Mediterranean Seduction. Кэрол Мортимер
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and went away. But then she heard an engine put-putting towards her. Swinging round in the water, she saw that a small fishing vessel was closing in on her fast.
Back on the beach, the fisherman had planted himself in front of her pyjamas, whilst in the fishing boat she saw the stocky figure of a much older man sporting a swirling moustache. He had spotted her too. The boat was close enough for Charlotte to see the blue stripes painted down its sides.
She couldn’t stay treading water for ever. Was it fate lines colliding, or a disaster unfolding? Charlotte knew there was only one way to find out. She began to swim back to shore, and only slowed when she was close enough to see the water frothing around the fisherman’s naked feet. As their gazes clashed he brandished her clothes in his hand like a flag.
Was he showing them to her or taunting her with them? she wondered. But, noting the cynical slant of his eyes, Charlotte pulled away towards the shelter of the rocks clustering at the shoreline.
Nothing like a little real-life experience to spice up your writing, she mused, turning in time to see him make a second imperative gesture—past her this time, out to sea.
Quite suddenly the boat’s engine was cut. The fisherman on board retreated to the stern, where he busied himself with some nets. The only sound now was the restless surf sighing against the reef and slapping lazily against the side of the small fishing boat.
Crawling commando-style through the shallows on her forearms, Charlotte slipped into hiding between two large boulders and waited there out of sight until she had caught her breath. Then, snatching a quick look, she saw that the fisherman was still standing where she had first seen him, still holding her pyjamas in his fist.
‘Throw them over here!’ she called, pressing herself back against the rock. She waited, but when there was no response she was forced to dart her head out again. The fisherman shook her nightwear, and then his head—slowly and deliberately.
Charlotte sank back with a gust of frustration. Rock and a hard place came to her mind. It was clear this man was no push-over, but, on the plus side, he was an incredible-looking individual. His eyes were extraordinary. Their intensity alone was enough to send a shiver coursing down her spine.
Maybe it came from living so close to nature, Charlotte reasoned impatiently. But she was forced to admit that the hard, muscular body, combined with such an arrogant stare, added up to a lot more than she had bargained for when she’d daydreamed about the mysterious and then-unseen fisherman.
He was taller than she had imagined too, and built like a kickboxer, with incredible legs shown off to best advantage in a pair of battered shorts. Her senses surged at the thought of being controlled by such well-muscled thighs, and she quickly shut her eyes, as if that was enough to make the danger go away.
Fantasy was one thing. Reality, in the shape of this particular Greek male, was another thing altogether. He even wore a knife at his waist, hanging in a long sheath from a low-slung leather belt. ‘Dinosaur,’ Charlotte muttered fiercely, feeling her pulse speed up. He was such a compelling individual that one crazy part of her wanted to tear his clothes off with her teeth, whilst her sensible self was angry with him for provoking such an irresponsible response.
She sank down again in the shallows behind her rock, and it was a good few moments before she steeled herself for another look—and that was a mistake.
Charlotte’s breath flew out of her chest as their gazes clashed. Something in the man’s brooding expression suggested he knew every position in the Kama Sutra, and had devoted his life to perfecting each one of them in turn. Ideal research material for her article, no doubt—but was she really ready for this?
Charlotte shouted down the warning bells clamouring in her head. This was the moment. She could seize it, or live to regret it.
Predatory and very masculine interest was coming off the man in waves. She judged him to be in his midthirties—old enough to know what to do in the bedroom, without having lost either the interest or the stamina required for her purposes…
Closing her eyes, Charlotte brushed the last of her doubts aside. Rolling back the film in her mind, she evaluated what she knew of him: his hair was thick, raven-black and slightly wavy, and he wore it longer than the average man—but there was nothing remotely average about this man.
Most crucially he wore no ring. But she would still have to make discreet enquiries of Marianna, who worked at the villa and seemed to know everything about everyone on the island. So far, though, Charlotte thought confidently, the signs were looking good—delectable, unattached male with perfect body for lonely journalist’s entertainment. For research purposes only, naturally.
He could easily have passed for one of the Ancient Greek gods—except they’d been too petty and far too pretty, she decided. She cast him instead as Jason, the Argonauts’ legendary leader, instantly elevating the small blue and white fishing boat to the fifty-oared Argo—though it was too great a stretch even for Charlotte’s imagination to pass off her threadbare pyjamas as the Golden Fleece. And what was she going to do about her pyjamas? They remained firmly in his grasp.
She closed her eyes, waiting for her heart to calm down, and then, feeling his stare on her face, knew she hadn’t pulled back sufficiently behind the screen of rock.
Snapping her eyes open, Charlotte raised her voice so there could be no mistake. ‘Throw them over here!’
Glaring at him furiously when he made no response, she found herself caught in a hypnotic gaze. It was hard and cynical: the gaze of a connoisseur, disturbingly knowing.
Charlotte made one last attempt to call to him—in a softer voice this time, hoping to appeal to his better nature.
With a smile, she gestured airily towards the pyjamas.
He took a menacing step towards her.
‘Stay there!’ she shouted, alarmingly conscious of her own nakedness.
The fisherman stopped, and slouched comfortably on one hip.
He was enjoying her predicament, Charlotte realised, and, worse, appeared content to wait for as long as it took until she was forced to come out of hiding and claim her clothes.
She watched him shrug, and saw that the curve of his lips held no humour, that his dark stare was unwavering. But then an explanation occurred to her, and she knew she should have thought of it sooner. Of course—he didn’t understand what she was saying!
Hissing with frustration, Charlotte wondered what to do next. She didn’t speak Greek, so they were never going to get anywhere.
‘Why don’t you come here and get them?’ the fisherman suddenly challenged her, in barely accented English.
CHARLOTTE drew back abruptly. Whatever else she had been expecting it certainly wasn’t this easy command of her own language.
His voice was almost at the same level as the whispering surf, yet still managed to resonate with all the assurance she associated with rampant masculinity.
He spoke English so well… Tourists, Charlotte realised, cursing her sluggish brain cells. Of course he spoke English fluently—what had she expected him to speak? Ancient Greek?
No doubt he would have a good laugh about this encounter later in the local taverna. But if she was to make this the opportunity she had been waiting for she had to swallow her pride. With hardly any time left on the island, she still had an article to write and her self-esteem to rebuild. She had to make a start.
Now she knew he spoke her language she could be more direct. Tilting her chin in defiance, Charlotte stepped out of her hiding place. ‘Hand my pyjamas over right now! And don’t even think of accusing me of interfering with your catch. I’ve got every bit as much right to swim here as—’
The diatribe froze on her lips. The beach was