by Renee Roszel
A flush burned her face. She’d assumed he was starting to realize she was a fraud. She’d had no idea he was still thinking such a crazy thing—though, in the strictest sense, he might be right. “Certainly not!” she objected breathlessly. Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound convincing.
His gaze sparked with new intent, frightening her. “Your instincts were good. Calling me out here on such a flimsy pretense. I didn’t know you had that much subterfuge in you.” He moved in front of her, adding, “Bold but ladylike.”
“I’m not!” she objected, so rattled she wasn’t sure which argument she’d meant to present.
“Which?” He curled his fingers around the railing on either side of her.
Trapped! Gloriously trapped! Some traitorous part of her brain was rejoicing, but most of her was trembling with protest. In her heart, she knew if she struggled he’d let her walk away. But she couldn’t conjure up any desire to leave, not even if her life depended on it. Snared by her own weakness, she stood before him, defeated yet full of anticipation. “What?” She breathed the word, not sure what they were talking about anymore.
He grinned, and with slow, dangerous premeditation, leaned toward her. “It’s time for lesson two, sweetheart.” His breath was heated and welcome against her lips. “First, lift your chin a little.”
With a shaky sigh, she complied, wondering at herself. It seemed as though she was looking on helplessly as her body stripped itself of every shred of moral fiber. His powerful forearms grazed hers. So warm, so solid. She didn’t want to look into his eyes, but she couldn’t help herself. She was afraid he would see into her mind, sense her hesitation, her fear, and worse, her longing...
“Good. Now lean slightly away, but give me a coy smile.”
She had no trouble with the leaning away part, but the smile was more difficult. Clearly the lucid fragment that was left of her brain still controlled her lips, and they refused to flirt.
“Try, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice low, disarming. “A man needs a little encouragement.”
“I—I don’t do coy.” She was startled to hear her voice, but even more startled by what she’d admitted. She couldn’t intend to actually go through with this—this lesson, could she?
“Then try thinking about kneeing me in the groin,” he suggested.
Her lips twitched upward.
“Perfect.” White teeth glinted, destroying her already tattered defenses. “Now, pretend I’m Brad Pitt.”
“Who?”
Any interest in who Brad Pitt might be was swept away as his lips took possession of hers, sending wild shivers of pleasure through her body. His mouth was hot, yet gentle, as his lips caressed hers. The tender hunger of his kiss found some long-hidden emptiness inside her and began to fill it up. She pressed against him, his taut, hard skin burning her where she touched, then clutched.
His hands moved from the railing to enfold her, to pull her against him, allowing her no shyness as he massaged, stimulated. She was surprised to find that her hands were moving, too, seeming to know on their own what to do. His back was broad, and its muscled texture excited her fingertips as she explored, learned, craved to know more.
“Lyon?” A far-off female voice intruded into Emily’s brain. She heard his low moan and realized the kiss she was reveling in was ending. Slowly, he drew his mouth from hers. “You learn fast,” he said, his voice only a breath of sound. “Lesson three will require fewer clothes.” Startling her, he grazed her earlobe with his teeth before backing away. “But for now, I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my guest.”
“Lyon?” The voice was closer, just inside the French doors.
He stepped away and turned, his smile polite, as though he’d just been complimenting her on her exquisite taste in flocked wallpaper. “Out here, Athena,” he called, the huskiness barely detectable in his voice.
Unstrung, she sagged against the rail, assailed by a sense of loss. Her throat ached as she worked to swallow a sob. She felt so cheap. So easy! This wasn’t like her at all!
He had moved aside, and she could see the open double doors as a woman emerged. Even in her gloom, Emily’s lips opened in awe. Lyon’s female guest was over six feet tall, with graceful, elongated limbs, reminiscent of the expensive Italian porcelains by Lladro. Her hair was platinum and cut boyishly short over most of her head, with wisps combed toward her face. At her nape, long, silky locks caught the breeze and made her look ethereal, like an angel with a bent for basketball.
The woman came to Lyon on a cloud of airy fabric that must have been a swimsuit cover-up. For Emily could see a two-piece white bathing suit underneath the flowing, sheer fabric. At least that’s what she hoped it was.
The blonde’s lips were pouty and full, enhanced by an attractive overbite. Her cheekbones were lethal. Her lids lolled torpidly over half-closed eyes, and her lashes were too long to be real. “Lyon,” she called again, her voice high-pitched and grating. “I decided I wanted to swim in the ocean.” She floated up beside him. In fourinch wedge sandals, she was not quite his height. Probably a nice change for a woman who towered over most people—man or woman. “Come with me?” She entwined her fingers in his, and Emily had a feeling the action was a perfect example of coy.
“I’m not wearing a swimsuit.” His grin was easy.
She laughed, an unattractive sound. “Oh, Lyon. You’re so funny.”
He faced Emily. “Miss Stone. This is my guest, Athena. Perhaps you know of her?”
Emily was at a loss. “If she’s a Greek goddess, I do.” Looking at the lovely woman, the possibility didn’t seem like much of a stretch, if pure, physical beauty was any yardstick.
Athena made that screeching sound again that passed for laughter.
“She’s a model,” Lyon explained. “Some would say a supermodel.”
“Some?” Athena pretended displeasure. “And I thought you really wanted me in your catalogue, Lyon.”
He smiled. “Athena, this is Miss Stone, my interior designer.”
Athena’s smile faded. “No kidding?” She gave Emily her first direct look, her lazy lids coming up in surprise. “You dress more like a linoleum saleslady.”
Emily couldn’t respond, not sure if she’d been insulted.
“Miss Stone?” Lyon’s tone was vaguely irritated as he drew her gaze. “I’m sure Athena meant that nicely. You see, she used to sell linoleum.”
“Don’t remind me!” The model laughed that abrasive laugh, then seemed to get Lyon’s mild reprimand, and her smile dimmed. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it as a slam. You just dress sorta frumpy for a designer. No offense?”
“How could she take offense?” Lyon chided softly, but the rebuff seemed to go over the thin woman’s head. Instead of looking chagrined, she leaned flirtatiously toward Lyon. “What about that swim? Then we can get back to negotiating my contract.”
His smile was charming, and Emily hated the affect it had on her, even though it wasn’t directed her way. “I’ll play lifeguard,” he assured the model.
She giggled, flapping her lashes. “I have to warn you. I’m a bad swimmer!”
He nodded toward Emily. “Good night, Miss Stone.”
She tried her voice, but it had vanished. She could only nod. After the couple left, she absently licked her lips. She realized she still tasted of him, and her heart constricted. Cavalier had been too kind a word for the way this man treated lovemaking.
She glared at the moon with stinging, reproachful eyes. “You should be ashamed!” Even as she said it, she knew she was talking more to herself than to the glowing slice of moon. It was her fault if she felt despondent. She’d just stood there like a fool and let him kiss her, knowing the way he affected her.
It wasn’t all her fault, she realized. Not entirely. And it wasn’t all Lyon Gallant’s fault, either. He was merely doing what came naturally to a libidinous playboy.
She heard Athena’s grating laugh in the distance and closed her eyes, utterly miserable. The last t
hing she needed was to witness Lyon Gallant and Athena “negotiating” on the beach.
Balling her fists, she stalked toward the French doors, plotting Meg’s murder.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I’M NOT speaking to you,” Meg pouted as she flounced into Emily’s room.
Slipping on her terry swimsuit cover-up, Emily turned toward her friend, confused. “What have I done?”
“You’re mad at me, and I don’t speak to people who are mad at me.”
“That’s probably a good plan.” Emily smiled. It was hard to stay angry with Meg, and she’d gotten over being upset hours ago. “But we spent the day in Miami while Ivy did the weekly shopping, and you talked to me the entire time. I can’t see why you’ve taken on this policy of silence now.” She cinched up her short robe. “Especially since I got my hair cut and permed the way you insisted, and I bought this sapphire tank suit that matches my eyes simply so you wouldn’t have a fit in the store.”
“I don’t care! I still say—oh, before I forget...” Meg fished in her lacy cover-up pocket and held out a plastic bag. “Here’s the peas you wanted for the fish.” She scanned her friend with squinty concentration. “As I was saying, with your hair soft and curly around your face like that, it makes your eyes seem huge. Admit it, Emily. The haircut is perfect for you. And that swimsuit—though it’s a little conservative for my tastes is lovely with your coloring.”
Emily stuck the bag of peas in her pocket, surveying herself critically. The shorter bob did give her a softer, more feminine look, she supposed. And being a practical person, she decided it was a good length for summertime. As for the suit, it fit, and she’d needed a new one, anyway.
“But what good is it all?” Meg’s pretty face puckered as she plopped down on the four-poster bed. “Even when I throw you into Mr. Gallant’s arms, you refuse his every overture!”
Emily flushed. She hadn’t been one hundred percent successful at that, so far, but decided not to mention last night’s kiss. “Meg, I told you. He was with a woman. A beautiful model. It was humiliating.”
“Okay.” Meg frowned as though in thought—not a good sign. Crossing her legs, she toyed with the tie on her cover-up. “I believe I’ve come up with a foolproof backup plan.”
Emily shook her head, unused to the feel of delicate curls nudging her forehead and cheeks. “I don’t want to hear it. If you want to go swimming, let’s go. We only have an hour or so of sunlight left.”
“In the cove.”
Emily had grabbed her snorkel and mask but came to an abrupt halt. “Where?”
Meg bounced up. “The cove.” She shrugged. “If you don’t like Mr. Gallant, then there’s always Mr. Sexy Handyman.”
Emily’s lips dropped open. She’d never told Meg! Clamping her jaws tight, she shook her head. “Oh, dear,” she moaned. “Come on, Meg. It’s a long, embarrassing story.”
By the time they got to the beach Meg was laughing so hard she had to wipe away tears. “And you told the carpenter you were having an affair with Mr. Gallant, and he was Mr. Gallant?” She unfurled her beach towel. “Emily Stone! And I thought I did nutty stuff! No wonder you don’t want to have anything to do with him. He sure played you for a dope.”
Emily felt a shudder of renewed humiliation. “You put things so delicately, you should be in the diplomatic service.”
“I know. We’d be at war all the time.” Meg guffawed, dropping to her towel. “But that’s why quiet types like you and Larry love me. I’m uncomplicated and spontaneous. Not like you deep thinkers.” She shrugged off her cover-up. “Well, all this laughing has tired me out. You go feed fish. I’m going to take a nap and catch some rays. But don’t worry, I’ll come up with something.”
“Just sleep, don’t think!” Emily warned, taking off her cover-up and laying it beside the beach towel.
Meg flopped to her stomach, then peered at her friend, giggling and shaking her head incredulously before she closed her eyes.
“You’re a real comfort,” Emily muttered, but found her lips quirking upward as she entered the lapping tidewater. For all Meg’s nosiness and meddling, she managed to lift Emily’s spirits when they most needed lifting. And wasn’t that what friendship was all about?
Though she didn’t swim well, there wasn’t much swimming talent required in snorkeling. In shallow water, she squatted to put her mask below the surface and breathed through her snorkel, scattering peas in the tide to attract colorful fish. As she moved into deeper water, she began to float on her stomach. She’d always been a good floater.
The fish were like an undulating rainbow in the shallow sea as they vied for peas. The most bold ones even nudged her arms and legs as they swarmed by, making her giggle.
Time flew. When the sunset lit the sky with violet flame, she stood and stretched, out of peas and almost out of visibility. Even though the water was clear, it was getting too dark to see under the surface. She turned to walk toward the shore and was horrified by what she saw.
Instead of Meg sound asleep on a beach towel, Lyon Gallant was standing thigh deep in sloshing surf, grinning at her. The only good thing about the picture was—he wasn’t naked.
“Small world.” He moved her way.
The warm evening breeze ruffled her hair, making wet curls dance before her eyes. Nervously, she brushed them back. “A little too small,” she muttered.
He shrugged nonchalantly, muscles rippling with the action. “It is my island. You shouldn’t be too shocked if you run into me.”
“I didn’t for the first two weeks!”
His grin broadened. “Yes, you did.”
She blanched. He was right, of course. “But—but I didn’t know who you were.”
“True.”
Embarrassed by the reminder, she sloshed past him, avoiding eye contact. “Well—I don’t want to keep you.”
“I like your hair short.”
Startled, she flicked a glance his way.
“And the suit’s nice, too.”
He towered there with one taut hip cocked, his lazy gaze quickening her pulse. The sunset was blindingly beautiful behind him, coloring the quiet sea scarlet. He stood before her, so still, glistening with sea spray, he looked like Poseidon, just risen from the ocean depths. Burnished light spilled over him with the same fluid power as the Atlantic, throwing the muscles of his arms and shoulders into sharp relief.
He was the image of a pagan god. It was no wonder he refused to have his picture taken. His island paradise would be forever besieged by wild-eyed, screaming women. They would invade day and night, in all manner of floating craft, if they knew such masculine perfection was secreted only a few miles south of Miami’s beaches.
Feeling awkward, she shifted her mask and snorkel from one hand to the other. “Um, thanks—about my hair and—whatever...” Not knowing what more to do, she spun away, tromping toward dry land.
Her shadow was drawn out and slanted along the wet sand in front of her. In a moment his shadow loomed large beside hers. “Remember what I said last night?”
She didn’t look at him, but shook her head. He’d said a lot of things, things engraved on her brain, but she didn’t plan to admit it.
“About lesson three?”
She swallowed hard, trying to form a nonanswer. “I—I have to find Meg.”
“Mrs. Dillburg has gone back to the house.”
Emily bit her lip.
“She told me to tell you.” There was vague humor in his tone. “Miss Stone, you’re avoiding the subject.”
“I refuse to discuss that with you. Go away!”
His shadow disobeyed, continuing to accompany hers. “Why? Have you found somebody else to teach you about hot sex?”
Shocked by his bluntness, she turned on him. “I’m not having hot sex with anybody!”
“Oh?” He inclined his head, mischief in his eyes. “I thought, since you weren’t jogging through the cove anymore, you’d found a sex teacher you prefer over me.”
Refus
ing to be goaded, she set her fists on her hips. “Of course I haven’t!”
His rich chuckle grated on her nerves.
“I’m thrilled you find my lack of sex appeal so hilarious!” She turned on her heel to escape.
“Not at all. I’m brokenhearted.”
“I can tell.”
He took her hand in his, and the small act of possession was galvanizing. He couldn’t have halted her more thoroughly if she’d been bound and gagged. “Sweetheart,” he said, coming up to face her. “No woman lacks sex appeal when handled right.” He touched her chin with a coaxing finger, prodding her to look at him. “Let me prove it to you.”
His midnight gaze clung to hers, making promises so eloquent she ached for the fulfillment he silently pledged.
That assurance in his eyes affected her like nothing in her life had ever done before. She could feel herself melting, sinking, losing her resolve. Even as she shook her head in denial, her arms rose on their own to encircle his neck, fondling the velvety hair at his nape. “This isn’t right,” she breathed.
“It’s perfect.” He lifted her into his arms, and the thrill of it swept away her intended redress—that she’d been faulting their actions, not questioning her technique.
As if by sorcery, she found herself on a blanket. His kisses began as gentle and undemanding as the warm breeze that caressed them, and she responded eagerly, kissing him back, savoring every lingering moment.
He whispered encouragement, suggestions. The approval he offered when she responded kindled fledgling feelings of competence within her. She emulated his love play, and with each tender reassurance, she grew stronger, more capable. She even began to allow herself to react on instinct, surprised and pleased when her tentative efforts elicited his praise.
So pure and sensuous was Lyon’s coaching she soon didn’t recognize herself under his expertise. The schoolteacher was certainly being taught the finer points of seduction. The hands, the lips, the tongue, the teeth, all had special, pleasing tasks to perform. And Lyon Gallant knew each and every one to perfection.
