A Dangerous Taste Of Passion. Anne Mather
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‘Why should I?’ she retorted shortly, realising he was unlikely to believe her. ‘Now, is there anything else, señor? Because, if not, I have work to do.’
‘So conscientious,’ he remarked softly, lifting a hand to rake long fingers through the wind-tumbled darkness of his hair. The gesture caused a crease to form in the sleeve of his jacket, and she found herself wondering if the leather felt as soft as it looked.
Unlike the arm underneath, she thought, which she was sure would be taut and corded with muscle.
But such thoughts were not conducive to lowering her blood pressure. The air in the room felt suddenly thicker and Lily folded her arms, as if by doing so she could protect herself from his disturbing presence.
Why didn’t he go? she wondered. His business was finished here. Did it amuse him to make fun of her? And why, when he was so obviously out of her league, did her stomach keep tying itself in knots?
‘I think I have embarrassed you,’ he said, ignoring her very obvious desire for him to leave. ‘I did not mean to spy on you.’
Lily’s lips parted. ‘You’ve been spying on me?’ she exclaimed, as if she’d only just become aware of it, but his mouth compressed at her words.
‘You saw me on the cliffs the other evening,’ he told her flatly. ‘As I saw you. I have not yet acquired the ability to go about the island unseen. I assume that was why you changed your mind about going into the water. I am not a fool, Ms—’ He shrugged. ‘Ms Fielding, is it not? Your father is the local priest, no?’
Lily was taken aback. She hadn’t realised he might know her name. But it annoyed her that she cared. Dammit, he wasn’t the first man who’d shown her any attention.
‘All right,’ she said, deciding there was no point in denying it. ‘I saw you.’ And then, because she didn’t see why he should have it all his own way, she added, ‘Were you disappointed when I changed my mind?’
She knew she’d startled him. Dear heaven, she’d startled herself. Though startled wasn’t quite the word. She was shocked, stunned, gobsmacked at her own audacity. She’d never have believed she could say such a thing.
Predictably, Oliveira recovered first. But that was to be expected, she thought resentfully. He’d probably encountered every kind of provocation in his—what?—maybe almost forty years. A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. ‘Sí,’ he said evenly. ‘But I was only disappointed to have invaded your privacy.’ He paused and then went on, ‘You prefer to be alone, no?’ His smile widened and Lily felt as if every bone in her body was melting. ‘Yet there was something…distinctly pagan…about a young woman behaving in such a reckless way.’ He arched a dark brow. ‘Am I forgiven?’
Lily’s mouth was dry. ‘I doubt it,’ she mumbled, not knowing what else to say, and he inclined his head before starting for the door.
‘No matter,’ he said, pushing the door open, allowing a little of the humid air to invade the air-conditioned coolness of the office. Then he turned back, but although Lily tensed all he added was ‘Perhaps you’d tell Myers that I called?’
RAFE DROVE BACK to Orchid Point, cursing the impulse that had made him embarrass the girl.
He only knew who she was because his cook spoke of the girl’s father with such derision. But then, Luella, like many of the other inhabitants on the island, paid lip service to the Anglican church while secretly attending other forms of religious ceremonies after dark.
He scowled, annoyed with himself for baiting her. Didn’t he have enough complications in his life as it was? An ex-wife who persisted in stalking him; a reputation that was in ruins, despite the fact that all charges had been dropped; and the knowledge that living on Orchid Cay, unless he could find something to occupy him, would soon begin to pall.
He swung the four-by-four round a tight curve where hedges of scarlet hibiscus brushed against the side of the Lexus. Nevertheless, his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the blue-green waters of the ocean, creaming on sands that had been bleached a palest ivory by the tropical sun.
It was beautiful, he thought. He’d missed sights like these while he’d been living in New York. His father still lived in Miami, of course, and he’d visited him fairly regularly. But he’d been so busy building up his business, he’d forgotten all about the simple delights of his childhood in Havana.
That was the excuse his ex-wife had given when he’d discovered she’d been cheating on him. He was never home, Sarah had complained, and she’d been lonely. But their marriage had been a mistake from the start, and he’d certainly not been too distressed when he’d had reason to sue for divorce.
Unfortunately, Sarah had fought him every step of the way. Despite the very generous settlement he’d given her, she’d wanted him to forgive her, to take her back, to move back into their penthouse apartment as if nothing had happened.
But Rafe had considered the loss of the luxurious duplex a small price to pay for his freedom. Even when, some months later, Sarah had bluffed her way into his new home and trashed his bedroom, he hadn’t brought any charges against her. He’d believed that sooner or later she’d accept that their relationship was over.
But in the last few months Rafe had realised that wasn’t going to happen. He’d been arrested for drug smuggling. And, although he’d never had any dealings with the South American cartel Sarah had accused him of joining, it had meant serious lawyer’s bills and a court case that had drained him of any enthusiasm to remain in New York.
The experience had made him think seriously about his life. He was almost forty, and for the past twenty years he’d concentrated all his energies into his work.
That was why, when the opportunity to sell out came, he’d taken it. He’d retained only a nominal interest in the Oliveira Corporation and bought land and property from a man who’d won it playing poker in Las Vegas.
For the next couple of years, however restless he became, he intended to take a break, to do some sailing and fishing, and to generally chill out. He need never work again, but he didn’t think he could stand that prospect. Nevertheless, in future, he intended to invest in small enterprises. Like Cartagena Charters, for example.
Rafe drove through the village of Coral Key. His home, a sprawling villa made of coral and limestone, occupied the cliffs overlooking a private sandy cove. Rafe had taken to swimming there most mornings, usually before most of his household was awake.
Perhaps the Fielding girl should follow his example.
The gates to the property swung open at his approach, thanks to the electronic pad Steve Bellamy, his butler-cum-assistant, had installed in the car.
As well as vetting all visitors, the ex-policeman acted as chauffeur, computer programmer, and gourmet chef, if required to do so. Though this was a skill he’d sworn Rafe never to divulge to any of his erstwhile colleagues on the New York force.
Rafe parked the Lexus in one bay of the six-car garage and, leaving the keys in the ignition, he strolled around to the back of the villa.
A swimming pool lay basking in the noonday sun and, on either side of the pool, tubs of hibiscus and fragrant oleander tumbled exotically onto the painted tiles. Beneath a striped awning, a teak table was already laid for lunch. Just in case he should choose to eat outdoors.
His housekeeper appeared as he was standing gazing out towards the ocean. Carla Samuels had worked for him for over fifteen years, since long before the breakdown of his marriage. And, although his ex-wife had threatened her with all manner of retribution, she’d insisted on going with Rafe when he’d moved out of the apartment and ultimately to Orchid Cay.
‘What time will you be wanting lunch, Mr Oliveira?’ she asked, and