'Good God, are you trying to kill yourself?'
There was the screech of a car horn, a muttered Greek curse and the next thing Samantha knew was that she was standing back on the pavement with an angry Josh looking down on her, his hand gripping her arm with an iron fist.
'I ...' she began.
'You walked right in front of that car. Didn't you look where you were going?'
'I guess I didn't.' But Samantha wasn't feeling at all abashed; what she was feeling was a euphoric sense of relief. He wasn't in bed with the beautiful Helen at all. He was standing next to her looking wonderfully attractive in a crisp pair of brown slacks, a white shirt and a beige jacket. One strand of dark hair fell across his forehead, and now he pushed it back impatiently, his fingers raking through the dark strands and tangling them in a delightful fashion.
He sighed and let go of her arm. 'Where are you going?' he asked.
'Nowhere in particular. I'm just wandering.'
'I thought you'd be at the casino.'
'I'm not much of a gambler,' she explained.
'No, neither am I.' He paused. 'Look, have you had any dinner?'
'No, I haven't, I...'
'Would you like to have dinner with me?'
Samantha was too taken aback to say anything. She'd been so sure that Josh would be spending all his waking hours with Helen that she had never once thought he would be out on his own. Not that his solitary appearance meant anything significant, she reminded herself. It was quite possible that Helen was indisposed and had let him off for the evening. Or that they'd had a small lovers' tiff and...
'I know,' he added, 'that you can't stand my company.'
'Oh, no,' Samantha said hurriedly. 'It's quite all right.'
'You're sure?' he asked drily.
'Yes. Absolutely. Really, I don't mind at all.' It was very ironic that she, who could speak logically and incisively in business meetings and the courtroom, always took to babbling when Josh was around. It was as if his presence twisted or unravelled her brain connections. She made a supreme effort. 'Yes,' she said, 'dinner would be fine.'
They ate in a small restaurant called the Skorpios that featured a bouzouki player and an attentive, helpful waiter. To the background of music that sounded as if it had come directly from the soundtrack of Zorba the Greek, they managed to order a meal that included tyropitta, a cheese pie, as an appetiser, kalamarakia, baby squid, and dolmades, meat and rice wrapped in vine leaves, for the main course and baklava and Turkish coffee for dessert.
As if by mutual agreement, their conversation at the beginning of dinner was strictly non-personal. They discussed their new living arrangements. 'Enjoying your privacy?' Josh asked politely, and Samantha quickly nodded in agreement. 'Very much.' They talked casually about the cruise. 'Very relaxing,' Josh said, and Samantha added, Oh, yes, a wonderful vacation.' They compared notes on sightseeing, 'fabulous', on the ship's cook, 'fair', on the weather, 'glorious', and on the present restaurant which they both agreed was a find.
It wasn't until dessert that the conversation began to move in new and unsettling directions. Not that this was apparent at the outset; as their conversation turned to more personal matters, it took on, at first, a pleasurable air.
'You know, Samantha,' said Josh. 'I don't have a clue what you do for a living.'
'I don't know what you do either.'
'Shall we have a mutual confession?'
By this time, the ouzo she'd been sipping had gone slightly to Samantha's head. She shrugged. 'Why not?'
'Well, it could be quite devastating to discover that you're into plumbing and I dig ditches.'
'Do you dig ditches?'
He laughed. 'I'm in a related field—real estate.'
'Oh,' Samantha said. 'I should have known.'
He was smiling at her now—that lazy, sexy smile. 'Should you have?'
'That entrepreneurial air—that laid-back negotiating style.'
'I didn't know I possessed one.'
She tilted her head slightly as she gave him a critical look. 'Oh, yes,' she said, 'definitely.'
This was fun, she was thinking, this light-hearted, slightly flirtatious discussion with an attractive, desirable man. And he was attractive. In her anger at him, even in her desire for him, Samantha had quite forgotten just how attractive Josh was. The candlelight flickered across his face, emphasising the high line of a cheekbone, the strong line of his jaw, the depth of his eyes. For a second, she completely forgot that this was the Josh who was capable of driving her quite mad with anger, frustration and fury.
'And you?' he asked. 'Into plumbing?'
'Not even close,' she said. 'Guess again.'
He leaned back in his chair and studied her, one dark eyebrow slightly raised. 'Let's see,' he said. 'I'd have to go on what I know about you.'
'And what's that?'
'Mmm—that you're a bit on the serious side, very emotional and highly sensual.'
Samantha, who had been nibbling on her baklava, now choked. 'I beg your pardon?'
There was a humorous slant to his mouth. 'Serious, emotional and sensual.'
There was a lot of things that Samantha didn't like about this assessment of her character. True, she was serious, she'd always been that way, but she would never describe herself as 'very emotional'. That was patently absurd. She was cool, analytical, controlled—everyone knew that. And as for 'highly sensual'—well, she had better disabuse Josh of that dangerous notion immediately.
'Josh, that was a mistake,' she said quickly. 'We both agreed that it was a mistake.'
'What was?'
'That night. During the storm.'
'Oh, that.'
He was laughing at her again, she could tell by the amused glint in his eye. 'Now look,' she began hotly, 'I don't want you to think...'
'Sam.' Josh put one hand over the one she was waving furiously in the air. 'Why don't we just admit that we're attracted to one another!'
Samantha swallowed. 'Attracted to one another?' she echoed.
'Physically, sexually.'
She grabbed her hand out of his. 'No, I'm not,' she said stammering. 'You're not—we're not.'
Josh, damn him, was grinning. 'You're sure about that?'
The light, pleasurable flirtation was over, and Samantha had now remembered exactly who she was talking to. She ignored his question and said coldly, 'I'm a lawyer. I practise contract law.'
'Ah,' said Josh, 'then that accounts for it.'
'For what?'
'The facade of hard-headed pragmatism.'
'It's not a facade. I'm a very practical person.'
'Uh-uh.'
Samantha would have liked to know why Josh could make her more angry than anyone else. 'I am,' she said through clenched teeth.
'You know,' he said amiably, 'if that porthole hadn't blown open, you might be pregnant right now.'
She was shocked, but she wasn't good at courtroom repartee for nothing. 'I'm on the pill,' she retorted.
'Nope, you're not.'
'How would you know?'
'I lived with you for five days. In fact, you don't have any contraceptive with you. Tell me, Sam, what were you going to do if you decided to go to bed with someone on the cruise?'
She was stunned, flabbergasted, tongue-tied. He had looked through her things; he'd examined her personal belongings! While she had assumed that he was ignoring her and acting as if she didn't exist, he'd been studying her intently, intimately, outrageously.
'Of course,' he went on as if what he'd said hadn't been shocking at all, 'you might have decided to leave it to the man, but that is a little dangerous, isn't it? It's the kind of thing one might do in the middle of an affair, but it would be risky with a stranger. Really, Sam, you have to take better care of yourself!'
Furious retorts sprang to her lips and died away. All she could manage after a moment of incoherent sounds was a hissed, 'How dare you search through my things?'
He leaned forward, his voice serious, a
light gleaming in his eyes that had nothing to do with the candle flickering between them. 'I had a right to,' he said.
Her voice rose. 'A right to? You thought you had the right to dig through my belongings, to paw through my things, to...'
'Samantha,' he said softly, 'I want you.'
She should have continued to give him the well-honed, sharp side of her tongue. She should have slapped him hard across the face for being so impertinent. She should have stood up and stormed out of the restaurant But she did none of these things, because, without warning, her body betrayed her. It softened, melted, flowed beneath the seductive force of his words. She felt a heat spread through her groin, and an aching begin at the very centre of her. And this sensation, this sudden surge of desire, was so strong that it completely overwhelmed the part of her that was telling her to get up, leave, get out.
She took a shaky breath. 'Josh, don't say that.'
'Why?'
'Because... it's not appropriate.'
'Why not?' His voice caressed her, moving over her like a ripple of warm water.
She tried to explain even though she could barely think straight. 'We hardly know one another. We really don't get along. You...1... we're involved with other...'
But he cut through her stammering, going right to the heart of the matter, the core of her. 'Samantha,' he said, stopping her stream of words, 'you want me, too.'
Samantha couldn't help it; she visibly shuddered, as if his words had, like an arrow, pierced her somewhere vital. She wanted to deny him, but she couldn't. Desire had grown within her, invading her veins, her bones, her muscles. Whatever anger she had felt towards him had dissolved in this warmth, this sudden, passionate warmth. An urgency to touch him grew within her as if a physical contact, however slight, could satisfy her craving for him. Samantha forgot everything but that need, and she focused on his mouth, those carved, slightly-parted lips that seemed to beg for the caress of her fingers.
Helpless before such desire, she slowly lifted her hand and moved it towards him. Time seemed to stop as she reached for him, and she was aware of nothing but his eyes, intent upon her, his mouth waiting for her touch, his own hand now rising upward, the fingers long and lean, the hair dark on his muscular wrist. Then suddenly reality intruded with the scrape of a chair behind her, the raised voice of a diner, a waiter passing by them, his speed causing their candle to waver. Her hand took flight then and jerked upwards as if it had come to the flame. She stood up, intending to leave, to run, to escape, but Josh's hand caught hers and she was held there, pinioned by his grasp.
'Let me go,' she said, her voice low and shaking.
His was huskier, harsh even. 'Not yet,' he said.
'Josh, please!'
He looked up at her. 'Think about what I said.'
'No, I...'
'Tomorrow,' he said firmly, 'we'll talk about it tomorrow.'
And then he did it. He turned her hand over so that it was palm upwards and raised it to his mouth, bending his head at the same time so that his mouth met the curve where her hand met her wrist, where the skin was tender and sensitive, where a pulse was beating as quickly as a hummingbird's heart. His lips touched her skin, and the touch reached deep within her, caressing her nerves, her muscles, the very bones of her hand. And then his tongue licked her in a hot; electrifying stroke, and she stiffened with shock as a flame of desire, more intense than she had ever known, shot down into her groin.
Samantha was, later, never able to figure out just how she managed to leave the Skorpios and get back to the Princess Marguerita. She remembered the agitation she felt as she dug through her purse and threw some drachmas on the table. She remembered the astonished look of the waiter as she darted past him and out on to the street. She would, she supposed, always have faint memories of street lamps going in a blur of illumination, of strange faces staring at her as she ran, of the hard feel of pavement beneath the delicate soles of her sandals. But she would never remember actually climbing the gangplank on to the ship and racing down to her room, or how she managed to find her key with such shaking hands and insert it in the lock. Memory only caught up with her when she was sitting on the couch in her darkened stateroom, trying her desperate best to sort it all out, to understand what had happened.
On a superficial level, it all seemed quite above board. Josh had asked her to dinner, he had flirted with her and then, in a logical sort of progression, he had made a pass at her. Samantha amended that— it was more than a pass, it had been a case of downright seduction. There had been sexy words, innuendoes, an invitation. His kiss on her hand— well, it would have looked quite innocent to an observer, a courtly, gallant, old-fashioned gesture. But it had really been something quite different. It had been a blatant statement of sensuality, a deliberate attempt to excite her.
The trouble was that—yes, she had been excited, so much so that she had had trouble breathing when it was all over. It had aroused memories in her mind that she had so carefully suppressed, memories of Josh's mouth on hers, his tongue at her breast, his hand between her legs. She had thought she had managed to obliterate those memories from her conscious mind, but now she discovered that, in fact, they had merely been lying below the surface, ready to rise into view the minute her guard was down.
Think about it, he had said. Well, she was thinking hard, and what she was thinking about made her more miserable than she had ever been in her life. For it had occurred to her that all Josh's moves; the rose (oh, yes, she was now sure it came from him), the sexy conversation, the seduction, the caress, were very strange. They reminded her of movies she'd seen, books that she'd read, but they did not remind her of anything that could happen in real life between two 1980s adults. They were stylised, artificial, calculated. They were exactly the sort of thing a man might do if he were being paid to be a romantic escort, if it were his job to provide her with seduction and excitement, if he had been hired by Fantasy Unlimited.
This was what Samantha was thinking, and every time she thought it, the logical part of her would deny it. This was the small, internal voice that laid out the evidence for her, provided the witnesses and made the logical conclusions. You're crazy, it said. Mad. Nuts. And that made more sense than her suspicions, because there was no way on God's green earth that Joshua Sinclair could be a paid escort from a company designed to provide clients with sexual fantasies made real. Other than his actions in the restaurant, he seemed a genuine article, a New Yorker who was in real estate, a... Samantha's mind paused in its whirl of confusion... well, what did she know about him anyway? Not a hell of a lot when she added the bits and pieces that she'd picked up all together. That still doesn't make him a gigolo, her internal voice said, and she had to concede that this was true. She was too accustomed to the due process of law to judge someone on circumstantial evidence.
And it occurred to her that the person she should be suspicious of was not Josh, but herself. She was the one who doubted, who could not believe that a man would treat her the way Josh had. Perhaps that doubt arose from her own insecurities, her own disbelief that a man would find her so attractive, so desirable and so sexy that he would send her flowers and act like a hero out of a romance novel. After all, Marshall had never acted that way, and she had assumed for many years that Marshall, affectionate but distant, was typical of most men. But what if he wasn't? What if there were men like Josh? What if dinner hadn't been a charade but the real thing? That thought made Samantha's head spin, because, despite her anger with him, her confusion and her shock, underneath she had loved every bit of it, had loved being with him, had loved...
Oh, no, she said to herself, don't get carried away on some idyllic romantic dream. That's what disillusion is made of—filmy hopes and unrealistic infatuations, self-deceit and wishful thinking. And she was no more in love with Josh than she was in love with the man in the moon. The attraction was strictly sexual, as he had said. He wanted her; she wanted him. That simple, basic equation of human lust. Which meant, of course, th
at she'd have to turn him down, because Samantha wasn't the type to get involved in an affair whose basis was less than love.
No, she thought, she would have to tell Josh no. He'd asked her to think it over, and she'd done so. Some of her thinking had been ridiculous—witness the spectre of Fantasy Unlimited raising its absurd head once again. But some of her thinking had been very careful, very logical. Samantha knew herself too well to take up Josh's offer. She was too vulnerable for a brief shipboard fling, a four-day romance that would end in Athens when they went their separate ways. She would hurt too much when it was so inevitably over. Even now, with only a seduction dangling before her, she had thought for a brief moment that she might be in love.
She stood up from the couch, clicked on the light and began to fold the sweater that she had been crushing in her abstracted hands. Her fingers had stopped quivering, her knees were no longer shaking, and her pulse rate had descended to something approaching normal. Thank heavens, she thought as she felt her usual calm come over her, for her powers of logic, her orderly rationality and her intellectual control. Thank heavens for those qualities that allowed her to reason things through, to come to the proper decisions and to pierce, with a cool internal eye, the gauzy, glittering curtain of dreams woven by her heart.
Her soft, foolish, ever-hopeful and very vulnerable heart.
CHAPTER NINE
Josh stood naked before his bathroom mirror, a tall, lean figure with a broad chest, a narrow waist and muscles that had been bronzed to a high gleam by the sun. He was applying cologne to his freshly-shaved cheeks and humming to himself. His plans, he thought with the good humour of a man whose life is right on track, were all going well. Everything had clicked into place with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. The groundwork had been set. The rules had been established. And the execution—well, that had been flawless, absolutely flawless. He had seen the results in Samantha's eyes, those wide blue eyes with the dark, thick lashes.
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