by Diane Albert
“I’m hanging up.”
The phone went dead—and immediately lit up again with a call from Unknown Number. He sent it to voicemail, dropped the phone on the patio table, and stared at it.
This woman was going to drive him out of his mind.
He pondered calling the concierge, but he hated using his position to be pretentious to the point of helplessness. He could navigate the gift shop without a butler shepherding him nonstop.
One pair of black trunks, sandals, and a souvenir T-shirt later, and he almost didn’t recognize himself. The man in the mirror looked like a tanned surfer, hair disheveled into loose spikes, and the weathered lines around his eyes could almost be mistaken for laugh lines. His reflection seemed to mock him with who he could have been.
He might not have been as rich, but he thought he just might have been happy.
He arrived at Stephanie’s place ten minutes early. She answered right when he knocked, but threw the door open without even looking back. “I just need to change. Then you can help me—oh. ”
She’d glanced at him—then stopped, turned back, and just stared, color creeping up her cheeks. He cleared his throat.
“I can’t look that ridiculous.”
“No. No, you…” She looked away and retreated into the apartment. “You should dress down more often.”
“Doubtful.”
“Not from where I’m standing.” She shook her head. “Come on in. Let me dig out my two-piece and I’ll be ready to go.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His gaze roved over her little tank top and barely-there shorts, nearly a bikini in their own right. “Was that what you needed help with?”
“Don’t be crass.” She grinned over her shoulder. “I only need a man to help me get out of my clothing.”
Before he could retort, she was gone—slamming her bedroom door, followed by the distinct click of the lock. That little damned tease. No, worse than a tease—she was a minx, plain and simple.
But when she stepped out of her room, everything about her screamed vixen. Her saucy red two-piece slid over her curves and pale skin until she was as sweetly delicious as a candy-cane. He lingered on the supple flow of her legs.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Don’t you want to cover up a little more first?”
“Prude.” With a laugh, she retrieved a flimsy white sundress from the back of the couch and slid it on. The curves of her bottom peeked at him under the flirty little hem. “There. Happy?”
“Infinitely so,” he muttered.
He was in hell.
And Aaron was probably watching from somewhere overseas, pitchfork in hand.
He cleared his throat. “So is this another strategy meeting? Hardly fitting business attire.”
“No, I…” She fidgeted and suddenly found the space over his shoulder very interesting. “I felt bad. I promised to take you sightseeing and make this week fun, and instead it’s been all about me and my problems. I wanted to take you to the beach to just relax and catch the last of the sun.”
“Stephanie…” He touched her cheek, the fine skin sweet under his fingertips, and gently nudged until she finally met his eyes again. “I really don’t mind helping. You don’t need to worry.”
She made a flustered sound. She was still entirely fetching when she blushed, even if it only seemed to irritate her.
“I mind,” she said. “I owe you big time, so you are going to have fun, damn it.”
His grin crept up on him before he could stop it. “Yes, ma’am.”
She muttered peevishly, pulled away from him, and scooped up a tote with two towels—but he took it from her, slung it over his shoulder, and followed her from the apartment.
She shot him a look and slid on a pair of shades. “I could carry that.”
“It’s a bag. It’s not a charity handout. Learn to accept that much, at least.”
She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “Are you really going to turn this into a lecture?”
He eyed her. “Are you really going to refuse to let me carry a bag for you?”
“Point. But you haven’t won yet.” She laughed. “If you think I’ll trust you with my life’s work, you have another thing coming. I don’t want to owe you another favor.”
Her work was the last thing on his mind right now. But he bit his tongue, slid his sunglasses on, and followed her from the elevator, down the sidewalk, to the beach. Even past his tinted lenses, the sun reflected off the sand brightly enough to sear afterimages into his retinas—but it wasn’t enough to blind him to the appreciative glances several men threw her way. He gritted his teeth and held his silence. He was only pretending to be her fiancé. He had no claim on her.
She found them a spot in the sand, and he helped her spread out their towels. She wriggled out of her sundress and left it in a puddle on the sand. He closed his eyes and looked away.
Aaron’s sister. Guantanamo Bay. A team of government assassins breaking into his D.C. condominium and garroting him in his kitchen. He wasn’t wholly sure he was exaggerating.
“Come on.” She wrapped both her little hands around his wrist and tugged. “You don’t go to the beach just to stand around.”
“I thought that was the purpose of tanning.”
“You sit for that. I don’t want to sit. I want to swim, and you’re tan enough.”
“You want to burn. You’re too pale.” He snagged the bottle of sunscreen poking out of her tote’s side pocket and tossed it to her. “Lather up.”
“I already did at home. I just didn’t get my back.” She tossed the bottle back to him. It landed in both palms with a heavy smack.
“If you say ‘do me,’ I’m leaving.”
“Even my jokes aren’t that bad.” She turned away, glancing over her shoulder and gathering her wind-tossed hair against her neck in a soft tangle of dark curls. “But if you wouldn’t mind…”
He minded. He minded knowing he could touch her, and yet it could never be more than that. He minded that even now his father’s voice was in his head, calling her a low-class woman who was just out for his money.
She’s not like that, he thought fiercely, then nearly smacked himself. And now I’m arguing with the voices in my head.
“Lay down,” he said, and flipped the bottle of sunscreen open.
She stretched out on her towel, her head pillowed on her forearms. The sloping valley of her back flowed in a graceful curve like music made flesh, dipping low before rising into the soft-swelling peak of her bottom. He brushed her hair aside. When his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, she shivered, and he toyed with the knot tying the bikini in place. So easy. So tempting. He pulled his hand away and coated his fingers in sunscreen. When he rested his palms against her back, she hissed and arched.
“Cold,” she murmured.
“Give it a moment.” The flex and pull of her lithe body under his fingertips was hypnotic. Slowly, he began to stroke the sunscreen into her skin, kneading her as if she were clay beneath his sculpting fingers, shaping her to his touch. She let out a sighing sound of pleasure and rolled her shoulders.
“Bonus massage,” she nearly purred. “Is it my birthday?”
He couldn’t answer. Not when he was utterly absorbed in the fascinating tracery of her spine, the way the shape of her waist drew his hands so naturally to rest on her hips, the way the sunscreen gleamed on her skin. He wanted. He needed. And to hell with what anyone else thought.
She twisted onto her back, looking up at him. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but her lips were parted, her breaths shallow.
“I think I’m covered,” she said. “Your turn.”
He was barely aware of taking off his shirt. She sat up, her tongue caught between her teeth. A shudder rippled through him as her delicate fingers traced over his skin.
“Ink,” she said. “You are full of surprises, Derek.”
He almost didn’t remember what she was talking about. His tattoo, grac
eful letters flowing across his chest. His one act of rebellion, a teenaged attempt to get his father’s attention. It hadn’t worked. He’d kept it anyway, because it felt like the one little piece of himself that still belonged to him.
“It’s from a long time ago. A lifetime ago.”
She followed the arc of one stylized letter, the teasing touch of her nail raising goosebumps. “I don’t understand Spanish. What does it say?”
“Nothing important.”
Her lips parted further, but she let it go. She picked up the sunscreen, coated her hands, then rose up on her knees to begin smoothing it over his chest and shoulders. Her every breath, loud between them, brought the swell of her bosom close to brushing his skin. Her scent surrounded him, that soft sweetness tinted by the creamy sunscreen. His fingers dug into the sand. His gaze never left her face. She grew redder by the moment, and he burned to feel her beneath him, trapped between the hot sand and a need so intense it scorched him with its fire.
Her long, caressing strokes slid beyond his shoulders, down his back, until her arms were almost wrapped around him. Her lower lip was calling him like a beacon, a plump red fruit he needed to nibble and suck. He leaned closer. Her head tilted, her mouth so close to fitting to his.
And then she stole his sunglasses—and shoved a sunscreen-covered hand in his face, leaving a wet handprint that dripped over his eyes.
She giggled. “Race you to the water,” she yelped, then took off running at full speed.
Her laughter had him like a leash, and he grinned, swiped a gooey handful of lotion off his face, and bolted after her. She peeked back, shrieked, and nearly tripped over two sunbathers, then righted herself and bolted. Derek almost couldn’t catch up. He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, panting as he vaulted over a child’s clumsy sandcastle and caught her at the water’s edge. He captured her waist, swinging her around and into his arms. Grinning and out of breath, she clung to his neck.
“Did you really just do the long jump over a toddler?”
“Did I? I didn’t even see him.” I only saw you. He scooped her up until he was carrying her, and waded into the warm, gentle waves. “You nearly stepped on someone’s head.”
“I’m a klutz. It’s fact at this point. I don’t think I can be prosecuted in a court of law.” She snickered, pushed her sunglasses up, then flicked a strand of his disarrayed hair. “You’re still dripping.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Totally yours.”
“Not only are you impossible, you’re unbelievable.” He tightened his hold on her. Her fingers twined against the back of his neck. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.
She was no longer smiling. He absorbed her like sunlight, taking in every detail of spray beading on her skin, the way her hair clung to the damp spots and painted dark lines that drew his gaze over her skin and snaked like runnels of chocolate syrup. He pulled her closer, lifting her tight against his chest, her softness filling his arms until there was only one thing he could do.
He dumped her in the water.
She came up sputtering and drenched, her hair straggling into her face. He dissolved into helpless laughter. She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You think this is funny?”
He doubled over, gasping for breath. “No, I think it’s hilarious.”
“Oh, it is on.”
That was his only warning before she yanked his ankles right out from under him. By the time he splashed his way to the surface and took a deep draught of air, she was swimming away from him.
He lunged and snared her again, spinning her into his arms with every intention of dunking the little wretch again. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck, her laughter washing over him, he forgot everything. The waves. His promises. Everything but her.
And he kissed her.
She opened to him as if she’d been made for him. They floated together, the ebb and flow of the tide pushing them against each other until she wrapped her legs around his hips and he fell into the weightless warmth that lifted him up more than the waves. She’d wanted to thank him, she’d said—but he was ever grateful to her for this moment, breathless and taut, that made his heart beat like a savage piston.
He held her tight, her naked skin beneath his hands, her mouth an endless well of heat and sweet, bright emotion that he drank of ravenously. Once he’d tasted her, he had to have her.
And he didn’t want to ever let her go.
Chapter Eight
Friday night. Stephanie looked at herself in the mirror and fussed with every tiny wrinkle in her knee-length dress. She’d bought the midnight blue silk because it brought out her eyes, and the matching blue heels promised killer legs. Emphasis on “killer.” She’d probably break a shin in these heels, and take Derek down with her.
Derek. She pressed her fingers against her lips. She could still taste that kiss, and her disappointment that it had been the only one. They’d played in the waves all evening, then sprawled out on their towels to rest. Stephanie had fallen asleep, and woken to find him watching her so closely it was like being kissed all over again—as if he was inside her, touching her without ever needing to lay a finger on her.
Stephanie smiled to herself and collected her purse. Tonight would be perfect. She’d wanted to give something back to Derek—something to thank him for playing along, and helping her out of the downright clusterfuck Rodgers had dropped her into. She owed him more than just a day on the beach. Dinner might cramp her bank account a little, but it would give her a chance to do something for him for a change…and what better way than a night out, immersed in Miami’s rich culture? He’d said his mother was Puerto Rican, and she could only hope he’d enjoy an evening savoring the local Latin flavor. Maybe…just maybe it might bring up good memories of his mother, and help to ease the tension that seemed to plague him any time his family came up.
Oh, who was she kidding? After that kiss…tonight was just an excuse to see him again, even if she knew that made her a fool.
She checked her phone. Ten missed calls from that unlisted number that could only be Aaron, the last one over two hours ago. He’d finally given up. Or was currently controlling a military drone fighter on its way to assassinate Derek.
A knock sounded. She smoothed her dress over her thighs and answered the door with a smile.
“Not dead yet,” she said. “That’s a good sign.”
Amusement flitted through his gaze. “More threats from Aaron?”
“Wouldn’t know. Ignoring my voicemail.” She gave herself a moment to take him in. His black suit and white shirt were impeccable as always, sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders and fitting neatly to his narrow hips, but for once he’d left his hair wild, black locks curling about his ears and falling into his bright blue eyes. He looked devilish. He looked dangerous. Like the man under the stiff social rules was finally starting to break free, and neither of them would be able to predict what would happen when he finally shook off his shackles.
She took a deep breath and stepped back. “Come in.”
He stepped past the threshold, unsmiling as always, yet his eyes told another story. “You clean up fairly well, bella.”
“The phrase is ‘you don’t clean up half bad,’ you psychotic stuffed shirt.” She grinned and leaned against the wall. “Have I ever told you I love your accent?”
He cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize I still had one.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged, but his shoulders were tight, his hands too deliberately still at his sides. “…because my father did his best to beat it out of me. I’d thought he’d succeeded.”
Beaten. Her heart wrenched, and she only hoped he meant that metaphorically. She knew he didn’t speak to his father anymore, but had no idea it ran so deeply. “Derek, I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His jaw clenched. His eyes were flinty. “It’s part of who I am. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have even t
old you.”
She swallowed back her reply. It wasn’t nothing more. It mattered. “Yes, you should have. There’s no reason to keep it to yourself. That’s what friends are for. Talking and listening and sharing.”
His gaze darkened. He touched her cheek, brows knitting as he lingered on her face. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
“In private, yes.” She forced a smile. “In public, we’re the greatest love story ever told.”
He said nothing, but his mouth tightened. His thumb caressed her lower lip, leaving it sensitized and pulsing. She reached up and clasped his wrist. His eyes cleared, and he dropped his hand away.
“I brought you something,” he said.
His hands were empty. She frowned. “You did?”
“There’s a plot hole in our story.”
She licked her lips. “…what plot hole?”
“We’re engaged.”
She frowned. “Technically, yes.”
He captured her left hand and lifted it to eye level. “No ring.”
“Oh. Crap. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I hadn’t either, until last night.” He held fast to her hand; his other hand slipped into his coat pocket and withdrew a ring. Diamond. Enormous, and blindingly cut until it glittered with every hint of light from her overhead lamps. “Problem solved. I had to guess your ring size, but it should fit.”
Her throat dried like she’d swallowed a tumbleweed. “Tell me that’s fake.”
“Will it make you feel better if I say that?”
She curled her hand into a fist. She couldn’t let him put that ring on her finger. “Yes. But it’s not, is it?”
“No.”
“I can’t wear that thing.” It was gorgeous. It was massive. It was too damned expensive. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“Hardly so much as that.” He gently pried her ring finger loose. “Relax. It’s only for show.”
“Then why did you buy a real one?”
“Why would Bruce Wayne buy the love of his life a cubic zirconia?”
He slid the ring onto her finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warming to her body heat. The stone was a tangible weight that would take some getting used to.