Fired Waitress, Hired Mistress. Robyn Grady
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could be smarmy, could fib and say she was uncomfortable; she was in a way—only because he had, indeed, been right. It seemed those remarkable arms gathering her near were exactly what her traumatised body had needed.
Comfort…a masculine mountain of it.
She buried her nose in his chest and mumbled, “Better.”
She imagined his grin. “Good.”
He was damp but hot, as if a furnace were blazing away beneath the skin, and when she closed her eyes everything but the impression of security and strength faded from mind. His earthy scent, mixed with a lingering hint of aftershave or soap, burrowed into her pores and played havoc with her rag-taggle reason.
This felt nice. He felt nice. Nice and strong and not-so-plain-or-simple sexy.
She inwardly sighed.
Oh, why not admit it? The throb in the base of her belly wasn’t a consequence of relief or gratitude, or even exasperation. It was desire—the forbidden, molten lava kind that blocked out other stimuli, heightened each sense and alerted every fibre. It was the kind of intense physical attraction that had her half convinced she needed to dissolve into this man right here, right now, or simply cease to be.
Crazy.
Clearly the knock on her head had bumped the arousal lever in her brain up to high. Every synapse seemed to have direct dial to the pulse ticking merrily away between her thighs. Every nerve-ending was wired to zap the burning tips of her breasts. All of which made her horribly nervous.
And terribly curious.
They were strangers, brought together by near tragedy. She was a level-headed woman who, admittedly, hadn’t had a man in a while. A good while. And certainly never one like this. But her urge to gaze up, look into those incredible eyes and offer him her lips…
It was wrong. Totally off beam.
Wasn’t it?
A moment ago his bedraggled kitten had wanted to know if this was real. Now Gabriel wondered too. He hadn’t peeled off his shirt and drawn her close for any reason other than her shaking. She needed to be kept warm.
Sure, he was benefiting too. Lying on this cushiony spread of sandy grass and listening to the rhythmic wash of waves gave him a chance to recuperate. His system needed a break. Only…
He didn’t feel all that relaxed.
His body was a simmering mass of anticipation. His heartbeat was a booming bass beat in his ears. Those symptoms weren’t a consequence of exertion any more than the ambitious tightening in his groin, or the groan of awareness building like thermal movement deep in his chest.
He was a man who lived well—the finest food and accommodation, state-of-the-art high-powered cars. But holding a beautiful woman was on a shelf all its own. She seemed to be on a shelf all her own.
He was no stranger to sex. Slow sex, hot sex—wild sex even better. But, no matter how stimulating the company, he’d never needed to worry about maintaining a certain level of control. He never truly lost himself in the moment. And yet the desire rippling through his veins now was distinct. Unique.
Disturbing.
It had to be the setting, the extraordinary circumstances, but it was all he could do not to tug this woman’s supple curves closer, coax her shapely hips nearer, tilt her chin higher and kiss her.
Hard.
Normally he knew when a woman was interested too. A lidded look. An arched brow. A sensual smile when she caught his gaze and held it. That kind of nonverbal communication had been perfected by nature over eons to ensure the survival of the species. I’m available. Me too. No genius there.
But, lying beneath this palm tree with Miz Crusoe nestled alongside him, he was stumped. She’d been grateful, stubborn, teasing, and finally accepting. It couldn’t be his imagination that she was enjoying this contact as much as he was.
So where did pumped-up high-stakes drama end, and good old-fashioned foreplay with an attractive, might-as-well-be-naked woman begin? If he rolled more towards her, how would she react? With outrage, as she’d done earlier, before he’d flattened her against the ground to make sure she wouldn’t hurt herself? Or would her gaze become heavy with an I-feel-it-too glow?
When she gave a violent shiver, the choice was made for him. Before she trembled a second time Gabriel held her more firmly, grazing a warming palm up and down her chilled arm.
After a moment she looked up, and her full lips twitched. “You must think I’m horrible.”
He grinned. “Worse than Godzilla and the giant Powder Puff man combined.”
Her perfect smile fanned wider before she sobered. “While I can’t condone all your tactics, I truly am grateful. For everything. You’re right. I’d have been fish food if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
“I’m glad I was able to help.” More than she’d ever know. “How’s your foot?”
Her leg moved and she flinched. “Hurts a little.”
“We ought to get moving before the pain gets worse.”
She hummed out an affirmation, but then only laid her cheek back upon his chest.
He gauged the sun’s heavy position in the sky, the storm clouds meshing together overhead, then closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her hand on his ribs.
Ah, what the hell? A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
His palm trailed her arm again, up over the slender shoulder, down to her elbow. Seagulls wheeled and squawked above while time wrapped around them like a promise-filled cocoon. If anyone had happened along they’d have mistaken them for lovers.
“Guess we really should get going,” she murmured. “You’ve probably got someone waiting.”
He nailed the quality in her voice: overly blasé. People came to Diamond Shores to fulfil their island fantasy while soaking up every laid-back luxury. Make the rates exorbitant, and it was a licence to print money. It added up that kitten here was looking to be indulged too. But in what way? And to what extent?
Time for a test line.
“There’s nobody waiting in the way you’re implying,” he said.
“What way is that?”
“How many ways are there?”
“Let’s see. You could be here on a reckless weekend with a bud.”
“Nope.”
“Could be showing a client a good time, hoping to tie the bow on a multi-million-dollar deal.”
“Good guess, but no banana.”
“You’re here with your girl?”
“Don’t have one.”
Two beats of silence, then her breath brushed his chest again. “Maybe you’re here to find one?”
“Is that an invitation?”
She gave a humourless laugh, but didn’t search out his gaze. “Believe me, I’m not your type.”
“What type are you?”
“I should start with clumsy.”
“So this kind of incident isn’t a one-off?”
“Yesterday I spilled a drink in the lap of an Arab prince.”
He cringed. “Bet he offered to buy you another one.”
When she groaned, the vibration blew a pleasant tingling rash down one side of his body. “Hardly.”
“International model types weren’t the Prince’s thing?”
She lifted