‘Aren’t you glad I made you get changed?’ he asked, glancing down at her shorts and vest top appreciably. ‘Those power heels of yours wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.’
She pulled a face before darting round him and jumping over the stile onto the path that wound round the cliff, sniffing appreciatively. Gorse—how she loved it.
Jonas leant against the stile post, watching her. ‘You look like a Labrador off after a scent.’
‘It just smells so good,’ she explained, knowing how idiotic she sounded.
It was funny... She’d read that smell was the best sense to evoke memories but she had never really noticed it personally before. Yet ever since she had returned to Cornwall she’d found herself reliving, remembering, her memories triggered by the very air about her. A primal creature after all, despite her veneer of city sophistication.
Jonas stepped up beside her and his hand brushed against hers. Such a small touch to provoke such intense memories. Long, lean, capable fingers entwined round hers. She felt the coolness of his palm, the slight roughness of his skin. She was preternaturally aware of every tiny square millimetre where their flesh touched, of little trickles of desire rippling up her arm. Her breasts suddenly felt full, heavy, aching, and an almost painful pressure behind her ribs echoed the intensified beating of her heart. Did he know? Was he aware of the effect his slightest touch had on her?
She didn’t speak. Didn’t look down at their hands. Didn’t acknowledge him in any way. But she didn’t pull away either.
Lost in a haze of feeling, Lawrie was unaware of where they were walking, knowing only the heady joy of touch, smell, sensation until they reached the top of the cliff.
‘Where are we?’ she asked looking about her in some confusion. ‘This isn’t the hotel beach.’
‘Nope, this is the next cove along,’ he explained. ‘The hotel beach will be full of guests and their families, and mini-tot surf schools, sandcastle-building. All perfectly lovely, but a little more crowded than I had in mind.’
He looked back and flashed her a grin of such pure, seductive wickedness that her knees weakened and she nearly stumbled, steadying herself against the sparsely covered cliff-face with one trembling hand.
He means swimming, she told herself. Get a grip.
‘Careful,’ he called back as she picked her way down the dirt track. ‘There’re lots of little stones—it’s easy to slip.’
‘I do know how to walk down a cliff path,’ she told him, but she slowed down a little, dragging her mind away from his earlier comments and her own overheated imaginings until she reached the bottom and looked about her.
It was a tiny little cove—a perfect little semi-circle of fine sand leading down to lapping waves, hidden from the rest of existence by the tall cliffs whose arms reached out into the sea on either side. A few rocks clustered at the foot of the cliff.
Jonas was standing by a large flat one and had laid the small rucksack he was carrying on top, was already shaking out the tartan blanket and laying out a couple of towels.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Lawrie said, looking around in delight. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.’
‘You can’t access it from Trengarth,’ Jonas said. ‘With the hotel so close nobody ever comes here. Which is why I like it.’
Having taken care of the contents of the rucksack he was kicking off his trainers, pulling his T-shirt over his head. She stared, fascinated, at the still slim but perfectly toned chest, at the smattering of golden hair over his well-formed pecs turning into a fascinating line running down his taut stomach and disappearing into the top of his swim shorts.
Lawrie swallowed, an insistent pulse of desire throbbing through her entire body.
‘Come on,’ he teased her, moving from foot to foot.
Reluctantly she tore her eyes from his torso and looked out at the sea. Yes, it was calm, blue, inviting, and it was August, but even so...
He followed her gaze and sighed. ‘Wimp,’ he said. ‘Honestly, when we were kids we swam in just our costumes Easter to October—now it’s wetsuits all year round. Does no one like the feel of water on their skin any more?’
‘You always liked your wetsuit well enough,’ she retorted. But, stung by his words, she reluctantly pulled off her vest top, glad that she had bought a modest one-piece from the hotel shop and not the skimpy bikini he had picked out for her.
‘I like my wetsuit for surfing, when I’m in the water for hours at a time, not for a good swim. The cold’s half the fun.’ He eyed her as she slipped the shorts off, an appreciative glint in his eye. ‘That’s not the itsy-bitsy polka-dot bikini I picked out, but it’s rather nice.’
She looked down at herself. The fifties-style swimsuit suited her, she thought. The nipped in waist added curves to her leanness; the halter-style neckline lifted her breasts. He was still looking at her, his eyes lingering on the hint of cleavage, the exposed tops of her breasts. Feeling suddenly, unaccountably shy she took a step back, towards the sea.
‘Last one in is a rotten egg,’ Lawrie said, and took off, running towards the sea.
Jonas stood still for one disbelieving second before he took off after her, running up behind her, swinging her into his arms and running them both headlong into the sea until he was waist-high when, despite her laughing entreaties, he dropped her straight into the cold, clear water.
It was freezing. Like little shards of ice on her overheated skin. She sank beneath the surface, spluttering with outrage, with laughter, with cold. Her feet found the sandy bottom and she steadied herself and stood up, revenge on her mind.
Jonas had already anticipated her mood and was swimming away from her, widthways across the bay, reaching out with sure, sharp strokes. She stood for a minute, pushing her wet hair away from her face, blinking the water out of her eyes and watching him—sleek, strong, completely at home in the marine environment he loved. He turned, floating onto his back, and gave her a little ironic wave.
Right. She set out across the water. Goodness, it was hard work swimming against the waves; a flat gym pool was no substitute for the sea. Forgetting Jonas for a second, she stopped swimming, treading water and allowing the waves to bob her up and down, closing her eyes and enjoying the sensation of the hot sun contrasting with the cold sea, the sound of the waves, the seagulls overhead—until a splash of sea water on her face brought her back to the present with a startled cry.
‘You...’ she threatened scooping up some water and flinging it at him.
Laughing, he dodged out of the way. Lawrie pursued him, pushing more and more water at him, until with a triumphant yell she doused him, moving in, holding him back whilst she thoroughly dunked him, enjoying the feeling of power, the play of muscles in his shoulders as she held him down, enjoying the way their bodies entwined as they play-fought. The hardness of him, the strength... She shivered.
He stopped fighting her, suddenly still, waist-deep in the sea. Her hands stilled on his shoulders as he straightened, and her wet body was close to his as one of his arms came to rest loosely round her waist. The other was at the nape of her neck until he drew a slow, tantalising line down her bare spine, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back, his long, oh, so capable fingers drawing a slow circle. Every sense she had seemed to be centred in that small area of sensitised skin.
‘Jonas?’
It was such a small sound—a question, an entreaty? She couldn’t have said. She just knew that she needed something—something more, something only this man could give her. She moved in closer, leg against leg, her aching breasts pressed against the tautness of his chest, her face raised pleadingly to his. This was why they had come here, wasn’t it? For this...for the sheer sweetness of the moment as he finally lowered his mouth to hers.
Light kisses, delicate kisses, lips against lips, murmured endearments and still such restraint. One of his hands was still caressing the small of her back, the other was lightly on her waist as she held onto his shoulders, pre
ssing herself closer against him, trying to get more of him, to deepen the kiss, to lose control.
Just for a while. Just for now, for this moment.
He picked her up again, swinging her up as if she weighed no more than a child, his arms tight around her. Without saying a word he strode towards the shore.
Lawrie felt a dreamlike calm mixed with an almost unbearable anticipation as she wound her arms around his neck and snuggled in, pressing small butterfly kisses onto the side of his neck. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the salt, and he gave a groan. Emboldened, she carried on exploring the wet, golden flesh, following drops of water with her lips, enjoying the effect she was clearly having on him.
He reached the picnic blanket and knelt down, placing her carefully onto it. She lay there waiting, welcoming, wanting, rolling towards him as he lay beside.
She needed this...she deserved this.
‘Lawrie?’
His eyes were dark with desire, and the fire she saw in them elicited a primal response in her. The ache pulsating between her thighs was insistent, strong, powerful. She didn’t answer. Words were beyond her. She was all instinct, all desire. She rose to her knees and leant over, pressing her mouth to his, her arms on either side of him supporting her weight.
With a groan he grabbed onto her, rolling her on top of him, deepening the kiss as his hands finally moved away from her waist, roaming over her body, touching, caressing, lighting sparks everywhere they travelled. She was aware of nothing but him, the planes of his body, the sensations his oh, so skilled fingers were inducing in her, his kiss, the taste of him, the feel of his lips, his tongue.
Sun, sea, salt, sensation overwhelmed her, whisking Lawrie away to some faraway place where all that existed was this. All that existed was them, just as it had used to be. She closed her eyes, allowing his touch, his mouth, his body to take her away, to soar over the cliffs and spiral up into the sky.
*
Jonas lay stretched out on the blanket, Lawrie curved into his side, one arm flung lightly across his chest. She was dozing, almost asleep but not quite, her eyes closed, her breathing even. Despite the lateness of the hour the air was still warm, sticky. He felt...content. That was the nearest word for the relaxed laziness of his body and mind.
For once Jonas didn’t want to jump up, make his excuses and leave, break the intimate silence with meaningless small talk designed to keep a clear distance between his companion and himself. He wanted to stay here, holding Lawrie Bennett, and just be.
Although he really ought to think about getting dressed. He had been to this cove many times, and had yet to see another living soul beyond the gulls, but there was always a first time, and he’d rather not be naked when that time came. He ran a hand along the length of Lawrie’s body, shoulder to hip, feeling the slight curves, marvelling at the silkiness of her skin. Even now, unclothed, half-asleep, there was a quiet dignity to her—a dignity that had been noticeable by its absence during the last hour.
He smiled to himself as he ran his hand back up her body, feeling her quiver under his touch. Passionate, unguarded, fiery, tender—she had been many things but not dignified.
‘Lawrie?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Wake up, honey, it’s getting late.’
She muttered something indistinguishable, rolling over away from him. He flicked his eyes down her graceful back, lingering at her curved behind, before trying again.
‘Come on, Lawrie, time to get dressed. You wouldn’t want some ramblers copping an eyeful, would you? Though it’d probably make their day—do wonders for the local tourist economy.’
She muttered again but rolled back, pushing herself up until she was sitting, legs drawn close to her chest as she flicked her hair out of her still sleepy eyes. ‘What time is it?’
He held up his bare arm. ‘No watch...no phone,’ he teased. ‘Can you cope with being so far from communication and order?’
She smiled, but warily. ‘Good thing I brought my bag,’ she said. ‘I think I should probably get dressed, though. Erm...could you possibly...?’ She gestured at her clothes, neatly folded on top of the rock.
‘Of course,’ he said, getting to his feet and noticing how her eyes were drawn towards his body before she lowered them, a faint blush staining her cheeks. Taking pity, he threw her shorts and T-shirt to her before retrieving his, unable to keep from watching her as she wriggled into her clothes in as discreet a style as possible.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, and grinned as her head came up and she glared at him.
‘A gentleman would turn his back.’
‘Poor gentleman—he’d miss out.’
She stood up slowly, stretching out her arms and legs with a lithe grace. ‘Do you want a hand?’ She gestured at the blanket and towels.
‘Do you want to rush off? I brought food and wine.’
She eyed him nervously. ‘You said it was getting late, that we should get back.’
‘It is, and we should,’ he agreed. ‘But we can stay a little longer if you want—or do you have plans tonight?’
‘No, but if I drink that I won’t be able to drive home,’ she pointed out as he reached into the rucksack and drew out a bottle of wine encased in a cooling holder.
‘I own a hotel. Finding a bed for the night is never a problem.’ He unscrewed the top and handed it to her. ‘You’re not too posh to drink from the bottle, are you?’
‘Seriously?’
Her face spoke volumes but at his amused nod she screwed up her nose and raised the bottle to her lips. Only Lawrie Bennett could make drinking from a bottle look refined. And sexy.
‘I, however, don’t own a hotel.’
‘We may have a spare tent somewhere—ow!’ This as she flicked his shoulder smartly. ‘What was that for?’
‘Seriously, Jonas. What are you suggesting? That I stay at the hotel tonight with you? People are already talking...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘So what?’ People always talked. They’d been talking since the second she’d sashayed back into town. Let them. ‘Come and eat something. I brought all of this for you. I’m not lugging it back up the cliff.’
Lawrie flopped down onto the blanket next to him and took the paper plate he was holding out to her, loading it daintily with a selection of breads, cheeses and salads. She began to build a towering sandwich of cheese, salad, grapes and coleslaw.
Jonas watched, fascinated. ‘That’s quite some sandwich,’ he said.
‘Hmm, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to manage to bite into it,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe sandwiches could be my thing?’
‘What thing?’
‘Well, you said it yourself—I’m a blender. I don’t have an interest that’s really mine,’ she said, reassembling the sandwich into several smaller parts. ‘Maybe it’s time I did. In New York they asked me what I liked to do in my spare time and I told them about going to museums and exhibitions. But of course that was Hugo’s interest, not mine. I enjoyed them, but would I go by myself? And then I said singing, but I only do that when I’m with you. I don’t know what I like to do apart from work.’
‘And sandwich-making is your new hobby?’
‘Being a foodie might be. I’ve had a lot of practice. Or I might take up art? What?’ she asked as he shook his head.
‘I’ve played Pictionary with you. Believe me when I say that art is not your thing.’
‘Good point. Well, maybe quilting, or distressing furniture.’
‘You could... But you don’t have to decide right now, do you?’
‘But if I decide before I go then I can research,’ she said, taking a bite of the newly assembled sandwich. She chewed, then swallowed. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do, though. I am not going to date anyone I work with. Especially not my boss. Twice bitten, three times shy. Or something.’
Jonas grinned. ‘Interesting statement, considering I am kind of your boss now.’ His smile grew wider, more wicked, as he saw the blush colour her pale
cheeks, the answering smile in her eyes. ‘And, considering how you’ve been spending your nights lately, I have to conclude that you haven’t started to enforce that rule too strictly.’
She laughed and her colour was high, her lips reddening, full, inviting. ‘Ah, but we’re not dating.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Then...’ He leant in, close. Took her hand in his, turning it over to slowly trace a circle on her palm. ‘What are we doing late at night, Miss Bennett?’
She swayed towards him, her hand closing onto his. Jonas slid his thumb over the plump flesh of her palm, every sense suddenly heightened. The brightness of the sun illuminated the scene in honey-coloured light: her glorious hair, the creaminess of her skin, the crash of the waves onto the shoreline, the call of the birds swooping high above, the distant coconut smell of gorse mingling with her light, fresh perfume, the silky smoothness of her hands in his. The anticipation of taste. The so very sweet anticipation...
He pulled her closer, sliding his hands out of hers and up her bare arms, then down her back, where they rested on the soft skin of her shoulderblades. His thumbs moved in small circles. She shivered under his touch, her breath speeding up, coming in small gasps, as one finger slid leisurely down her spine and then up to the nape of her neck. She swayed towards him, her face tilted up, eyelids half closed, desire and need in her expression, her eyes, her mouth. He leant in, brushed her mouth with his oh, so slowly, before trailing kisses along her jaw, down the side of her neck, to the soft pulse beating insistently in her throat.
She sighed, leaning against him as his tongue flicked out, tasted her warm skin. His hands were still playing up and down her spine, enjoying her uninhibited response to his touch, his kiss, the feel of her quivering beneath him.
‘Jonas...’ she began, one hand coming up to clutch his T-shirt, the other to encircle his neck.
But whatever she’d been going to say was interrupted by the shrillness of a ringtone from her bag, flung carelessly at his feet. Lawrie pulled back slowly, her expression clearing, releasing him. Reluctantly he let her go, his hand lingering against her back as he did so.
The Return of Mrs. Jones Page 13
