by Anne Mather
Rachel was helped onto a stool at the bar, and presently a broad-rimmed glass was set in front of her. ‘Try it,’ Joe said, watching her. ‘I’ve told Antonio to hold the salt.’
The tequila caught the back of Rachel’s throat, and for a moment she felt as if she couldn’t get her breath. Then the alcohol found its way to her stomach and she took a steadying gulp of air. The last thing she needed was to get tipsy, she thought. Being with Joe was intoxicating enough as it was.
Leaving her glass on the bar, she half turned to survey the room behind her. From what she could see, the restaurant was small and intimate, lamplit booths and carefully arranged trellises of greenery providing both privacy and anonymity for the guests. Which was probably why Joe liked it, she reflected a little cynically. A man of his wealth and power was bound to attract attention wherever he went. Yet, despite his obvious attraction for women, he didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would court notoriety.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Joe, who she noticed had accepted only a soft drink, drew her attention, and she swung round again, bumping her knees against his. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said as he parted his legs to accommodate her. But instead of allowing her to move back to the bar, he imprisoned her knees between both of his.
‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘So, tell me, do you like the margarita?’
Rachel glanced at the drink. ‘It’s very nice,’ she said breathily. Then, in an effort to distract herself, ‘You’re only drinking tonic.’
‘I need to keep my head around you,’ said Joe huskily. His eyes darkened as they rested on her mouth. A tiny drop of liquid rested on her lower lip, and before he could stop himself he’d leant forward and captured it with his tongue. ‘Have you any idea how good you taste?’
Rachel swallowed. ‘I don’t think you should make fun of me,’ she protested, and Joe stifled a rueful laugh.
‘Oh, baby,’ he said. ‘I’m not making fun of you.’ He hesitated, and then continued roughly, ‘Myself, maybe. I’m the one who’s drowning here.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘You don’t have to flatter me.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Joe swore then. ‘I’m not flattering you, damn it.’ His hands dug into her knees for a moment and then he released her. ‘Hell, that ex-husband of yours did some number on you, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Rachel reached for the margarita again, needing the punch of the alcohol to steady her nerves.
‘Sure you do,’ said Joe, his expression sardonic. ‘But okay, we’ll play it your way. For the time being, at least.’
Thankfully, Henri returned to offer them menus, and then later to ask what they’d like for dinner, and for the next few minutes Rachel was able to pretend she wasn’t out of her depth. But she had to admit that Joe’s analogy had been apt—though she was the one who was drowning, not him.
Eventually, they were shown to a table by the windows. The lamplight was reflected in the glass and Rachel realised why the restaurant was called the Sea House. Their booth overlooked a rocky promontory, and discreetly placed lights illuminated the water below. There was no moon, but the restless waves lapping against the shoreline were distinctly audible.
She ate scallops with tempura vegetables, and an escalope of seared sea bass with a delicate truffle sauce. The food, as Joe had told her, was delicious, and despite her nerves Rachel found herself enjoying it.
Joe chose the wine, and if she’d reserved judgment about the margarita she had no such doubts about the smooth Chablis. It slid effortlessly down her throat, and she hardly noticed that the waiter refilled her glass several times throughout the meal. It was all wonderful, and unbelievably relaxed, and she was sorry when the time came for them to leave.
‘I’ve had such a good time,’ she said, regarding Joe with shining eyes. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘You could say you’ll accept my offer of the house on Biscayne Bay,’ Joe murmured, capturing her hand that was lying beside her plate. His thumb probed the sensitive veins on the inner side of her wrist before sliding down to caress her palm. ‘I really wish you would.’
Rachel sucked in a breath. ‘And what would you do?’
‘Me?’ Joe lifted her hand and rubbed his lips against her knuckles. ‘You don’t think I’m suggesting we should share the place, do you?’
Rachel hesitated, her stomach fluttering nervously. ‘You—you’re not?’
‘No.’ Joe regarded her over her quivering fingers. ‘I told you, I have a condo on Miami Beach. The house on Biscayne Bay has been in my family for years. My sister used to live there before she moved to Los Angeles. I never have.’
‘Oh!’ Rachel was nonplussed.
‘Does it make a difference?’
It shouldn’t have, really, but she couldn’t deny it did. If Daisy had to stay in the United States for a while, it would be so much better for her than living at the Park Plaza hotel.
‘Maybe,’ she said at last, withdrawing her hand as Joe got to his feet. ‘Can I think about it?’
Joe shrugged, but Henri Libre was at his elbow, and he didn’t say anything more until they were outside the building. Then, as the valet went to get his car, he bent his lips to her ear. ‘Why don’t I show you the place? It might help you make up your mind.’
A particularly strong breeze caused Rachel to sway a little, and she wasn’t sure if it was the wind or the amount of wine she’d consumed that made her feel so unsteady suddenly. But when Joe stepped closer, and slipped a protective arm around her waist, she knew she didn’t want the evening to end.
‘Yes,’ she said, barely audibly, and wondered exactly what she was agreeing to.
The valet reappeared with Joe’s car, and after brief farewells they were on their way. It was quite late; after midnight, Rachel guessed—but there was still plenty of traffic on the main highway.
She leaned her head back against the soft leather squabs and closed her eyes for a moment. It had been a wonderful evening, she thought, guiltily aware that she’d only thought of her daughter very fleetingly. But it was so long since she’d allowed herself any real indulgence whatsoever.
An awareness that the sound of the traffic was fading caused her to open her eyes again, and they widened in dismay when she realised they were heading in the wrong direction. She was sure they’d driven south from Palm Cove, and they were still driving south, with the lights of the city behind them.
She was about to voice her concerns when Joe took the off-ramp into a residential suburb. Here the streets were quieter, even deserted at times. Houses sheltered behind iron gates and high stone walls that were overhung with vines and bougainvillea. Some of the roads were lined with trees, palms and live oaks, the scents of night-blooming stocks mingling with the tang of the sea. Their exotic fragrance invaded the car, a heady mix of salt and sweetness.
‘Where are we?’ she exclaimed, not exactly worried, but not exactly relaxed either. She was sure this wasn’t the way back to her hotel.
‘We’re in Coral Gables,’ replied Joe casually as they negotiated a cross street where the signs were predominantly Spanish. ‘It’s an attractive neighbourhood. In actual fact, it considers itself a separate city within the Greater Miami area.’
Rachel licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘And we’re here because…?’ Though she suspected she already knew.
‘You said you’d let me show you the house we were discussing earlier,’ said Joe, glancing her way. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not much farther.’
Rachel let out a nervous breath as they turned onto a yet narrower road. She glimpsed a sign that read Viejo Avenida, which she thought meant Old Avenue. But the headlights were already illuminating wooden gates ahead, bright with scarlet hibiscus.
‘This is it,’ said Joe, and as if by magic the gates opened to allow them through. ‘Don’t be put off by all this vegetation. If it bothers you, I’ll have Ramon cut it back.’
‘Oh, no.’
The involunta
ry denial was out before she could prevent it. But although she couldn’t yet see much of the house, Rachel thought the gardens were a delight. The headlights swept over an old banyan tree guarding what appeared to be a stone fountain; the fountain gleamed with lichen, a stone angel pouring water from a stone urn.
The drive was enclosed by kudzu and oleander, and a covered porch was cloaked with flowering vines. Rachel saw this before Joe doused his headlights, and in the shadows she saw him looking at her now.
‘Would you care to see inside?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
HOW could she refuse?
Besides, sitting here in the darkness, she felt far more aware of him than she would be in the house. ‘If you like,’ she said, trying to sound casual. She pushed open the door and got out into the almost total blackness. The air seemed marginally cooler here.
How far away was the sea?
She heard the gates close behind them, and guessed Joe had used whatever instrument had opened them on their arrival to complete the task. Evidently her hope that Ramon, whoever he was, had opened them at their approach was wishful thinking. There were no lights that she could see anywhere. Joe even produced a flashlight to guide them to the front door.
He handed the torch to her as he found the key, and the door swung inward. Half expecting a draught of musty air—usual when a house had been unoccupied for a while—Rachel was pleasantly surprised when the air inside seemed relatively fresh. Scented, even, she thought, smelling verbena. Someone looked after the place. As Joe Mendoza was the owner, what else could she have expected?
Nevertheless, it was quite a relief when Joe found the switch and the interior was suddenly illuminated. She turned off the flashlight as Joe closed the door behind them, her breath catching in her throat at the beauty of her surroundings.
The house was old. That was obvious. Probably built in the twenties, she suspected, and extravagantly designed accordingly. An Italian-marble tiled foyer gave access to a handful of rooms, all elegantly furnished from what Rachel could see. Lots of rich wood and fine leather; Tiffany lamps gleaming in the reflected light from the hall.
The walls of the hall were panelled in pale oak, and boasted a gallery of art-nouveau paintings that she guessed were worth a small fortune. A staircase that folded back on itself climbed the far wall, a stained-glass window at the first landing highlighted by a Venetian glass chandelier.
‘Welcome to Bahia Mar,’ said Joe lightly. ‘As you’ve probably guessed, the house backs onto the water.’
Rachel took a breath. ‘I thought I could smell the sea.’
‘Yeah. Well, one of the waterways that runs into the bay,’ agreed Joe, glancing about him. ‘Let’s go into the living room. I’ll switch on the outside lights for you to see the garden.’
Beyond French doors, a paved terrace looked inviting. Chairs and loungers were set around a table, whose canvas awning was securely tied against the wind. Rachel noticed how the bushes surrounding the terrace were bending in the current of air that blew off the water. Joe slid the door back only wide enough for them to step outside.
Despite the wind, the air was still hot and humid, the whirring of the night insects strong in Rachel’s ears as she stared out beyond the reassuring circle of light. She could hear the sucking sound of the water, but it was too dark to see much more. Yet all around her the garden seemed alive with an odd kind of excitement, an excitement that couldn’t help but quicken her awareness of the man beside her.
‘I keep a boat here sometimes,’ Joe offered as she went to grip the wooden rail that separated the terrace from a veritable jungle of tropical vegetation. Thick vines bent in the wind, scattering raindrops in all directions. ‘Be careful,’ he warned as she moved to where a flight of steps disappeared into the darkness. ‘It rained earlier, and they’re probably slippery as hell.’
Rachel decided to take his advice and stay where she was. Much as she would have liked to go farther, she would prefer to do so in daylight when she could see where she was putting her feet. Not all visitors to the garden would be friendly, she reflected. She could imagine how she’d feel if she stepped on a snake or a huge spider.
‘The dock is at the other end of the garden,’ said Joe, touching her elbow. ‘I’d show you, but we’d both get soaked to the skin.’
Which was as good an excuse as any to take their clothes off, he thought, even if getting naked with Rachel might not be such a good idea. He’d promised her dinner; that had been all. And he was trying to keep his word.
Nevertheless, showing her the house at night when he’d known Ramon and his wife, who looked after the place for him, had retired to their quarters in the grounds wasn’t the wisest idea he’d ever had. Not when Rachel was looking so delectable, her silky hair tumbled by the wind.
He closed and locked the French doors after they’d returned to the house, and then followed Rachel back into the entrance hall. He watched as she looked about her, studying her surroundings, touching the delicate petals of an orchid, gliding her fingers over the polished surface of a chest his father had brought back from Venezuela.
‘Well,’ he said, resisting the urge to touch her again. ‘What do you think?’
‘About the house?’ Rachel shrugged, and when she did so the neckline of her top slipped seductively off one shoulder. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she answered, seemingly unaware of what had happened. ‘More beautiful than I could ever have imagined.’
‘So?’ Joe’s enquiry was unnaturally tight.
Rachel hesitated. Then she looked up at him, her green eyes wide and appealing. ‘Do you think I could see upstairs?’ she asked, and Joe felt an unfamiliar tension in his gut.
‘Upstairs?’ He sucked in a breath.
‘Unless we’d be disturbing anyone,’ she said. ‘You mentioned—Ramon, was it?’
‘Ramon and Maria—his wife—look after the place,’ Joe told her swiftly. ‘They have their own quarters separate from the house.’
‘So it’s all right if I look upstairs?’
Joe regarded her tensely. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’ Rachel was amazed at her own temerity. ‘How many bedrooms are there?’
She’d started up the marble staircase as she spoke, slim, bare legs revealing a shapely calf to his helpless eyes. Joe knew he had to follow her. She’d expect it. But damn it, what was going on here? He had the uneasy feeling that he’d lost control of the situation.
Rachel stopped, looking down at him enquiringly, and he realised she was waiting for his reply. ‘Um, six,’ he said, forcing his brain to think of something other than the memory of how her mouth had felt when he’d kissed her. ‘You—you and Daisy could choose any two you liked.’
‘Hmm.’
Rachel nodded before continuing on to the top of the second flight. Then, her hand resting on the sculpted balustrade, she waited for him to join her. The landing stretched away in a semi-circle, wrought-iron spindles shadowy in the muted light from below.
Joe located the switch that illuminated a row of alcoves along a carpeted hallway that led away from the landing and, going ahead, he threw open the door into what used to be the master suite. Stepping back, he allowed her to precede him into the room.
A lamp beside the four-poster bed provided enough illumination for her to admire the traditional-style furniture. Oak chests of drawers, a tall armoire, tapestry-covered armchairs with matching footstools. Most of the floor was concealed beneath an enormous hand-woven carpet, the dark-wood boards surrounding it polished to a rich shine. Filmy sheers hung at long windows, pale against the night outside.
Rachel had expected to be impressed, and she was. The house—its appointments—were all she had imagined and more. Somehow, because of Joe’s background in computers, she’d been prepared for something slick and modern. But Bahia Mar had all the beauty of a bygone age.
She could never stay here, she thought regretfully. As much as she admired the place, she simply couldn’t see herself goi
ng to bed in a room like this. Her whole wardrobe would probably fit in the armoire, let alone the adjoining dressing room. And she hadn’t seen the bathroom yet. It would probably be a homage to sensual indulgence too.
She wondered suddenly if Joe brought all his women here. How many women had shared the luxury of that four-poster bed? He said he didn’t live here, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t stayed here. It was the ideal hideaway for the man who liked his privacy.
Joe was still standing by the door, watching her, and Rachel wondered what he was thinking. Evidently her fear—or was that anticipation?—that he’d brought her here to seduce her had been totally unfounded. She’d really thought, earlier that evening, that he’d wanted more than the breathtaking kiss they’d shared at the bar. And while the sane and sensible part of her brain applauded his restraint—if that was what it was—the excitement she’d felt in the garden was in her blood.
Apart from that ghastly evening at Julie Corbett’s, she’d been celibate for the past eight—or was that nine?—years. She and Steve had separated long before he’d moved out of the house. Why shouldn’t she take a chance for once? Why shouldn’t she have at least one night to remember?
It took some courage, but she crossed to the four-poster and flopped down on one side of the bed. The bed might be old, but the mattress was new and bouncy, the cream silk coverlet cool beneath her bare thighs.
Joe hadn’t moved, his dark face unreadable in the shadowy light. Had he stiffened, or was that just her imagination? He was probably thinking she was crazy, she reflected. She hadn’t exactly encouraged him to think that she wanted more.
She felt so hot, an aching longing stirring deep in her belly. Her whole body felt tingly and alive with needs she’d almost forgotten. And she certainly couldn’t remember an occasion when Steve had made her feel that, if he hadn’t touched her, she’d have died of frustration.
