by Renee Roszel
Not only that, Brice was long gone. She’d heard the distant thwap-thwap-thwap of the helicopter and the howl of its engine a couple of hours ago. There was no question her attacker had been ejected from both the party and the island by Gallant security people. At least she didn’t have to worry about him any longer. But what of other men like him? Evidently she wasn’t much of a judge. Harry had been a cheat, Lyon a heartless playboy and now Brice an amoral brute.
She walked inside her room, deciding it was absurd that she’d gotten dressed in shorts and a blouse just to pace the floor and feel sorry for herself. It would have been more sensible if she’d put on her nightgown and gone to bed. Why had she held onto the hope that Lyon would come up and insist she come back to the party?
The knock at her door made her stumble to a halt and set her heart hammering. Could it possibly be? Silly, girlish optimism surged in spite of everything. “Who—who’s there?”
The knock sounded again, and she realized her response had been too frail to be heard. She scurried to the door. “Who is it?”
“Miss Stone?”
She leaned against the wood, dejected. The man’s voice wasn’t Lyon’s. “Yes?”
“Mr. Gallant sent me.”
She frowned at the cream-colored panels. “He did?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I’m a little late.”
His discretionary tone confused her for a second, then the implication slammed into her brain like a truck. She took an involuntary step backward, shocked. Okay, so she’d dared Lyon to send her a man. But she was sure he knew she’d been angry and was just spouting off. She hadn’t actually meant it. “I—I don’t need anything,” she insisted in a strained voice.
“I’m sorry, Miss Stone. Mr. Gallant told me you might try to send me away. But he said I should be insistent—for your own good.”
Her jaw dropped. “For my own good?” Incredulous, she scowled at the door. “Look, I know why you’re here and I’m appalled that you would go along with such a scummy idea.” She flung the door wide to glare her distaste at him. The young man was certainly impressive looking, in his white slacks and shirt, the Gallant’s distinctive script G embroidered in gold over his heart. His hair was blond and just curly enough to be boyishly appealing. His eyes were light green and big, his lips as pretty as any movie hunk’s. She glowered at him, her fists balled. “Well, at least you’re handsome.”
The young gigolo blinked, but otherwise maintained his aplomb. “Thank you, Miss Stone.”
“However, I’m not—and I repeat not—having sex with you, no matter what Mr. Gallant insists!”
The man’s eyes widened, and his lips parted in what could only have been astonishment. “Ma’am?” Though he’d spoken quietly, Emily could detect alarm in his voice.
She began to smell a very big rat. Something was wrong here. This husky, hired sex partner didn’t seem to be aware of his carnal mission. “Mr. Gallant did send you here to—to...” A clammy chill settled over her. She couldn’t say that word again. As she fumbled for a less explicit way of asking the same question, the man’s face turned crimson all the way to his ears. Feeling a blush heat her own cheeks, she demanded, “Then why did he send you here?”
His Adam’s apple worked as he took a step sideways, indicating a rolling tray that had been hidden by his brawny torso. What she saw made her face burn in earnest. It was a covered silver tray. And she had a sickening feeling it didn’t contain kinky sex toys.
“Your dinner, ma’am.” The answer held a cautious edge, and her heart went out to the poor guy. Clearly he was disconcerted by what he had to assume was sex games of the rich and famous.
She was horrified at herself, and embarrassed beyond words for her assumption about why he’d been sent to her room. But the miserable waiter’s expression was so priceless, she couldn’t restrain a choked giggle. “Food?” She gulped down another nervous laugh. “You brought food?”
He nodded, his features distrustful, as though he expected her to become sexually frustrated and start ripping at his clothes. It seemed she wasn’t a total femme fatale, after all. This poor young employee didn’t appear overwhelmed by her charms. He looked more panicked than anything. Rubbing her temples, she grimaced apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m not hungry.” Indicating the tray, she waved it away. “Please take it back.”
Even as embarrassed as she was, and facing the waiter’s total chagrin, she felt a growing animosity for a certain mischievous host. Did Lyon have any idea when he’d sent this good-looking waiter to her that she would get the wrong idea? Did he mean for her to be humiliated?
“I—I’ll just be going, then,” the man mumbled, grasping the tray. Apparently, in the face of her obvious sexual dementia, he’d decided to forget his orders about being insistent.
“Please, tell Mr. Gallant...” She paused, not sure how much she wanted to say. He looked back, anxiety flashing across his face again. If Lyon had done this with malice aforethought, he’d been unkind to this shy young waiter—possibly scarred him for life about ever handling room service again. “Just tell Mr. Gallant he owes you a raise.”
Looking uncomfortable, he nodded obligingly. “Yes, ma’am.” He left as quickly as the cart would allow, and she didn’t blame him for his shuffling escape. She wondered how long it would take for this story to get around, and was thankful she’d be leaving in a few days.
Once inside her room, she slumped against the door and started to laugh. She laughed so hard, tears came to her eyes. Then she began to sob.
Sleep was out of the question. Strangling Lyon Gallant seemed like a productive idea, but then, there were annoying laws about such things. So, as a compromise, she decided she had to roam. Even the huge mansion proved too confining, so very quickly she found herself outside, walking along the sand, inhaling the ocean breeze, hoping the tranquillity of the night would calm her spirits.
Her mind leaped around, not settling on any one thought. The reason, she knew, was that her mind wanted so badly to settle on Lyon Gallant, and she couldn’t allow that. So it was with total surprise that she found herself at the cove. She hadn’t gone there on purpose. She would never have gone there on purpose. But clearly, some baser part of her subconscious had needed to seek out the spot for its own demented reasons.
She looked around the moonlit bay, then at the skeletal cabin. All was still but for the rustling of leaves in the trade winds and the soft hushing sound of the water gliding along the sand. She was alone in the moon-washed quiet. At least she assumed she was alone. She remembered the last time she’d wandered here. Believing she was by herself, she’d stumbled on her hostnaked. Deciding it was better to be safe, she called, “Hello?”
Nothing answered her but the ocean and the breeze.
“Lyon, if you’re lurking around here naked, please tell me.”
Still only nature’s night voices called to her, soft and welcoming. She was truly alone this time. Relieved, she scanned the dark waters in the cove. Bright ripples winked in the moonlight. Her mind tumbled to when she’d thought she’d acted so uncivilized by rolling up her shorts and wading into this same cove. That recollection made her smile. How naive she’d been. Had it been just over three weeks ago? It seemed like a lifetime. Today, she wouldn’t even think twice about rolling up her shorts. Not only that, she would have no compunction at all about taking off her shoes. She couldn’t even do that the last time she’d waded here.
Feeling a sudden urge, she sat on the grass at the edge of the sand and slipped off her tennis shoes and then her socks. Laying them aside, she glanced at the inviting waters, then frowned as another, more daring idea struck. Why not, she decided, tugging her T-shirt off over her head, then unfastening her bra. Standing, she slipped out of her shorts and panties. She felt like swimming nude. And she would!
She was excited by her new found spontaneity, though she still folded her clothes before venturing into the water. That dichotomy in her character made her laugh out loud. Emily Stone—the m
ethodical wild woman. She giggled again, wading in until the sea lapped at her hips. Diving under, she felt amazingly free, like some native in a primitive land. It was liberating, and she came up laughing.
Floating on her back, she kicked her feet and gazed at the man in the moon. Even though he leered at her, she felt no embarrassment. She was discovering things about herself. She was a perfectly worthy person, and for the first time in her life, she felt like she was just exactly fine. She was as competent a teacher as her father had been, and she was as desirable a woman as Elsa.
She had old-fashioned morals, yes, but she decided that wasn’t so bad. Surely someday, some man would come along who wasn’t a cheat or a degenerate or a self-centered egotist, and that man would find her perfect, old-fashioned morals and all.
Her thoughts sobered and her smile left her face. She hoped that would happen, at least. She wanted to share her life with a nice man. She stopped kicking and let her legs sink to the sand. Standing up, she was surprised how deep the water was. Enjoying the caress of the cool foam across her breasts, she pushed curls out of her eyes. She’d gone out pretty far and decided she’d better start back. If she got caught in a tide heading away from land, she’d be in serious trouble.
When she turned toward shore, she stilled. Lyon was standing there, all moonlit and splendid, his legs braced wide, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He was wearing shorts and nothing else. Apparently he could tell the second she spotted him, for his hands went to his hips and he inclined his head toward the sand. “Whose clothes are these, Miss Stone?” he called across the distance.
She bit her lip. Now she knew why the moon had been leering at her. He’d known Lyon was watching and found her predicament extremely comical. Drat all male species—be they human or jeering extraterrestrial rocks!
“Are these your clothes?” he asked, bending down. When he came up, her bra dangled from his finger. “Very serviceable,” he commented dryly.
She blanched. “Put that down and keep your opinions to yourself!” Though she was in deep water, she reflexively covered her breasts. “Why aren’t you in bed with that pretty lawyer?”
He chuckled, dropping the underwear on her other clothing. “Haven’t you heard how bad workplace affairs can be?”
She pushed a hand through curls that had blown over her eyes, not pleased with his taunting. As if he cared about the rules of sexual conduct! “I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted sarcastically. “I have affairs at school all the time! Teachers, students—”
“Sweetheart, if anybody knows that’s bull, I do.”
The reference to her lack of sexual experience reminded her of why she’d come out here in the first place, and she shot back, “Enough about me. Let’s talk about that little trick you played tonight! That was really mean.”
Though her eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the moon glow made his body look disturbingly virile, she couldn’t quite see his expression from this distance. Still, she had a feeling one of his brows rose in question. “Trick?”
She laughed disparagingly. “Oh, that’s priceless. Don’t deny you sent that man to my room knowing I’d think he planned to have sex with me. That was low!”
Emily watched him closely in the quiet, trying to guess his expression. Was he amused? Confused? Angry?
“You thought I sent Jeffery up there to embarrass you?”
She didn’t like the slither of discomfort that shot through her at his skeptical tone. “Oh, don’t act like it never occurred to you.”
She thought she saw a brief flash of teeth. “Hell, Emily, I told him to take you a hot dog, since you’d never had one. Jeffery’s the son of my security chief, and he’s going to start studying for the priesthood next fall. You probably scared him to death.”
Her stomach knotted. Why did she suddenly feel like she was the only one having carnal thoughts around here? “I don’t believe you!” she said desperately, hoping he was lying but afraid he wasn’t.
“Emily—”
“And don’t call me that!” She was so upset, she was lashing out at anything and everything. She knew it, but couldn’t help herself.
“I thought Emily was your name.”
“Not to you!”
“Okay—Miss Stone. How’s the water?”
Suffering at being caught in such a demoralizing situation, she couldn’t stand to see him remain so calm and in control. Refusing to allow him to stand there making idle conversation, she challenged defensively, “How long have you been spying on me?”
“Spying?”
She had a dreadful thought and glared dubiously at him. “Were you lurking around in the dark when I called out to you?”
He pursed his lips but said nothing. She couldn’t tell if he was surprised by the question and had no idea what she was talking about, or just keeping her in suspense. Anxious, she shouted, “I suppose you didn’t feel you had to answer because I asked if you were naked, and you were in a swimsuit. It was a perfect loophole. Don’t lie!”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
She stiffened with indignation at his evasion. Had he seen her nude or hadn’t he? “What’s the use! You’ll tell me whatever you want to, anyway,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“What?” he called. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
She glowered at him, shouting, “I said, I hope you enjoyed yourself!”
“I always try to, sweetheart.”
She huffed with frustration. This was getting her nowhere. “So what are your plans now? Setting up a video camera?”
His crooked grin was clear in the moonlight, and she trembled in reaction. “Actually, I’d planned on swimming.”
Her worst fears seemed confirmed, but she had to ask. “Naked?”
He lifted a nonchalant shoulder, his teeth continuing to gleam in the moon’s radiance. “You say it as though you’re shocked by the idea,” He ambled a few steps forward. “That’s pretty hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Considering where your clothes are.”
“But...” She clamped her jaws tight, with no idea how to answer that. He was right, of course. “But I’m alone! I planned to stay alone,” was all she could come up with.
“Me, too.” He hooked a threatening thumb beneath his waistband. “Funny how things work out.”
“Don’t you dare!”
He didn’t go further with the action. Just eyed her for a long moment. “It’s my cove. Remember?”
“You could go away—for a few minutes!”
“Oh?” He removed his thumb, his tone ripe with amusement. “And why would I do that?”
“Because—maybe—you’re a gentleman?”
He chuckled. “That sounds like you’re guessing. Don’t you know by now?”
“You spy on me in the dark, and you have the gall to ask me that?”
A silver slash of moonlight highlighted his brows as they furrowed. “Look, Miss Stone. The first rule of swimming in the ocean is not to go out alone. You’re no longer in the protected cove. And if you’ll pardon an observation, you’re only a fair swimmer. Gentleman or no gentleman, it’s my duty to make sure you’re okay.”
“Well, I’m fine,” she shouted, abashed. Could he honestly have been concerned for her safety? The probability seemed so remote it was almost laughable—almost. “Well—if that’s really the case, feel free to quit playing lifeguard and go.”
“Not until I know you’re safely out.”
She heaved a moan that held an obscene undertone. “Then we’ll both be here forever, because I’m not marching out naked in front of you, no matter what you might have already seen!”
“Maybe I could turn around.”
“Maybe you could go to blazes, too!”
“You’re in a bad mood, sweetheart,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen this side of you before.”
“And you probably think it’s the current economic downturn that has me upset—you’ll blame anything but yourself!”
He was silent
for a minute, all moonlit, lean-limbed muscle. She stared, unable to help herself. The man was physically impeccable yet emotionally inaccessible. “I got here five minutes ago,” he finally said, and for some crazy reason she believed him. With a shrug, he added, “I’ll wait for you over the ridge, but you have to keep talking so I’ll know you’re okay.”
She frowned in confusion. “Talking?”
“Or you could sing.”
She shook her head with exasperation. “Go. I’ll talk.”
“What about?”
He was being downright difficult, and he knew it. “I’ll discuss how much I hate you. That should take awhile.”
“This could be enlightening.” Presenting her with his impressive back, he started to walk away. “Okay. I’m listening.”
She watched him head up the slope. He even walked sexy. She shoved the unruly thought from her mind. “First of all, you think you’re right all the time,” she shouted. “Which you’re not!” He kept moving, reaching the crest of the hill, then started down the other side. “And you’re way too addicted to making money. There’s more to life than money and possessions and—and toys, you know!”
He’d descended to where she could only see him from the waist up, then just from the shoulders. “I don’t like the way you—you go without socks!” She was grasping at straws. In all honesty, there was very little she didn’t like about him. The only thing that really got to her was his inability, or unwillingness, to see women as equals, as possible life partners.
“And—and I don’t like the way you—the way you kiss!” She was lying now. It was a huge, bold-faced fabrication that tasted like ash on her tongue.
He’d dropped out of sight, so she decided she’d better make fast work of getting out of the water and throwing on her clothes. “You’re the type of man every girl is warned about by her mother,” she yelled. “You’re Mr. Soft-Talking Hard-Hearted Virgin Hunter who leaves women broken in the dust at your feet. And you don’t even notice!”
