he returned, a glint of amusement in those dark, deep-set eyes. ‘You don’t look stupid enough to take a flimsy thing like that out for a pleasure cruise, and it’d be a pretty bizarre way to commit suicide.’

‘I certainly wasn’t trying to commit suicide!’ she protested hotly.

‘Then what were you doing?’

‘I—’ She stopped herself abruptly; she couldn’t tell him the truth without revealing who she was—and worse, revealing details of the awkward episode with César. ‘I don’t even know who you are,’ she countered, injecting several degrees of frost into her voice.

‘No?’ He was laughing at her! ‘You mean any old yacht would have done? Provided it was big enough and swanky enough, of course. Well, I guess that puts me in my place.’

She glanced around, for the first time properly taking stock of her surroundings. The yacht certainly was ‘swanky’, although the style was as uncompromisingly masculine as the owner. The saloon was easily as large as her own. Rich dark mahogany lined the walls, and the huge, comfortable sofa she was lying on was one of four, upholstered in pale cow-hide, surrounding a heavy brass-edged coffee-table. Beyond, she could see a dining area that would easily seat twelve around a large oval table.

‘Who are you?’ she queried, frowning up at him.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ A disturbingly sensual smile was curving that sardonic mouth. ‘Jackson Morgan—at your service. My friends call me Jake.’

Jake Morgan—oh, damn, that was all she needed! Jake Morgan was known as one of the most predatory sharks of the southern hemisphere. His name had first hit the financial pages only about five or six years ago, but in that short time he had earned himself a reputation for gobbling up smaller fry apparently just for the sake of it.

And he was as famous in the tabloids as he was in the serious financial press, she had heard—his reputation with women was deadly. She had been inclined to doubt a good many of the stories about him, knowing how fond the newspapers could be of exaggeration—but now that she had met him she could believe every one.

‘Ah, so the name does mean something to you after all?’ he taunted, his eyes glinting with dark humour. ‘Are those dollar signs I see lighting up those great big beautiful eyes? What were you hoping for? A couple of weeks cruising in the sun and a few pretty diamonds to take home with you afterwards? Or something more? I wonder if you’d be worth it…?’

Before she had time to realise what he was going to do, he had bent his head and his mouth had brushed lightly over hers. She felt the heat, and her lips parted in shock; only once before had anyone ever presumed to kiss her like this—she had been seventeen years old, and he had got her riding crop across his cheek for his insolence.

But this was alarmingly different. As the moist tip of his tongue flickered into the sensitive corners of her lips she felt an odd little shimmer of heat run through her veins. The musky scent of his skin, mingled with the salt tang of the sea, was somehow drugging her senses, making her heart beat so fast that it was difficult to breathe.

She closed her eyes, a strange melting sensation flowing through her as he pinned her back against the warm leather upholstery, yielding helplessly as he plundered the soft sweetness of her mouth in a flagrantly sensual exploration. Maybe it was just the brandy that was making her head float like this…

He lifted his head, and she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her in quizzical amusement. ‘That’s quite an act, Blondie,’ he commented, a mocking edge in his voice. ‘Shiver, then sizzle—you could make a man catch something far worse than pneumonia.’

Shock turned to coruscating anger, and without thinking about it she swung her hand at his cheek. Her palm sang and he gasped in surprise, touching his fingertips to the scarlet mark she had made. And then his eyes darkened with lethal anger, and with swift ruthlessness he had grasped both her wrists, forcing them down behind her back and pinioning them with one powerful hand.

‘So you like to play rough, do you?’ he grated menacingly. ‘Well, I can play a great deal rougher than you, and I can assure you that you’ll be the one who comes off worst.’

The kiss he inflicted on her was pure punishment, his lips crushing hers apart, his plundering tongue swirling deep into her mouth, asserting his mastery. She struggled wildly but she couldn’t escape—he was far too strong for her and she was only hurting herself. When at last he lifted his head, his mocking laughter inflamed her fury.

‘Let me go!’ she raged fiercely. ‘How dare you treat me like this?’

‘Well, now, isn’t this what you were after, frolicking around my boat?’ he sneered with icy contempt. ‘Why waste time playing coy little games? Like I said, you’re not the first pretty mermaid to try that kind of trick to get herself on board, but you’re the first who’s gone to such bold extremes.’ As he spoke, and his eyes raked coolly down over her body, the blanket had fallen away, and with a sudden stab of horror she realised that her bikini had gone—leaving her completely naked. It had been just a flimsy thing, designed for lounging around in the sun rather than serious swimming, and in her floundering around in the water it must have come unfastened without her even noticing. A deep blush of humiliation suffused her cheeks, and she turned her face away from him in total defeat.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ The harshness was suddenly gone from his voice. With a gentle hand he turned her face back towards him, brushing away a tear that sparkled on her cheek. She gazed up into those fathomless dark eyes, feeling herself once again drowning…

And then abruptly he let her go, rising to his feet and tossing the blanket back over her in a gesture of scornful disdain. ‘OK, Blondie—you get the Oscar for that one. I don’t know what game you’re playing but it’s a new one on me, and until I know the rules you can deal me out’

Still dazed with shock, she wrapped the blanket around herself, curling herself up into a defensive ball on the sofa, warily watching his every move.

‘And spare me the Sarah Bernhardt impersonation,’ he rapped acidly. ‘It won’t wash. Just get your cute little backside through that door and find yourself something to put on—there’s a dressing-gown of mine in the bathroom.’ He jerked his thumb towards a panelled door in the corner of the saloon. ‘Once you’re decent, you can come back in here—and then we’ll play the game by my rules.’

Without waiting to argue, she rolled off the sofa, landing in an undignified heap on the thick-piled carpet. Picking herself up, tripping over the trailing corner of the blanket, she dived through the door he had indicated, closing and locking it behind her. And then she leaned back against it, sliding slowly to the floor, her eyes closed, her whole body shaking in reaction.

Anyone who knew her only as the cool, self-assured chief executive of the huge Geldard Corporation would have been hard-pressed to recognise her as this frightened, bedraggled creature, huddled on the floor, trembling and crying, trapped on a stranger’s yacht—a stranger who had made his intentions absolutely clear.

But then she was the only one who knew how false was the faąde she showed to the world. At twenty-seven years old, with never even the slightest hint of a romantic involvement, it was inevitable, perhaps, that certain myths had grown up around her—indeed, she had deliberately cultivated them as part of her defence. Her eyes could freeze impertinence at twenty paces—few saw the hint of vulnerability in the softness of her delicately drawn mouth.

As sole heir to her grandfather’s substantial fortune, she had always known that any man who showed an interest in her was only trying to get his hands on her money or control of the Geldard empire. And she had learned to recognise the shallow compliments on her looks for what they were. Her blonde colouring and fine skin were well enough, and she would acknowledge that she had a good figure, kept in trim by regular exercise, but the Geldard features which had given her grandfather such an imposing air were really rather too strong for feminine beauty; a firm chin and a faintly patrician nose hinted at an assertiveness that terrified most men of her acquaintance.

And that was the way she liked it. She had never cared to put Grandfather’s teaching to the test—she had her own mother’s example as a constant reminder of the consequences of falling in love. Not that she, Georgia, would ever do anything as foolish as running off with a driving instructor—the ease with which the young man had been willing to be bought off had shown him up in his true colours.

She had grown up with the story of how Grandfather had brought home the jilted bride, chastened—and pregnant. Regrettably, her mother had further disappointed him by producing a mere girl instead of the longed-for grandson to inherit the biscuits-to-brewery empire he was busy building, and her weakness of character had further revealed itself in a steadily worsening drink problem. Georgia remembered her only as a pale wraith, haunting the overheated orangery at the back of the house, her breath always smelling of sherry, terrifying her with tearful attempts to make her sit on her lap. She had died almost unnoticed when Georgia was ten.

Surprisingly, however, Grandfather had taken to his granddaughter from the time she could toddle, and she had grown up to be the apple of his eye. She had inherited his biting intelligence and determination, and he had groomed her to take over the reins of the company as if she had been a boy.

And she had accepted that the privileges she enjoyed had their price, never allowing herself to regret that her wealth set her apart from the romantic pleasures of other young women of her age. Strictly trained to despise the weakness that had destroyed her mother, she was happy with her solitary state—most of the time; it was only sometimes at night, waking from a fitful dream with an aching sense of unfulfilled need, that she would even admit to herself that she was lonely…

But Grandfather would never have approved of her sitting here feeling sorry for herself, she reminded herself crisply—and she hadn’t escaped from César’s clutches only to fall victim to the notorious Jake Morgan! Pulling herself together with an effort of will, she sat up and looked around, taking careful stock of her surroundings.

It had grown dark outside, and sliding to her feet she found the switch that turned on the lights. The soft glow of silk- shaded lamps filled the room, gleaming on the rich, dark mahogany walls. This must be the master state-room—spacious and elegant, it had the same air of being an exclusively male province as the saloon. It was dominated by a huge bed, elevated on a low, carpeted platform and covered with winered silk sheets. What had she got herself into?

Curiosity drew her to explore, opening the doors set into the wood-panelled walls. One revealed a cavernous fitted wardrobe, half-empty—just a couple of beautifully-tailored business suits and hand-made silk shirts, but mostly good quality casual clothes, several pairs of rugged denim jeans and a stack of different coloured T-shirts. Another revealed a small television set and a large hi-fi, and a column of CDs which told her nothing but that his taste in music ran from jazz to hard rock, with a little country and a few unexpected classics thrown in.

The last door opened to reveal a bathroom of hedonistic black marble, complete with a huge, deep sunken bath with gold taps that would have been at home in a Roman potentate’s palace. And gazing back at her from the mirrored wall opposite was her own reflection. She stared at it, strangely disturbed to see herself standing there in such an alien environment, her eyes glittering darkly and her mouth as soft as bruised raspberries, the blanket slipping from her naked shoulders…

‘We’ll play the game by my rules…’ It didn’t take much imagination to guess what he meant by that, she mused, stealing an apprehensive glance back at that big bed. Suddenly a vivid image rose in her mind, of her own creamy-gold skin against those wine-red sheets—overlaid with a deeplybronzed, hard-muscled body…

Quickly she shook her head, alarmed by the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat. She had wasted too much time al- ready—at any minute he might grow impatient, and come in to see why she was taking so long. Stepping over to the window, she uttered a sigh of relief; her luck was holding—from the moonlit contours of the coastline she knew that they were sailing into Mangrove Bay, the exclusive hide-away where her own yacht was moored. It was really no coincidence, of course—naturally Jake Morgan would choose to stay at the best place on the island.

Seeking and finding the window that doubled as emergency exit, she pushed it open. She had nothing on beneath the blanket, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. Anyway, it was dark—with luck, she could get back on board her own yacht without anyone seeing her. Dropping the damp blanket to the floor, she clambered out of the window.

She couldn’t avoid making a splash as she tumbled into the water, but hopefully all the attention of the crew would be on the task of manoeuvring the big boat into a suitable anchoring spot among the others dotted around the bay. Striking swiftly away from the hull, she swam underwater for a short distance as an added precaution, before surfacing and looking around to get her bearings.

It took her only a moment to identify the Geldard Star. All appeared quiet on board—her captain would have waited, consulted with the company’s lawyers before raising a fullscale alarm. The swim-steps were down and she crept up them, keeping low.

Jake Morgan’s boat was no more than two or three hundred yards away, dropping anchor and tying up to a mooring-bouy with all the usual commotion and to-ing and fro-ing of crew—enough to distract the attention of her own look-outs for a crucial moment or two. Like a ghost she slipped across the deck and into the darkened saloon, at last reaching the safety of her own elegant state-room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, sighing with relief.

There had been moments, during the past couple of hours, when she had thought she was in serious trouble. But her grandfather had taught her never to give in, to keep planning her moves—the winners were the ones who really believed they could win, he always said. And she had won; she was back on her own ground, she could get some clothes on and stroll back out on deck, and unless she gave permission no one would even dare question where she had been. It would be as if none of it had happened.

The Geldard Star was one of the biggest boats in the bay, but Jake Morgan’s boat was even bigger; from her cabin she could see straight across to it. A solitary figure stood on the fore-deck, looking out over the dark waters of the sound towards the open channel between Spanish Point and Maria Hill—as if looking for mermaids.

A small shiver of heat ran down her spine as she remembered those glittering dark eyes, sweeping down over her naked body with such mocking contempt. No, it couldn’t quite be as if those past few hours had never happened, she reflected uneasily; she wasn’t going to be able to forget those kisses.

Absently she touched her fingertips to her lips, feeling still the warm softness that had melted them so sweetly. No, she wasn’t going to be able to forget.