by Nora Roberts
She forgot to be sophisticated and dashed toward the hotel.
He watched her go. She puzzled him, puzzled him as no woman had since he’d been a boy and too young to understand that a woman was not meant to be understood. And he wanted her. That wasn’t new, but the desire had come with surprising speed and surprising force.
Rebecca Malone might have started out as an impulse, but she was now a mystery. One he intended to solve. With a little laugh, he bent to scoop up the shoes she’d forgotten. He hadn’t felt quite so alive in months.
Chapter Two
Stephen wasn’t the kind of man who rearranged his schedule to spend the day with a woman. Especially a woman he barely knew. He was a wealthy man, but he was also a busy man, driven by both pride and ambition to maintain a high level of involvement in all his projects. He shouldered responsibility well and had learned to enjoy the benefits of hard work and dedication.
His time on Corfu wasn’t free—or rather hadn’t been planned as free. Mixing business and pleasure wasn’t his style. He pursued both, separately, with utter concentration. Yet he found himself juggling appointments, meetings, conference calls, in order to have the afternoon open for Rebecca.
He supposed any man would want to get to know a woman who flirted easily over a champagne flute one moment and dived fully dressed into the sea the next.
“I’ve postponed your meeting with Theoharis until five-thirty this evening.” Stephen’s secretary scribbled on a notepad she had resting on her lap. “He will meet you for early cocktails in the suite. I’ve arranged for hors d’oeuvres and a bottle of ouzo.”
“Always efficient, Elana.”
She smiled and tucked a fall of dark hair behind her ear. “I try.”
When Stephen rose to pace to the window, she folded her hands and waited. She had worked for him for five years, she admired his energy and his business acumen, and—fortunately for both of them—had long since gotten over an early crush. There was often speculation about their personal relationship, but though he could be friendly—even kind when it suited him—with Stephen, business was business.
“Contact Mithos in Athens. Have him telex that report by the end of the day. And I want to hear from Lereau by five, Paris time.”
“Shall I call and give him a nudge?”
“If you think it’s necessary.” Restless, he dug his hands in his pockets. Where had this sudden discontent come from? he wondered. He was wealthy, successful, and free, as always, to move from place to place. As he stared out at the sea, he remembered the scent of Rebecca’s skin.
“Send flowers to Rebecca Malone’s suite. Wildflowers, nothing formal. This afternoon.”
Elana made a note, hoping she’d get a look at this Rebecca Malone before long. She had already heard through the grapevine that Stephen had had dinner with an American woman. “And the card?”
He wasn’t a man for poetry. “Just my name.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” He turned and offered her a half smile. “Take some time off. Go to the beach.”
Pad in hand, she rose. “I’ll be sure to work it in. Enjoy your afternoon, Stephen.”
He intended to. As she left him, Stephen glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes before eleven. There was work he could do to fill in the time, a quick call that could be made. Instead, he picked up Rebecca’s shoes.
After three tries, Rebecca settled on an outfit. She didn’t have an abundance of clothes, because she’d preferred to spend her funds on travel. But she had splurged here and there on her route through Europe. No tidy CPA suits, she thought as she tied a vivid fuchsia sash at the waist of her sapphire-colored cotton pants. No sensible shoes or pastel blouses. The last shock of color came from a primrose-hued blouse cut generously to layer over a skinny tank top in the same shade as the slacks.
The combination delighted her, if only because her firm had preferred quiet colors and clean lines.
She had no idea where she was going, and she didn’t care.
It was a beautiful day, even though she’d awoken with a dull headache from the champagne, and the disorientation that went with it. A light, early breakfast on her terrace and a quick dip in the sea had cleared both away. She still had trouble believing that she could lounge through a morning as she pleased—and that she’d spent the evening with a man she’d just met.
Aunt Jeannie would have tut-tutted and reminded her of the dangers of being a woman alone. Some of her friends would have been shocked, others envious. But they would all have been astonished that steady Rebecca had strolled in the moonlight with a gorgeous man with a scar on his jawline and eyes like velvet.
If she hadn’t had his jacket as proof, she might have thought she’d dreamed it. There had never been anything wrong with her imagination—just the application of it. Often she’d pictured herself in an exotic place with an exotic man, with moonlight and music. Imagined herself, she remembered. And then she’d turned on her calculator and gotten down to business.
But she hadn’t dreamed this. She could still remember the giddy, half-terrified feeling that had swarmed through her when he’d gathered her close. When his mouth had been only an inch from hers and the sea and the champagne had roared in her head.
What if he had kissed her? What tastes would she have found? Rich, strong ones, she mused, almost able to savor them as she traced a fingertip over her lips. After just one evening she was absolutely certain there would be nothing lukewarm about Stephen Nickodemus. She wasn’t nearly so certain about Rebecca.
She probably would have fumbled and blushed and stammered. With a shake of her head, she pulled a brush through her hair. Exciting men didn’t tumble all over themselves to kiss neat, practical-minded women.
But he’d asked to see her again.
Rebecca wasn’t certain whether she was disappointed or relieved that he hadn’t pressed his advantage and kissed her. She’d been kissed before, held before, of course. But she had a feeling—a very definite feeling—that it wouldn’t be the same with Stephen. He might make her want more, offer more, than she had with any other man.
Crossing bridges too soon, she decided as she checked the contents of her big straw bag. She wasn’t going to have an affair with him, or with anyone. Even the new, improved Rebecca Malone wasn’t the type for a casual affair. But maybe— She caught her lower lip between her teeth. If the time was right she might have a romance she’d remember long after she left Greece.
For now, she was ready, but it was much too early to go down. It would hardly make her look like a well-traveled woman of the world if she popped down to the lobby and paced for ten minutes. This was her fantasy, after all. She didn’t want him to think she was inexperienced and overeager.
Only the knock on the door prevented her from changing her mind about her outfit one more time.
“Hello.” Stephen studied her for a moment, unsmiling. He’d nearly been certain he’d exaggerated, but she was just as vibrant, just as exciting, in the morning as she had been in the moonlight. He held out her shoes. “I thought you might need these.”
She laughed, remembering her impulsive dunk in the sea. “I didn’t realize I’d left them on the beach. Come in a minute.” With a neatness ingrained in her from childhood, she turned to take them to the bedroom closet. “I’m ready to go if you are.”
Stephen lifted a brow. He preferred promptness, but he never expected it in anyone but a business associate. “I’ve got a Jeep waiting. Some of the roads are rough.”
“Sounds great.” Rebecca came out again, carrying her bag and a flat-brimmed straw hat. She handed Stephen his jacket, neatly folded. “I forgot to give this back to you last night.” Should she offer to have it cleaned? she wondered when he only continued to look at her. Fiddling with the strap of her bag, she decided against it. “Does taking pictures bother you?”
“No, why?”
“Good, because I take lots of them. I can’t seem to stop myself.” She wasn’t kidding. As St
ephen drove up into the hills, she took shots of everything. Sheep, tomato plants, olive groves and straggly sage. He stopped so that she could walk out near the edge of a cliff and look down at a small village huddled near the sea.
She wouldn’t be able to capture it on film; she wasn’t clever enough. But she knew she’d never forget that light, so pure, so clear, or the contrast between the orange tiled roofs and the low white-washed walls and the deep, dangerous blue of the water that flung itself against the weathered rock that rose into harsh crags. A stork, legs tucked, glided over the water, where fishing boats bobbed.
There were nets drying on the beach and children playing. Flowers bloomed and tangled where the wind had planted them, more spectacular than any planned arrangement could ever be.
“It’s beautiful.” Her throat tightened with emotion, and with a longing she couldn’t have defined. “So calm. You imagine women baking black bread and the men coming home smelling of fish and the sea. It looks as though it hasn’t changed in a hundred years.”
“Very little.” He glanced down himself, surprised and more than a little pleased that she would be touched by something so simple. “We cling to antiquity.”
“I haven’t seen the Acropolis yet, but I don’t think it could be any more spectacular than this.” She lifted her face, delighted by the way the wind whipped at it. Here, high above the sea, she absorbed everything—the salty, rough-edged bite of the wind, the clarity of color and sound, and the man beside her. Letting her camera dangle from its strap, she turned to him. “I haven’t thanked you for taking the time to show me all of this.”
He took her hand, not to raise it to his lips, just to hold it. It was a link he hadn’t known he wanted. “I’m enjoying seeing the familiar through someone else’s eyes. Your eyes.”
Suddenly the edge of the cliff seemed too close, the sun too hot. Could he do that just by touching her? With an effort, Rebecca smiled, keeping her voice light. “If you ever come to Philadelphia, I’ll do the same for you.”
It was odd. She’d looked almost frightened for a moment. Fragile and frightened. Stephen had always carefully avoided women who were easily bruised. “I’ll consider that a promise.”
They continued to drive, over roads that jarred and climbed and twisted. She saw her first of the agrimi, the wild goat of Greece, and the rocky pastures dotted with sturdy sheep. And everywhere, rich and defiant, was the intense color of flowers.
He didn’t complain when she asked him to stop so that she could snap pictures of tiny blue star blossoms that pushed their way through cracks in the rock. He listened to her delight as she framed a thick, thorny stem topped with a ragged yellow flower. It made him realize, and regret, that it had been years since he’d taken the time to look closely at the small, vital things that grew around him.
He looked now, at Rebecca standing in the sunlight, her hat fluttering around her face and her laugh dancing on the air.
Often the road clung to cliffs that plunged dizzily into the sea. Rebecca, who was too timid to fight rush-hour traffic, found it exhilarating.
She felt almost like another person. She was another person, she thought, laughing as she held on to her hat to keep the wind from snatching it away.
“I love it!” she shouted over the wind and the noise of the engine. “It’s wild and old and incredible. Like no place I’ve ever been.”
Still laughing, she lifted her camera and snapped his picture as he drove. He wore sunglasses with amber lenses and had a cigar clamped between his teeth. The wind blew through his hair and chased the smoke behind them. He stopped the Jeep, took the camera and snapped a picture of her in turn.
“Hungry?”
She dragged her tousled hair back from her face. “Starving.”
He leaned over to open her door. A current passed through her, sharp and electric, strong enough to make him pause with his arm across her body and his face close to hers. It was there again, he thought as he waited and watched. The awareness, ripe and seductive. And the innocence, as alluring as it was contradictory. In a test—a test for both of them—he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. It was as soft as her scent.
“Are you afraid of me, Rebecca?”
“No.” That was true; she was nearly sure of it. “Should I be?”
He didn’t smile. Through the amber lenses she saw that his eyes were very intense. “I’m not entirely sure.” When he pulled away he heard her release an unsteady breath. He wasn’t feeling completely steady himself. “We’ll have to walk a little first.”
Confused, her mind churning, she stepped out onto the dirt path. A woman on a simple date didn’t tremble every time a man got close, Rebecca told herself as Stephen lifted the picnic basket out of the back. She was behaving like a teenager, not a grown woman.
Troubled by his own thoughts, Stephen stopped beside her. He hesitated, then held out a hand. It felt good, simply good, when she put hers in it.
They walked through an olive grove in a companionable silence while the sun streamed down on dusty leaves and rocky ground. There was no sound of the sea here, but when the wind was right she could hear the screech of a gull far away. The island was small, but here it seemed uninhabited.
“I haven’t had a picnic in years.” Rebecca spread the cloth. “And never in an olive grove.” She glanced around, wanting to remember every leaf and pebble. “Are we trespassing?”
“No.” Stephen took a bottle of white wine from the basket. Rebecca left him to it and started rummaging in search of food.
“Do you know the owner?”
“I’m the owner.” He drew the cork with a gentle pop.
“Oh.” She looked around again. It should have occurred to her that he would own something impressive, different, exciting. “It sounds romantic. Owning an olive grove.”
He lifted a brow. He owned a number of them, but he had never thought of them as romantic. They were simply profitable. He offered her a glass, then tapped it with his own. “To romance, then.”
She swept down her lashes, battling shyness. To Stephen, the gesture was only provocative. “I hope you’re hungry,” she began, knowing she was talking too fast. “It all looks wonderful.” She took a quick sip of wine to ease her dry throat, then set it aside to finish unpacking the basket.
There were sweet black olives as big as a man’s thumb, and there was a huge slab of sharp cheese. There were cold lamb and hunks of bread, and fruit so fresh it could have been just plucked from the stem.
Gradually she began to relax again.
“You’ve told me very little about yourself.” Stephen topped off her wine and watched her bite into a ripe red plum. “I know little more than that you come from Philadelphia and enjoy traveling.”
What could she tell him? A man like him was bound to be bored with the life story of the painfully ordinary Rebecca Malone. Lies had never come easily to her, so she skirted between fact and fiction. “There’s little more. I grew up in Philadelphia. I lost both of my parents when I was a teenager, and I lived with my aunt Jeannie. She was very dear, and she made the loss bearable.”
“It’s painful.” He flicked his lighter at the end of a cigar, remembering not only the pain, but also the fury he had felt when his father had died and left him orphaned at sixteen. “It steals childhood.”
“Yes.” So he understood that. It made her feel close to him, close and comfortable. “Maybe that’s why I like to travel. Every time you see a new place you can be a child again.”
“So you don’t look for roots?”
She glanced at him then. He was leaning back against the trunk of a tree, smoking lazily, watching carefully. “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Is there a man?”
She moved her shoulders, determined not to be embarrassed. “No.”
He took her hand, drawing her closer. “No one?”
“No, I …” She wasn’t certain what she would have said, but could say nothing at all when he turned her palm upward and
pressed his lips to its center. She felt the fire burst there, in her hand, then race everywhere.
“You’re very responsive, Rebecca.” He lowered her hand but kept it in his. He could feel the heat, but he wasn’t sure whether it had sprung to her skin or to his own. “If there’s no one, the men in your Philadelphia must be very slow.”
“I’ve been too … busy.”
His lips curved at that. There was a tremor in her voice, and there was passion in her eyes. “Busy?”
“Yes.” Afraid she’d make a fool of herself, she drew her hand back. “This was wonderful.” Trying to calm herself, she pushed a hand through her hair. “You know what I need?”
“No. Tell me.”
“Another picture.” She sprang to her feet and, steadier, grinned. “A memento of my first picnic in an olive grove. Let’s see … you can stand right over there. The sun’s good in front of that tree, and I should be able to frame in that section of the grove.”
Amused, Stephen tapped out his cigar.
“How much more film do you have?”
“This is the last roll—but I have scads back at the hotel.” She flicked him a quick laughing glance. “I warned you.”
“So you did.” Competent hands, he thought as he watched her focus and adjust. He hadn’t realized he could be as attracted to competence as he was to beauty. She mumbled to herself, tossing her head back so that her hair swung, then settled. His stomach tightened without warning.
Good God, he wanted her. She’d done nothing to make him burn and strain this way. He couldn’t accuse her of taunting or teasing, and yet … he felt taunted. He felt teased. For the first time in his life he felt totally seduced by a woman who had done nothing more than give him a few smiles and a little companionship.
Even now she was chattering away as she secured her camera to the limb of a tree. Talking easily, as though they were just friends, as though she felt nothing more than a light, unimportant affection. But he’d seen it. Stephen felt his blood heat as he remembered the quick flash of arousal he’d seen on her face. He’d see it again. And more.