by Lush, Tamara
I wrinkled my nose. Jimmy and Emily were always trying to fix me up with one of his cop friends who were usually too old. Plus, I wasn't sure I wanted a guy in my life, not after what happened with James. And it didn't feel right to date a cop, not when I covered crime.
"Meh, maybe," I said. "I'll text you. But you know I hate the Iguana. I'd rather go to Bacchus. It's slightly less tacky."
"Whatever." Jimmy rolled his eyes dramatically. "Aw, come on. How can you not love Iguana margaritas? Anyway, I'm outta here. Maybe I'll see you later." He pointed with his phone. "Talk to those FAA guys over there if you want any official quotes."
"Thanks, Sergeant." It was too bad there weren't any single guys on the force as cute and young as him, with his easy smile and sleepy brown eyes. Then again, Jimmy wasn't as hot as the guy I tried to interview earlier.
Mmmm. That mysteriously sexy man.
I swiveled my head to look at the cluster of homes beyond the gate. That attempted interview had been a freaking disaster. I'd been so distracted by the guy's accent and model-like face, focusing was impossible. That level of interference had never happened during an interview before—not during my internship in Boston and definitely not during my short tenure at the paper.
It wasn't like Palmira was a hotbed of handsome guys, though. The island was more like a senior citizens center.
But that guy was unreal. His cheekbones and jaw were sculpted and angular, his top lip bow-shaped and his bottom full and sensual. Perfect for kissing.
I'd made a fool of myself by breaking into his gated community and tearing my dress, and it wasn't like he'd given any information about the crash.
Still, he could have been the good Samaritan. I chewed on my pen as I stood near the police tape, staring at the plane. If he had done that good deed, why had he been so evasive? I considered again whether to tell Jimmy about the guy, then decided against it.
I'd rather get the interview first, if possible. Break the story in the paper, be a step ahead of the cops. Jill would love that. If the cops hadn't found him, maybe they weren't looking hard enough. Maybe I could take another run at the whole thing tomorrow morning.
I lowered my pen, yawning. The sun was about a half hour from setting over the water, casting a tangerine hue over the sand and downed plane. That hot guy was somewhere inside The Sanctuary, probably with an equally stunning girlfriend…or wife.
I sauntered up the beach, parallel to the enclave's gate. Looking up and over the fence, I was surprised to find the mystery guy standing on the second-floor terrace of the villa closest to the beach. He was looking down, seemingly at me, smiling.
To my delight, he still wasn't wearing a shirt. Rawr.
I laughed out loud, stopped, and waved.
Grinning, he waved back. Then he held up his index finger.
I tilted my head and lifted my hands, palms up. He held up his hand in a stop gesture, then disappeared from the terrace.
Was he coming down to talk to me? Why would he do that? Maybe he'd changed his mind and wanted to talk about the plane crash.
With a rush of anticipation, I ran a hand over my dress, finding the tear. I looked like crap. Tying the flapping, ripped seam into a knot and hoping I came off as fashionable and not homeless, I watched the guy appear and amble toward me.
"You're still here," he said. Grinning, he held the tall iron rail of the gate with one hand.
I gazed without blinking into his eyes, captivated by their green-gray color that practically glowed next to his olive skin and dark hair. The setting sun softened the angles and hollows of his face, leaving behind languid sensuality. When he stared at me, I thought I melt and wash away into the Gulf of Mexico.
"I just finished. Do you have any news for me?"
He laughed. "What kind of news would you like?"
I couldn't remember ever being made speechless by a man's looks, but this guy was different.
My eyes skimmed my chest, then went lower. Dark hair trailed in a faint line down his six-pack, and I quickly raised my gaze to his equally muscular arms. This man was pure peril. Or maybe I'd been on Palmira so long, I’d forgotten what hot guys really looked like.
I gave the tattoo on his rock-hard bicep a sideways glance. It was one of many delicious details gracing his body. It was a line of words wrapped around the muscle in an old typewriter font. The words weren't in English. Maybe Spanish? Italian? Latin?
Recalling his question, I grinned, sensing he was toying with me. "I'm still trying to find the man who helped the plane crash victim."
"You got some sun today. Your cheeks are pink."
My cheeks were hot, but why did he ignore my question? Annoying. As he reached an arm through the gate and motioned toward my face, I imagined playfully biting his finger.
"I burn easily. I think I might be a little dehydrated too."
I knew I sounded too serious, but flirting didn't come easily. At least…that's what James had repeatedly told me. I sobered at the thought, and my smile faded.
"We can't have you dying of thirst," he said in that beautiful accent. "Why don't you come inside for a glass of water?"
Chapter Three
Skin Against Skin
SKYLAR
I hesitated. I was thirsty. Maybe if I went, this mystery man would open up and tell me about helping the victim. Give me that exclusive. He didn't seem like an axe murderer or anyone I should be afraid of. And besides, people like that didn't exist on Palmira.
"I will. Thanks."
The guy opened the gate and held it. "See, you don't have to rip your clothes off this time."
I paused and ignored his flirtation as best I could, but looking into his eyes sent little waves of excitement through my body. "What's your name? I generally don't go into people's homes unless I know their names."
He grinned lazily. "Luca."
"Luca. Italian?"
He nodded. "Si. Yes. Come with me."
Luca. What a beautiful name. I rolled it around in my mind as I followed. Luca.
He led me through a heady-smelling hedge of jasmine vines and through another iron gate. We emerged into a courtyard with a grotto-like pool surrounded by palm trees and bright green tropical plants. An enormous, Mediterranean-style home loomed behind the pool. I breathed in the scent, intoxicated by the fragrance and obvious luxury.
"Gorgeous," I murmured.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll get some water."
He gestured to one of four wide, rattan chaise seats pointed toward the setting sun. I sank onto a white cushion. The diffuse orangey-red light and sound of the gentle Gulf surf soothed my nerves after covering such a depressing story.
Luca returned and handed me a tall glass with a lemon slice. I tried to be dainty, but took two giant gulps. He sat on the edge of the lounger next to me and leaned in my direction, as if interested in watching me drink.
"Thank you," I said. "I guess I was thirsty."
His eyes unlocked from mine and traveled to my lips, then my breasts, then farther down to my hips and bare legs.
Yikes.
My stomach fluttered as he so obviously checked me out. Such attention from such a good-looking guy was flattering and welcome after everything I'd been through in the last year.
He hastily looked up at my face, probably embarrassed he was ogling me. "I read the paper's online story about the crash. Good job on getting all those witnesses so quickly. You also tweeted details throughout the day. Lots of sources. Impressive. You were busy."
He'd read my article? He'd looked at my Twitter feed? Luca's words might have been the hottest thing any man had ever said to me.
My words. In his brain.
"No thanks to you," I said with a flirty grin. "For all I know, you were the best source today."
"Maybe I was. But I owe you an apology. I'm afraid I wasn't polite to you earlier. I'm sorry."
I shrugged. "It's okay. I'm a reporter. I need to get used to people saying mean things to me. Or weird things. Or no
thing at all."
Truthfully, people had been mostly kind to me during interviews, although one man had slammed a door in my face the previous week when I’d tried to ask him about why he accidentally plowed into a post office with his car.
"I hope I wasn't mean," Luca said. "I'm glad you didn't put me in the paper. Thank you."
"You were fine. And it's not like you gave me any reason to put you in my article," I half complained, watching him drink his water. The way his Adam's apple bobbed made me want to lick the tan skin of his neck, and the fact that I entertained such an idea with a total stranger was mystifying yet thrilling. I felt unusually alive and alert. "So, do you live here?"
He shook his head. "My uncle owns this house. I'm just visiting."
"From Italy?"
He nodded.
"Is your uncle or anyone else here?" I looked around, wondering if others would join us poolside. Like his girlfriend.
Luca shook his head. "I'm alone. My uncle's in Miami, working."
"Ah. And how long are you visiting?"
"I'm not sure. Weeks? Months? I'm flexible."
He sipped from his glass, but didn't take his eyes off me. Maybe he was single. Possibilities of future drinks, dinners, and dates unfolded in my mind.
"What do you do in Italy?"
He laughed. "Americans are nosy, no?"
Was he flirting or reprimanding me? I didn't like when men chided me. It reminded me of James. He'd never let a day pass without telling me something I did wrong.
"Maybe we are," I allowed. "But I'm a reporter. I'm nosy."
"True," Luca said.
So, he didn't want to answer my question. I'd have been annoyed, except he was smiling, all sexy-like. I stared into my water glass at the perfectly round lemon slice. When I looked up, he had a serious look in his eyes and rubbed his chin.
“How's the man who was injured by the plane? Any updates? Is he going to make it? Your article said he was in stable but serious condition."
I shrugged. "I called the hospital about a half-hour ago and they said he would pull through. He was really lucky."
"Certo che si." Luca paused and glanced at me. "Sorry. I think in Italian. Of course he was lucky."
God, his accent was hot. "Yeah, and I feel bad for the pilot as well. He was crying because he hurt the guy on the beach. He said everything happened so fast."
Luca's face screwed into a frown and he shook his head. "Weird story."
I nodded again, and we both took a drink. I opened my mouth to ask him whether he'd helped the victim, but he spoke first while tipping his glass toward me.
"Please forgive me for being forward, but is that a bathing suit under your dress?"
I paused. "I was at my condo pool when my editor called me to cover the crash. I was so flustered about getting out to the scene, I didn't go upstairs to change. I don't usually report in a bikini and a beach dress. It's pretty embarrassing. I didn't think people could see my suit."
"Maybe it's just something I noticed. I…see details." Luca smiled and lowered his eyes to the ground, which was adorable, then swept his glass toward the pool. "Um, you can swim now, if you'd like. It's still so hot, isn't it? I'm not used to this kind of weather. I can bring you a glass of chilled wine and we can get in the water, no?"
Strip to my bathing suit with a total stranger and float around in a gorgeous pool while drinking wine? Not something I'd normally do, but Emily was always telling me I needed to stop being so serious—to think about something other than the newspaper and my career.
"That would be lovely."
Ugh, that sounded stiff and prudish. I'd been trying to sound like the kind of woman who spent sunsets near pools with handsome foreign men, but it was so far from the truth, I almost laughed out loud.
Luca went inside, and I hesitated, then pulled my dress over my head, tossed it onto the chaise, and slipped into the pool. I dove down as far as I could, touching the bottom with my fingers, then powering back up through the water. The movement gave me a sense of freedom, of weightlessness.
It would be awkward to reveal my body to the uber-sculpted and muscular Luca. I was a little curvier than I liked, although the red bikini was flattering to my boobs.
Standing on flat feet in the shallow end of the pool, I quickly tugged and pulled at the bikini cups, making sure I wasn't flashing a nipple or anything. I submerged myself again, enjoying the cool rush against my hot skin.
My long hair floated around me in tangles as I held my breath under water. I was already a sweaty mess, though, so what did I care? Looking pretty wasn't possible on this strange day. Not really. If this guy really wanted to know me better, he had to be satisfied with my true self—the one without mascara and heels and lipstick.
I came up for air with a splash, and when I opened my eyes, he was there. His lower half was submerged in the water as he sat on the middle stone step at the edge of the pool. I smoothed back my wet hair with both hands.
He didn't take his eyes off me as I paddled toward him. My heartbeat quickened.
"You turned on the lights," I said, parting the water with a breaststroke, sending ripples through the pool.
"Si. The water is now the same color as your eyes."
He handed me a wine glass, and I settled next to him on the step. I couldn't believe I was so naked, so exposed, near this tempting stranger. It was a struggle to pretend I wasn't affected by the closeness of his bare skin.
What did he do for a living? Maybe nothing. He carried himself so languidly, and his skin was so tan, as if leisure was his main occupation.
"Cento anni." He tipped his glass to mine.
"What does that mean?"
"It's a toast, like 'cheers.' It means 'one hundred years.'"
He was so sexy and so…adult. How old was he? From his unlined face and toned body, I figured he was in his twenties, but I recognized a sadness in his eyes that made him look older. Did it mean anything to him that I was barely out of college?
I sipped the wine. it tasted like pears and smelled like flowers. It wasn't like my affordable boxed stuff, which was more like an alcoholic Gatorade.
"This is tasty." God, I sounded stupid.
"It's Banfi Pinot Grigio San Angelo Toscana."
He spoke the words in a liquid Italian accent, and a surge of pure lust went through me. I could have almost fainted into the pool from the timbre of his voice. I wasn’t accustomed to this kind of instant sexual desire with a man I'd just met, and I wondered if I should politely leave before things got out of control. There was no telling what I might do if he spoke solely in his native tongue.
No, I knew exactly what I'd do: make some poor choices I'd later regret.
"Where are you from, Skylar?"
I exhaled with relief. At least he’d let up on the seductive-sounding Italian. He was trying to make polite conversation, and there I was, assuming he was trying to seduce me.
"Vermont. It's near Boston."
He regarded me with interest. "I'm familiar with Vermont. Do you have a boyfriend there? Or have you made a new boyfriend here on Palmira?"
I raised my eyebrows. "I thought Americans were the nosy ones."
He laughed. "Touché."
I pushed aside thoughts of James—my only real boyfriend. He'd been an editor at the Boston paper during my junior-year internship. When my internship was up, he’d asked me out for a drink. We'd only made it through one cocktail before we kissed, and the majority of that first date was spent naked and tangled together.
I'd been twenty-one at the time, and he was thirty-six, a charming former war correspondent who told thrilling, funny stories about writing articles in hotspots all over the globe. Assuming he'd be as passionate a boyfriend as giving reporting advice, I'd fallen for him. Stupidly. I'd been so damn wrong, though. About everything. And now, I didn't trust myself one bit when it came to men.
But I wasn't that college girl anymore, and I wasn't dwelling in the past. I also wouldn't hop into bed with an
y guy on the first night ever again.
I pasted on a smile. "Unlike you, Luca, I'll answer questions. I don't have a boyfriend. I broke up with him when I graduated from college."
A huge smile unfurled on Luca's face. "Right. I saw that online. The part about school, I mean. You graduated from Boston University at the top of your class."
I hesitated, then grinned. "So, you checked me out? Did a little Google stalking?"
He glanced at me. "I didn't have to stalk. It was all there on your Twitter feed. Graduated in May at the top of your class. Majored in journalism. Minored in psychology. Nice photos of you on graduation day in your cap and gown, by the way. You looked cute."
Maybe he was interested. A guy who deep dived into my Twitter account had to be intrigued at the very least. And he thought I was cute. I sipped my wine with a little smile.
"Why did you come to Palmira to work? Why didn't you stay in Boston? Or go to New York? Don't all reporters want to go to New York City?"
"Of course we do. But we all can't afford New York," I shot back.
Luca nodded. "What about Boston?"
Boston was out of the question because James was there. And because the paper had a hiring freeze. But I wasn't going to say that.
I shrugged. "I had an offer at a website in New York rewriting stories and aggregating content. It didn't pay much. At least here I'm able to do my own reporting and writing. The Post is actually a good paper. It has a reputation for training writers and we're gaining in circulation. Mostly because all the retirees read it obsessively."
"Then it was a good decision, career-wise, no?"
"I hope so. I also came because I own property here." I quickly added, "My grandmother died a year ago and I inherited her condo."
"I see. I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother."
"Thank you," I said, then steered the conversation back to Luca. "How do you know Vermont?"
"I went skiing there when I was at boarding school in Connecticut. Going to school here, in America, is why I can speak your language a little."
