The Billionaire's Virgin Mistress. Sandra Field
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salt air, Cade briefly forgot his errand in a moment of sheer pleasure. His own love of the sea was a rare bond between him and Del.
With an impatient sigh, he strode over to the door—painted an ebullient shade of yellow—knocked hard and knew instinctively that the silence on the other side of the door was the silence of emptiness. Fool’s errand, indeed. She wasn’t even home.
On ponderous gray wings a heron flew past; and to Cade’s ears came the rattle of footsteps on the pebbles. Swiftly he circled the cabin. A woman wearing brief shorts and a tank top was jogging toward him along the crest of the beach. She was agile, tanned and lithe, her hair jammed under a vivid orange baseball cap.
Then she caught sight of him. She stopped dead in her tracks, her breast heaving from exertion, and for the space of ten full seconds they stared at each other across the expanse of pebbled beach.
At a much slower pace, which was imbued with reluctance—or was it fear? Cade wondered—she started toward him.
On his way to the cabin, he’d pictured a bleached blonde with a slash of red lipstick and a lush, in-your-face body. He’d been wrong. About as wrong as he could be. His mouth dry, his eyes intent, he watched her come to a halt twenty feet away from him, her back to the sun.
No lipstick. A sheen of sweat on her face, most of which was shadowed by the oversize brim of her cap. Workmanlike sneakers on her feet, and legs to die for. He stepped closer and saw her, almost imperceptibly, shrink away from him. She said sharply, “Are you lost? The village is back that way.”
“Are you Tess Ritchie?”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Cade Lorimer. I need to talk to you.”
He could easily have missed the tiny flicker of response that crossed her features as he said his name, so swift was it, and as swiftly subdued. Oh, yes, he thought, you’re good. Just not quite good enough.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding at all sorry, “I don’t know you and I don’t have the time to talk to you—I need to get ready for work.”
“I think, when you know why I’m here, you’ll make the time,” he said softly.
“Then you think wrong. If you really want to see me, come to the public library. Half a mile down the road, across from the post office. I’ll be there until five this afternoon. And now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Lorimer,” Cade said. “The name doesn’t ring a bell?”
“Why should it?”
“Del Lorimer is my father—he’s the one who sent me here. His other son—Cory—was your father.”
Her body went rigid. In a staccato voice, she said, “How do you know my father’s name?”
“Let’s go inside. As I said, we have things to talk about.”
But she was backing away, step by step, her gaze glued to his face. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, her fists clenched by her side so tightly that the knuckles were white.
Terror, Cade thought, puzzled. Why the hell would she be terrified of him? She should be jumping up and down for joy that Del Lorimer had finally sent someone to seek her out. “If you don’t want to go inside,” he said, “we can talk out here. There’s lots of time—the library doesn’t open for an hour and a half.”
“Talk about what?”
“Your grandfather. Wendel—better know as Del—Lorimer. Who just happens to spend his summers forty miles down the coast. Don’t tell me you don’t know about him because I won’t believe you.”
“You’re out of your mind,” she whispered. “I don’t have a grandfather. My grandparents died years ago—not that that’s any of your business. Whatever your game is, Mr. Lorimer, I don’t like it. Please leave. And don’t come back, or I’ll set the police on you.”
The sheriff on Malagash Island was a longtime friend of Cade’s. He should have come up with a strategy, Cade thought irritably, because this wasn’t going the way he’d imagined it would. “Who told you your grandparents died?”
A tiny shiver rippled through her body; she hugged her arms to her chest. “Go away—just leave me alone.”
“We have several options here, but that’s not one of them.” Cade’s jaw tightened. Above her thin tank top, he could see the enticing shadow of her cleavage. Her arms were smoothly muscled, her fingers long and narrow. Ringless, he noticed, and in a sudden spurt of rage recalled the Lorimer family diamonds.
He’d had enough of this ridiculous fencing. In a blur of movement, he closed the distance between them, gripped her by the arms and said forcefully, “Your grandfather sent me. Cory Lorimer’s father.”
Ducking her head, she kicked out at him, as vicious and unexpected as a snake. As Cade automatically evaded the slash of her foot, she tore free and took off at a run up the slope.
In five fast strides, Cade caught up with her, grabbed her by the shoulder and tugged her around to face him. But before he could say anything, her body went limp in his hold. Oh, yeah, he thought cynically, oldest trick in the book. Digging his fingers into her shoulder because she was a dead weight, he wrapped the other arm around her waist.
Then, to his dismay, he realized it wasn’t a trick. She’d fainted, a genuine, no-fooling faint. Face paper-white, eyes shut, body boneless. With a muttered curse, he lowered her to the ground and thrust her head between her knees.
So the terror had been real. What in God’s name was going on? Impulsively he pulled the ball cap off her head, loosing a tumble of dark chestnut curls from which the sun teased streaks of gold. It was soft between his fingers, silky smooth. She was too thin, he thought. But her skin was like silk, too.
Then she stirred, muttering something under her breath. He said with a calmness he was far from feeling, “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have frightened you like that.”
He could hear her trying to steady her breath; the small sounds smote him with compunction. He added, “I’ve never in my life terrified a woman into fainting—not my style. Which is something you’ll have to take on trust. Look, let’s start again. I have a very important message for you, one I’ve promised to deliver. But we can do this outside, so you’ll feel safe.”
Slowly Tess raised her head, her hair falling around her face. She needed a haircut, she thought distantly. Time to get out the scissors and hack the ends off.
The man was still there. Through her tumbled curls she saw hair black as the ravens that flocked the beaches, eyes the harsh gray of the cliffs that ringed the island. His face was carved like the cliffs—hard, unyielding, craggy. And undeniably, terrifyingly male.
A stranger. But worse than a stranger, she thought with a superstitious shiver. Her fate. Dark, dangerous and full of secrets.
Pushing her hair back, terror rising in her throat again so that she could scarcely breathe, she said raggedly, “I’ve nothing here worth stealing. No money, and I don’t do drugs, I swear I don’t.”
Cade Lorimer said blankly, “Your eyes. They’re green.”
Panic-stricken, she gaped at him. Con artist, or certifiably mad? What did green eyes have to do with anything? She pushed hard against him and said frantically, “There’s nothing here for you. Cory’s dead—he’s been dead for years. Can’t you just leave me in peace?”
Cade’s heart was thudding in his chest; her words scarcely registered. In all his life, he’d only known one other person with eyes that true, deep green, the green of wet leaves in springtime. That person was Del Lorimer.
She must be Del’s granddaughter. She had to be. “Do you wear contact lenses?” he rapped.
Temper streaked with a flash of humor came to her rescue, briefly subduing fear. “Which