The Englishman's Bride. Sophie Weston
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his voice now, though he stepped unobtrusively away from her damp body. She was silver in the moonlight.
All he could think of was that she must not detect the effect she was having on him. That it would spoil a perfect moment.
‘I’d better not. I’ve played hooky long enough.’
She seemed disappointed. Blessings on her beautiful, spontaneous head, thought Philip. She actually wanted him to enjoy himself.
‘Not even for five minutes?’ she coaxed, that enchanting catch in her voice making it sound as if she really cared; as if her disappointment was real.
His head was still whirling. But his self-command was practised and he could switch it on at a moment’s notice.
‘Not even for five minutes,’ he said regretfully. ‘In fact, I must go. They’ll come looking for me if I don’t get back.’
‘Oh.’ More than disappointed; almost bereft.
He allowed himself to take her hand. Her fingers were long and slim and surprisingly warm after her swim.
‘Anyway, I’ve had my indulgence for the night,’ he said teasingly. ‘I met a water nymph.’
Her hand twitched in his.
Philip was annoyed with himself. Now, why did I say that? It makes me sound like an elderly classics master.
Maybe it was to prove to himself as much as her that he was not an elderly schoolmaster that he forgot about not spoiling the perfect moment. Hardly realising what he was doing, he pulled her towards him.
He heard her startled breath. He felt smooth shoulders and the damp stuff of her swimsuit over the glorious warmth of breast and hip. He felt bone and muscle and curving flesh. Even then, he might have stepped away.
But then he felt her response.
For a tiny second she was his, mouth to fierce mouth.
Then, like water, she slid out of his arms and dived back into the lagoon, powering away for the open sea.
Behind him, there were voices.
‘Sir Philip? Are you there?’ The minder, slightly ruffled, as if someone had taken him to task.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ That was his aide. Presumably the one doing the taking to task.
And the restaurant manager. ‘Can we seat the guests now, sir? We can start to serve the meal as soon as you like.’
Responsibility! Here it comes again, thought Philip. Back in the cockpit and off we go for another trip round the same old sticking points.
But they were his sticking points. And his responsibility.
He turned and went to do his duty.
But he sent a last, lingering glance after the silver trail flickering away from him, never to return.
CHAPTER TWO
KIT powered through the water until she got out to the open sea. She knew she had passed the last sand bar because the water was cooler and the waves had begun to slap against her face.
She stopped and trod water, looking back. She was startled to find how far she had come without realising it.
‘Life is just one new experience after the other,’ she muttered with irony.
She paddled herself round to face the bay.
The main hotel building was brilliant with lights. Stretched out along the shoreline there were little pockets of illumination. Mentally Kit traced the map of the island: beach barbecue; swimming pool; bower bar; wedding temple. Higher up the cliffs, there were the individual lights of the guest cottages themselves. Paths up to the cottages were lit by pale stretches of party lights, hanging in swathes from tree to tree. They looked like diamond necklaces pinned out against green velvet.
It looked pretty and welcoming and safe.
Safe, Kit told herself. New experiences, fine. But basically I’m safe.
The tall stranger had laid hands on her. OK. But he had not grabbed. He had not held her with the terrible force that made her feel she could not breathe. And he had let her go without a moment’s hesitation when she pulled away.
And she had touched him first.
That was the newest experience of all. Kit had not let any man touch her since Johnny had held her and shaken her, shouting at her that he did not love her; he never had. And tonight—
She drew a shaky breath. It brought too much salt water with it. Kit flapped her arms, coughing.
Oh, the stranger had kissed her, sure. But hadn’t she kissed him back?
She cleared her throat and drew several deep, recovering breaths. She had to work hard to stay upright against the waves.
Oh, yes, she had kissed him back. How long since that had happened? She had clung to Johnny like a thing possessed. But when he kissed her, all she had been aware of was terror that, if she did not put on a good show of arousal, he would leave her.
Which of course he did, in the end. Kit shivered.
A breeze riffled the water. In spite of the warmth of the night, she felt goose bumps rise on her shoulders where they were exposed to the air. This was not the time to think about Johnny. It was time she was getting back.
She began to swim to the shore, suddenly recognising how tired she was. Swimming in the municipal pool did not prepare you for this, thought Kit. She conserved her energy and concentrated on maintaining a steady stroke.
By the time she got there, her arms were shaking with tiredness and she could hardly move her legs any more. It did not stop her looking for the stranger. Or being disappointed when she saw that he had gone.
‘Just as well,’ Kit told herself grimly. ‘Enough new experiences already.’
But she could not curb a faint feeling of frustration as she squelched along to the swimming hut to retrieve her clothes.
She did not tell Lisa. Neither what had happened nor what—more startlingly—she wished had happened.
Kit was not sure why she kept her own counsel. Normally she told Lisa everything. Well, nearly everything. Not about Johnny. Not about the other, unbearable, thing. But everything else. She had had to keep secrets from her anxious mother. But Lisa knew all that there was to know—or at least all that Kit could bear to tell.
But tonight she was not even tempted to confide. Maybe because Lisa showed no interest at all in how she had spent her solitary evening.
In fact, Lisa was monosyllabic. Kit had showered and changed in her luxury cottage, then wandered up the cliff to say goodnight to her sister and brother-in-law before taking her jet lag to bed.
But there was no sign of Nikolai. Lisa was sitting alone in the dark on the little terrace outside her cottage. In fact, Kit nearly did not see her. If it were not for the squeak of the rattan rocking chair, she would have thought the cottage was deserted.
‘Lisa?’ said Kit tentatively into the murmurous night.
At first she thought Lisa must have fallen asleep. Or was not going to answer for some reason. She was even on the point of turning away.
And then Lisa said, ‘All right, you’ve got me.’ She sounded weary. ‘You’d better come up.’
There were spiral steps from the pathway up to the terrace. Kit went up them carefully. She was halfway up when a match scraped and Lisa appeared at the top, carrying a storm lantern. One look at her face and Kit ran the rest of the way.
‘What is it?’ she said involuntarily.
Lisa had been crying. No doubt of it. Even in the uncertain light of the oil lamp, her eyes were swollen.
Lisa