by Nicola Marsh
Torn between wanting to indulge her newly awakened cravings and wanting to slap herself upside the head, she marched over to the change rooms.
The sooner she got back behind the safety of her computer screen and away from sexy surfer, the better.
* * *
Archer jammed the surfboards into the sand and took off for the ocean at a run.
He needed the clarity only the sea could bring. And the chill to ease his inexorable desire.
He’d had a close call back there. So close to giving in to the relentless drive to possess Callie again, to see if the resurfacing memories were half as good as he remembered.
Who was he trying to kid? Those hazy memories were becoming sharper by the day. Even the most trivial things, like watching Callie snag her hair into a ponytail or jot down notes, would resurrect memories of how she’d done the same thing years ago, and he’d be catapulted back to a time when they’d had no responsibilities, no pressures, and were free to indulge their passion.
A time he’d deliberately screwed up to avoid feeling the same way he had when he’d discovered his family had withheld the truth about his dad: as if he wasn’t good enough.
He’d trusted his family and they’d let him down, seriously interfering with his ability to trust anyone.
If he couldn’t trust them, who could he trust?
Walking away from Callie back then had been inevitable. Early days in a burgeoning career taking him straight to the top. So when she’d got too close, when he’d started to think beyond Capri, when those trust issues had raised their ugly head, it had been easier to sabotage and run without looking back.
That didn’t stop him wanting to have that time again.
Now.
The waves broke around his ankles as he sprinted into the sea and dived through the break, the invigorating brace of cold water slicing through his musings but doing little to obliterate his need for her.
He should have known this blasé flirting as a ploy to distract himself from the impending catch-up with his folks would morph into something more.
He had a feeling nothing would dull this ache for Callie. Nothing less than indulging in a mind-blowing physical encounter designed to slake his thirst and get this thing out of his system.
He could have damped down his need, could have kept things friendly and continued on his casual flirting way, if she hadn’t blown his mind in the shed.
She wanted this too.
She’d had a choice and she’d made it, leaning back into him, pressing against him, showing him she felt the buzz too.
He’d been stunned, considering the way she’d aborted their kiss a few hours ago. This time, why had he bolted?
As he sliced through the water, free-styling as if he had a shark on his tail, he knew.
Last night, when she’d divulged all that heavy stuff about her mum and he’d held her for ages comforting her, he’d started to feel something. He’d felt that sitting on the deck of his home for ages, with a woman he seriously cared about, content to just sit and not talk, was kind of nice.
It was the first time he’d ever been in Torquay and felt like staying. And that terrified him more than any Great White. He wasn’t a stayer. Even for a woman with doe eyes and a soft touch.
He rolled onto his back, letting the swell take him. He closed his eyes, savouring the sun warming his body.
This was where he felt at home. In the ocean, with all the time in the world to float, far from people he’d trusted who hadn’t returned the favour.
This was where he belonged.
Then why the urgent pull, like a rip dragging him where he didn’t want to go, that said belonging to Callie mightn’t be so bad after all?
* * *
Callie felt like a trussed-up turkey in the wetsuit. She hated the way the rubber stuck to her skin. She hated the way it moulded and delineated every incriminating bump, and she particularly hated how it made her feel.
Like a novice floundering way out of her depth.
She didn’t like floundering. She liked staying in control and staying on top and staying in charge.
She’d lost control once before. And the reason was staring at her with blatant appreciation as she trudged towards him.
‘By your foul expression, I’m guessing a wisecrack about rubber and being protected isn’t in my best interests?’
She glared at him. ‘I’m here under sufferance and you damn well know it.’
She could have sworn he muttered, ‘You weren’t suffering in the shed,’ but didn’t want to call him on it.
She didn’t need a reminder of the heat they’d generated in the shed. Not if she wanted to stay upright on this stupid piece of fibreglass for more than two seconds.
Errant, erotic thoughts of Archer were guaranteed wipe-out material.
She yelped as something brushed her ankle—only to discover Archer grinning up at her.
‘How about a crack about keeping a wild woman on a leash?’
She let him fasten the cord attached to the board around her ankle before nudging him away with her foot. ‘How about I crack you over the head with one of those boards?’
He laughed, straightened, and unkinked his back. ‘Just trying to get you to loosen up.’ He added a few side stretches. ‘The looser you are, the easier it’ll be to get the feel of balancing on the board.’
‘I’m loose.’
She took a step and tripped over the leash in the process. His hand shot out to grab her, and even through the rubber his touch sent a lick of heat through her.
‘You okay?’
An embarrassed blush flushed her cheeks. ‘Let’s do this.’
Concern tinged his glance before determination hardened his mouth, and she wondered if this was his game face—the one he used pre-competition. If so, she wasn’t surprised he’d won the world championship five times.
He pointed towards the sea. ‘We’re in luck. Surf’s up today and the waves are off the hook.’ She raised an eyebrow and he winced. ‘Habit. Surf-speak for the waves being a good size and shape.’
‘Gnarly dude,’ she muttered, earning a rueful grin.
‘We’ll concentrate on the basics today, and see if we can catch a wave or two.’
Basics sounded good to her. Basics wouldn’t involve tubes or rips or drowning, right?
‘I’ll break it down into steps and you copy, okay?’
She nodded and he dropped down on the board on his front, leaving her with a pretty great view of a rubber-moulded butt.
‘You’ll need to be in this position to paddle out.’
Got it, she thought. Paddling...butt...
‘Cal? You planning on joining me down here?’
With an exasperated grunt at her attention span—not entirely her fault, considering the distraction on offer—she lowered herself onto the board and imitated paddling.
‘Nice action,’ he said, and her head snapped up to check for the slightest hint of condescension.
Instead she caught him staring in the same vicinity she’d been looking at a moment ago, and a thrill of womanly pride shot through her.
‘Next is the pop-up.’ He demonstrated going from lying on his board to standing, all in one jump. ‘And gaining your balance.’
He held his arms out to his sides, looking so perfectly natural on the board it was as if it was an extension of his feet.
‘Now you try.’
And try she did. Over and over again. Until her arms, knees and back ached from her lousy pop-ups and her pride absolutely smarted.
Though she had to hand it to him. Archer was a patient teacher. He praised and cajoled and criticised when needed, eventually getting her from the sand into the water. Where the fun really began.
‘Don’t worry if you get caught inside,’ he said, paddling alongside her.
‘Huh?’ she mouthed, concentrating on keeping her belly on the board so she didn’t slip off as the swell buffeted.
‘It’s when a surfer paddles out and
can’t get past the breaking surf to the calmer part of the ocean to catch a wave.’
‘Right.’ She tried a salute and almost fell off the board.
‘If you do, you can try to duck-dive by pushing the nose of the board under the oncoming wave, but it’s probably easier just to coast back into shore and we’ll try again later.’
She nodded, knowing there wouldn’t be a ‘later’. She reckoned she had enough first-hand experience now to facilitate the online forums. Perching on top of a wave wouldn’t give her much more beyond a momentary rush of adrenalin.
‘Follow me.’
And she did. Until she got caught inside, just as he’d predicted, and ended up paddling back to shore, where she gratefully dragged the board onto firm sand, plonked her butt, and watched Archer strut his stuff.
The guy was seriously good—cresting waves, twisting and turning on his board with precision, looking like the poster boy for surfing that he was.
She could have watched him for hours, but a few minutes later he coasted into shore, picked up his board, tucked it under his arm and jogged towards her.
For some inexplicable reason she felt compelled to get up and run to meet him halfway. Last night when he’d comforted her might have been the catalyst, or maybe his admission on the beach earlier today, but whatever it was she felt she wanted to be close to him.
As he drew near the urge intensified, and when he smiled at her, with tiny rivulets of sea water running down that impossibly handsome face, her heart twisted like one of the fancy manoeuvres he’d pulled out there.
She wanted him.
With a desperation that clawed at all her well-formulated, highly logical reasons why she shouldn’t, shredding them beyond repair.
‘You’re looking at me like I’m Red Riding Hood and you’re the big bad wolf.’ He laid the board down and sat beside her. ‘My showy moves impress you?’
‘You impress me,’ she said, sucking in a deep breath and covering his hand with hers.
His questioning stare snagged hers, and with her heart pounding loud enough to drown out the breaking surf she leaned across and did what she should have had the guts to do earlier that morning.
She kissed him.
* * *
Archer had pulled some pretty fancy moves out there. Show-pony stunts: fins out, a sharp turn where the fins slide off the top of the wave; soul arch, arching his back to demonstrate his casual confidence; switch-foot, changing from right to left foot forward, and hang-ten, putting ten toes over the nose of his long board.
Usually when he hit the waves he surfed for himself, for the sheer pleasure it brought him. It was that enjoyment that gave him the edge in competitions, for he concentrated on fun and not his opponents.
Not today. Today he’d surfed to impress Callie.
By that lip-lock she’d just given him it had worked. And how.
If he’d known that was all it would take he would have hit the waves the first day they’d arrived.
‘You’re grinning like an idiot,’ she said, nudging him with her elbow.
‘It’s not every day a guy gets a kiss like that for balancing on a few waves.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Give me a break. You get smooches from bikini babes every time you win a tournament.’
‘Congratulatory kisses.’ He traced her lower lip with his fingertip, exploring the contour, feeling the faintest wobble. ‘Nothing compared to that lip-smacker you just planted on me.’
She blushed, but to her credit didn’t look away. ‘You wanted a date for the wedding. I’m just trying to make it look authentic.’
‘How authentic do you want to get?’ He puckered up in a ludicrous parody and she chuckled.
‘How important is it for you to convince them I’m the real deal?’
His smile faltered as her innocent question hit unerringly close to home. ‘Hold my hand, gaze adoringly into my eyes, smooch a little. Well, actually, a lot. That should do the trick.’
‘So why would you need a date to your brother’s wedding anyway?’
He’d been waiting for her to ask that for days, but she’d been so hell-bent on burying her nose in business and avoiding him that they hadn’t strayed into personal territory. It looked as if last night had well and truly changed all that.
‘Things with my folks are a little tense when I come home for flying visits. It’s awkward.’
He waited for the inevitable why but she surprised him, tilting her head to one side as if studying him. ‘I’m surprised a tough guy like you can’t handle a little awkward.’
He should have known she wouldn’t buy his trite answer. But how could he tell her the rest without having to answer a whole lot of other questions he’d rather left unsaid?
‘It’s easier this way.’ He snagged her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, enjoying the flare of heat in her eyes. ‘And much more enjoyable with a date I actually like.’
Her nose crinkled adorably. ‘You like me? What are you? In fifth grade?’
‘You’ll be pleased to know I’m a lot more experienced than I was in fifth grade,’ he said, tugging on her hand until she almost straddled his lap. ‘I like you, Callie. You know that. And I’d like nothing more than to spend the next few days showing you how much.’
He expected her to bolt again. To revert back to business mode. To resurrect the invisible wall she’d steadfastly maintained since they’d arrived.
Instead, she surprised him.
She captured his face between her hands and gently bridged the distance, whispering against the side of his mouth, ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
* * *
Callie didn’t want time to second guess her impulse.
She wanted Archer.
Now.
‘Let’s get cleaned up, grab some dinner, then head home—’
‘No.’ It almost sounded like a desperate yell, and she laughed to cover her nervousness. ‘I—I want this to be like in Capri.’
His eyes widened at the implication.
He remembered. Remembered that hedonistic time in a sheltered alcove on a deserted beach. Remembered the frantic hands and straining mouths and incredible eroticism of it.
‘You sure?’
‘Never been surer of anything in my life.’
And then she promptly made a mockery of her brave declaration by stumbling as she tried to stand.
He steadied her, his gaze never leaving hers. ‘Cal, do we need to talk about afterwards? Because nothing will change. Our lives are separate—’
‘Since when did you talk so much?’
She silenced him with a kiss—a hot, open-mouthed kiss designed to distract and titillate and eradicate any lingering doubts they might harbour.
When they finally came up for air, he held her hand as if he’d never let go. ‘There’s a bunch of deserted dunes just over that hill.’
She liked how he didn’t spell it out, how he left the option up to her with his silent challenge.
Tilting her head to meet his heated gaze, she tried her best sexy smile and hoped it didn’t come out a grimace. ‘Lead the way.’
After making a detour to the sheds, where they struggled out of their wetsuits and Archer snagged his wallet and a throw rug, they ran, their feet squeaking on the clean sand, their soft panting in rhythm with her pounding heart.
When they crested the hill and she saw the pristine dunes stretched out before them tears stung her eyes.
It was so beautiful. A perfect place to resurrect incredible memories and to create new ones.
They didn’t speak as he led her by the hand to a secluded spot sheltered by an overhanging rock, laid out the rug, and knelt.
She’d never felt so worshipped as she did at that moment, with the guy she’d once had serious feelings for kneeling at her feet and staring up at her in blatant adoration.
When he tugged on her hand she joined him on the rug and in a flurry of whispered endearments, sensual caresses, and mind-blowing passion they came toge
ther.
Afterwards, as Archer cradled her in his arms and she stared at the seagulls wheeling overhead, Callie wondered one thing.
What the hell have I done?
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SHOULD’VE known you two bozos couldn’t keep your big traps shut.’
Archer glared at Trav and Tom, who merely grinned and raised their beer bottles in his direction.
‘What do you mean? This barbecue’s in lieu of Trav’s rehearsal dinner. You had to come.’ Tom smirked and gave a less than subtle head-jerk in Callie’s direction. ‘And you couldn’t leave your wedding date at home. That just wouldn’t be right.’
Archer punched him on the arm. ‘I had to tolerate Mum’s interrogation on the phone for thirty minutes this arvo, and I’ve spent the last hour dodging her since we arrived, thanks to you.’
Tom raised his beer. ‘You can thank me properly when she’s presiding over your wedding.’
‘Like hell,’ Archer muttered, the thought of marriage making his chest burn like he’d scoffed a double-pepperoni pizza.
‘It happens to the best of us, bro.’ Trav nudged him and Archer frowned. ‘You lot are a poor example to bachelors the world over.’
‘Hey, I’m a bachelor.’ Tom thrust his chest out and beat it with his fists like a gorilla and they laughed.
‘With behaviour like that I’m not surprised,’ Trav said, pointing at a group of his fiancée’s friends clustered around the chocolate fountain. ‘Shelly has loads of nice single friends. Why don’t you go chat up one of them?’
Tom shrugged, his nonchalance undermined by the way his fingers gripped his beer. ‘Not interested.’
‘Not every woman’s like—’
‘Trav, Shelly’s calling you,’ Archer said, earning a grateful glance from Tom.
‘Think about it. Izzy needs a mum.’
Archer stiffened, expecting Tom to fire a broadside at Travis, but he merely muttered ‘Punk’ under his breath as Trav headed for his bride-to-be with the swagger of a young guy in love.
‘At the risk of being bashed over the head with that bottle, maybe Trav’s right.’
As expected, Tom bristled. ‘Izzy and I are doing just fine.’
