A Wild Surrender. Anne Mather
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it was also far too attractive a proposition, and she wasn’t at all certain her father would approve.
‘Um—will anyone else be coming with us?’ she asked, innocently, and for a moment she thought his eyes darkened with sudden impatience.
‘No,’ he said at last, his tone flat. ‘Does that bother you? If I promise to keep my hands off you, will you come?’
Rachel’s face flamed with colour. ‘Oh, I—that is, I wasn’t implying—’
‘Yes, you were.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘So? What’s your answer?’
Rachel let out a nervous breath. ‘Do I need to bring anything?’ she asked, holding up her head, and his mouth twisted consideringly.
‘What did you have in mind?’ he queried. And then, as if aware of her embarrassment, he took pity on her. ‘Just some sunscreen, I guess. And your swimsuit, if you have one.’
Rachel put a little space between them. ‘All right,’ she said, mentally assuring herself that her swimsuit was the last thing she’d be putting in her bag. ‘When do we leave?’
He glanced at the thick gold watch on his wrist. ‘Is fifteen minutes long enough?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I should think so.’
His smile was ironic. ‘A woman who doesn’t need the better part of an hour to get ready. How lucky am I?’
We’ll see, thought Rachel, but she didn’t make any comment. She was already feeling apprehensive about her decision. Regretting it, no. Fearing it, yes.
‘Then I’ll see you in the foyer in fifteen minutes,’ he said, and with a polite nod he strode into the hotel.
Rachel had to sit down for a minute after he’d left her. She told herself it was so she could finish her coffee, but the truth was her legs felt decidedly weak.
Dear God, what had she let herself in for?
But she couldn’t sit here indefinitely, she thought. She needed to go back to her room and collect the sunscreen he’d mentioned. She was determined not to take a swimsuit, though she was aware that her skirt was almost as revealing. But then when she’d packed her suitcase for the trip she hadn’t expected her mother’s—what? Boyfriend? Lover?—would be, at the most, ten years older than herself.
Oh, to hell with it, she chided herself impatiently. She might be a virgin, but she was still capable of taking care of herself. On her father’s advice, she’d taken classes in both karate and tae-kwon-do, and although she wasn’t a black belt in either, her height made her a worthy opponent.
She pulled her backpack out of the wardrobe and stowed suncream and her dark glasses inside. Then, snatching up the one-piece black swimsuit she’d bought the previous year in Barcelona, she packed that, too, adding one of the hotel’s towels and daring Brody to object.
A glance in the mirror above the vanity had her pulling her hair free from the scrunchie. She usually wore it straight, but she hadn’t brought her tongs with her. In consequence, it spiked up at the ends, just past her shoulders. She combed her fingers through its silky strands and decided it would have to do.
It was almost exactly fifteen minutes later when she left the room. And. to her surprise, she saw Matt Brody just coming out of the double doors at the end of the landing. So did he live in the hotel, or had he just been checking up on his house guest? she wondered. If the doors were unlocked, she might check it out herself later in the day.
A shiver of anticipation glided down her spine and she hurried down the stairs ahead of him. This was proving to be more exciting than she’d thought. She pretended she hadn’t seen Matt, hoping to reach the foyer before he did. But she should have known he would be wise to a move like that.
‘No hurry,’ he remarked, closing the gap between them. A surprisingly callused palm closed on her bare shoulder. ‘I’m right behind you.’
Rachel felt the heat of that momentary possession pass through her body like an electric current. It was only momentary, because she stumbled forward in an effort to shake him off. And almost succeeded in breaking her neck when her foot came out of one of her flip-flops. She felt herself pitching forward, her arms flailing helplessly for the rail.
But then Matt’s arm slipped around her waist, dragging her back from certain disaster. Well, one disaster, anyway, Rachel taunted herself silently, feeling a hysterical desire to laugh. Being hauled up against Brody’s pelvis was hardly the safest thing. She was almost sure she could feel his body stirring against her, and that offered what might be greater dangers than she’d ever anticipated.
‘Th-thank you.’
Somehow she managed to extricate herself from his hold, pick up the offending flip-flop and complete the staircase on one bare foot. Then, reaching the lobby, she hastily lifted her leg and restored her footwear. In the normal way she would have bent over to accomplish the task, but the idea of giving her rescuer an uninterrupted view of her bottom was not something she wanted to pursue.
Particularly not at present.
‘You okay?’
Matt came round her as she was lowering her foot to the floor again, and Rachel managed a careless nod.
‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose,’ she declared lightly. ‘It’s my fault for wearing these things.’ She indicated the flip-flops. ‘I’d have been better off in flats.’
‘You’d have been better off if you hadn’t tried to outrun me,’ Matt replied drily. ‘What’s the matter, Ms Claiborne? Do I make you nervous?’
Rachel was about to deny it, but then changed her mind. ‘Perhaps a little,’ she admitted tightly. ‘I’m not a very tactile person, I’m afraid.’
Matt arched dark brows. ‘Maybe what you mean is you’re only tactile with people you like.’
‘I neither like nor dislike you, Mr Brody,’ she retorted, realising he was going to be more difficult than she had even imagined. She glanced towards the palm-fringed forecourt. ‘Do you have a car?’
Matt regarded her silently for a long moment, and she was half afraid he was going to blow her off. She didn’t want that, she realised. However reckless that made her. But, after all, this was why she’d come to St Antoine.
Then, with a casual flick of his shoulders, he gestured that she should lead the way outside. And Rachel did so, supremely aware of him following her. She should have worn her Capri pants, she thought. They would have been far more suitable. She felt totally exposed in the short cotton skirt.
THERE were several cars on the forecourt, some of them owned by members of the hotel staff, she assumed. Few of the guests would have their own vehicle. Unless there was a hiring franchise at the airport.
She paused, waiting for Matt to point out his car, but he passed her without a word. He headed towards the gates and she saw an open-topped Jeep parked in the street outside.
So what did that mean? she wondered. Had he just arrived at the hotel this morning? Or had the Jeep been parked there all night?
Not that he was likely to tell her. He swung open the nearside door and waited until Rachel had folded herself into the front seat. If he noticed her attempt to keep her skirt from disappearing up her thighs, she was unaware of it. But then he took her backpack from her and slung it into the back of the vehicle, apparently uncaring what might break.
‘Oh, I need my sunglasses,’ she objected, but Matt just ignored her and walked round to get into the driving seat.
‘Try these,’ he said, tossing an expensive pair of designer glasses into her lap. And, although she was sure they would be far too big for her, they fitted her face like a glove.