What she needed, she mused, was Oliver-block—something to optimize the pleasure and minimize the risk of overexposure to such a potently virile man. Did such a thing exist? She laughed aloud. It was the wine. Straight to her head. The wine.…
Moments later Oliver emerged from the sea. Eyes still closed, Leslie listened as he panted toward the blanket, caught up the towel he’d brought inside the basket, rubbed it across his chest and face, then settled down on the sand by her side. For a brief instant she felt her skin tingle and knew he was looking at her.
“All right?” he asked softly.
“All right,” she answered, then relaxed when he closed his eyes.
They lay together in a companionable silence, rising every so often to munch on the goodies he’d brought, to dip in the water and cool off, to turn in the sun or move into the shade and read. It was Leslie who excused herself, first, gathering her things and returning to the house, phoning to have a rental car delivered, then showering. Donning a strappy yellow sundress and sandals, she drove into town to eat at a small port-side café.
The sunset was beautiful, tripping over the harbor with its pert gathering of assorted small boats. Time and again, though, her eye was drawn to the couples surrounding her at other tables on the open-air terrace. Healthy and tanned, they sat close together, hands entwined, heads bent toward one another with an air of intimacy she envied. She wondered where they’d come from, whether they were married, whether the happiness they appeared to have captured was simply a product of the romantic setting or whether the setting had enhanced something that had been good from the start.
Leaving without dessert, she returned to the villa, only to find it empty. For a time she wandered from room to room making a pretense of admiring the fresh tropical decor before she settled at last in the den with the book she’d abandoned earlier. This was what she’d wanted, she reminded herself pointedly. Peace and solitude.
Three times she read the same page before finally absorbing its words.
* * *
By Monday morning her cold was nothing more than a memory. She rose in time to spot the dark-haired figure swimming in the early-morning sun, and, not daring to join him, retreated to the kitchen to fix a breakfast of bacon and eggs and muffins. There was more than enough for two. Quickly eating her share, she left the rest on the stove and returned to her room. Then, on a whim, she packed up a towel, a wide-brimmed straw hat, her lotion and a book and went into town to buy a newspaper, which she read over a cup of coffee before heading for the public beach.
Spreading her towel on the sand, she shimmied out of her terry cover-up, then, with a glance around to assure herself that the mode hadn’t changed, gracefully removed her bikini top and lay down in the sun.
It felt wonderful, as she’d known it would. Strange that she could do this so easily on a public beach, while she’d persisted in wearing her one-piece suit in the privacy of the villa. But the villa wasn’t totally private this time round, was it?
Squinting in the sun, she wrestled her lotion from the bag and squirted a generous dollop onto her stomach. It spread easily beneath her hands. She worked it up past her ribs, around and over her breasts to her shoulders, finally smoothing the remainder down her arms before lying back. Better. Warm. Relaxing.
Why couldn’t she do this at the villa? Was there truly safety in numbers? Peeking through the shadow of her lashes, she scanned the growing crowd. The bodies were beautiful, few of them covered by more than slim bands of material at their hips. Men and women. Lean and fit. Well, she was lean and fit, too. What objection could she have to Oliver’s seeing her like this?
Oliver was lean and fit. She recalled how he’d looked this morning with the sun glancing off his limbs as he swam. She recalled how he’d looked yesterday, lying beside her on the sand. His shoulders were sturdy and tanned, his hips narrow, his legs well formed. She liked the soft matting of hair that roughened those legs, the broader patch on his chest, the tapering line down his stomach. His body was every bit as beautiful as that of any man on the beach today. And his hands—those hands that had so deftly poured wine, sliced cheese, popped a single grape into her mouth—had those fingers touched her lips? She remembered how easily they’d circled her wrist to tug her back down to the sand. What might they have been like spreading lotion on her body…?
To her dismay, she felt her breasts grow taut. Peering down in embarrassment, she flipped angrily over onto her stomach and silently tore into herself for the foolishness of her thoughts. Was she that starved for the touch of a man? True, it had been a long time since she’d been reckless enough to trust one to the point of making love. But she’d never known the kind of frustration that would make her body respond out of sheer imagination. Opening one eye, she skimmed the bodies nearby, pausing at that of one attractive man, then another. Nothing. Damn him!
Defiantly she rolled over once more and concentrated on her life back home. The preschool centers were thriving. Six by next fall … quite an accomplishment. What now? Should she continue to teach? Go back to school for a business degree? Focus on the managerial skills she’d inadvertently picked up? There were many options, not the least of which was to take Tony up on his offer of signing on with the corporation. Even in spite of the distance she purposely placed between it and herself, she was neither deaf nor blind. Had she not caught talk at family gatherings of the corporation’s spreading interests, she had certainly read of them in the newspapers. There were new divisions forming all the time, any one of which she could take over if she showed the slightest inclination.
But she didn’t. And she wouldn’t. There was something about high power and the almighty buck that stuck in her craw. Misplaced values. Misguided loyalties. Marriages of convenience rather than love.
Look at Tony. He’d married Laura because she’d promised to be the kind of wife every chief executive needed. Only problem was that every other chief executive needed her, or wanted her … or simply took her, so it seemed.
Sensing the dry, parched feel to her legs, Leslie sat up and smoothed lotion on them liberally, then lay down again. And Brenda—she was working on number two. Number one had been her high-school sweetheart and had unfortunately developed a penchant for gambling away every cent she earned. Poor Brenda. John had been a disappointment. Perhaps Larry would be better for her.
And then there was Diane. Slim, petite Diane, who’d wanted nothing more than to be a gymnastics star until she’d discovered that all the money in the world couldn’t buy her the gold. Unable to settle for silver or bronze, she’d quit gymnastics and, by way of consolation, had been awarded the sporting-goods division of the corporation.
From the start she’d been in over her head. Even Tony had seen that. When she’d quite opportunely fallen in love with Brad Weitz, himself a senior vice-president of his family’s development firm, things looked good. What with Brad’s business acumen and that of the circle of lesser executives he helped Diane gather, she was able to focus her own attentions on the content of the Parish line, rather than its high-level management.
Unfortunately, while the business flourished, her marriage floundered. Brad wandered, always returning to soothe Diane’s injured pride, yet inevitably straying again before long. More than once Diane had eyed Leslie in envy at the latter’s unencumbered state.
If only she knew, Leslie reflected wryly as she turned onto her stomach and tuned in to the sounds of the gentle Caribbean air. They were soft sounds—the murmur of easy conversation from parties nearby, the light laughter of those near the water’s edge, the occasional cry of a bird flying overhead. How delightful it was to be here, she mused, to leave that other world where it was. Soon enough she’d be back to face it again. Soon enough she’d have to decide where she wanted to go with her life. But for now she wanted to relax and enjoy. That was all … that was all … that was all.…
Lulled by the sun, she lay in a semisomnolent state, breathing slowly and evenly, savoring anonymity and the tota
l absence of responsibility. When she felt hot, she stood and unselfconsciously walked into the water, swam about in the pale aqua surf, then returned to her towel. Stretching out on her back, she closed her eyes. It was divine. Thoroughly divine. She felt herself a part of the crowd, at ease and more in the spirit of the island than she had since she’d arrived.
Bathers came and went as the sun crept to its apex. Lathering her body frequently, Leslie knew she was beginning to blend in with the bronzed bodies all around. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and returned to her worship. Once, maybe twice a year she could do this. Any more and not only would she get bored, but her body would wrinkle like a prune. Once … maybe twice a year … it was nice.…
With a self-indulgent smile on her face, she turned her head slightly to one side and peered at the world through the shade of thick, tawny lashes. Then her smile froze in place and her complacency vanished. A man lay close by, sprawled stomach down on a towel, with his head turned away. Dark brown hair with a distinct C of gray behind his ear.… Him! When had he come? How could he have found her? His back glistened with suntan lotion; his breathing was even. It appeared he’d been there for some time, while she’d lain half nude, oblivious to all but the sun.…
For the second time that day she twisted onto her stomach in embarrassment. The first time she’d simply imagined him and her body had reacted. Now he was here, beside her. What was she going to do? Head turned away, eyes open wide, heart pounding, she examined her alternatives. She could nonchalantly slip on her top and as nonchalantly lie back down. But he’d know, and she’d feel more the coward for it. She could simply dress and leave, but then she’d be deprived of her time on the beach. She could lie where she was until he tired of the beach and left. But he wouldn’t do that without a word to her, would he? Not after having so conveniently selected her body from all those others on the beach beside which to stretch his sexy six-foot-plus frame! Besides, was she supposed to lie on her stomach for the rest of the day?
There was one other alternative and, damn it, she was going to take it. She’d come to the beach on her own and had been perfectly happy and comfortable. Oliver or no Oliver, she was going to stay. In the sun. And on her back, if she so pleased.
On a rebellious impulse, she flipped back as she’d been when first she’d spotted Oliver beside her. When her head fell his way, she gasped in genuine surprise. He was looking straight at her.
“Oliver!” she whispered, her breath in scarce supply. “You startled me!” It was the truth. Somehow she’d been counting on time to adjust to the fact of his presence.
As though relieved that she’d only been startled, he smiled gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” His eyes held hers without straying.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Oh.”
“Nice beach.”
“Mmmm.”
“Tired of yours?”
She turned down the corners of her mouth and shook her head, felt her breasts shimmy and lost her courage. As gracefully as she could—and as casually—she rolled to her stomach again. Though the move brought her all the closer to Oliver, she felt somehow let off the hook. “It’s nice here once in a while,” she murmured, then managed to feign a relaxed sigh. Facing him, she closed her eyes. His next words brought them open in a hurry.
“I didn’t think you’d do this, Les.”
She knew precisely what he meant. “Why not?”
“You seem more … inhibited.”
“I usually am,” she confessed in the same half whisper in which the rest of the conversation was being carried on. There was something intimate about their talk; Leslie found she liked the feeling.
Arching his back, he folded his arms beneath his chin. “What makes things different here?”
Had there been the faintest hint of mockery in his tone, she might have been put on the defensive instantly. But his voice remained gentle and curious, his eyes simply warm and pleased.
“I don’t know. Maybe the other people. They’re strangers.”
“And safe?”
“I guess.”
“Impersonal.”
“Um hmm.”
“Like … a gynecologist?”
“Come on, Oliver. What is this?”
“Just trying to understand why you’d bare yourself for them … but not for me.”
“Oliver!” He had almost sounded hurt. When she opened her eyes in alarm, she indeed read that same gut-wrenching vulnerability written across his chiseled face. In response, she took her lip between her teeth. As quickly, he reached out a hand.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured, rubbing the tip of his forefinger against her lip until she’d released it herself. His finger lingered a moment longer in caress of her softly parted mouth. Then he put his hand on her back. The subtle incursion brought him inches closer. “God, your skin is hot. You’ll be burned to a crisp.”
“I’m okay.” She felt strangely restful and raised no objection when he began to move his hand in a gentle kneading caress. For several seconds they just lay and stared at each other. “Oliver?”
“Mmm?”
“What’s it like to model?”
His hand paused for only an instant before resuming its soothing motion. “It’s … fun.”
“You said that once before. But … I’ve always heard talk, of the trying pace—you know, hours doing the same thing over and over again. Is it like that?”
“I don’t know,” he said simply. “I’ve never had to do the same thing over and over again.”
“You’re that good?” She smiled in accompaniment to her teasing tone and was rewarded by his total absence of arrogance.
“No. It just … works.”
Her thoughts joined his on the set of the Homme Premier ad. “Is it ever … awkward?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you … I mean … you are nude, aren’t you?”
He dared a tiny grin. “Yes.”
“Does it bother you?”
“I like nudity.”
“So, if this were a nude beach, you would…?” Her brief glance toward his trunks said it all.
“No,” he murmured without hesitation.
“Why not?”
“Because it would be embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? But you’ve got a beautiful body!”
Again that tiny grin. “How do you know? You haven’t seen it all.”
Again her downward glance. “There’s not much left covered.”
He arched a brow. “Some men might take offense at that.”
“Come on,” she chided. “You knew what I meant. Would you really be embarrassed to uncover it?”
“On this beach … beside you … yes.”
“Because of me?” So she wasn’t the only neurotic one?
“Yes.” He inched closer. His lips were a breath from hers. “I don’t think I could lie quite as impassively as—” he cocked his head “—most of these other men seem to be doing. It was bad enough when I first got here and saw your car in the lot. I’ve been to this beach before; I knew what the style was.” His hand slowed its motion, coming to a rest just beneath her armpit. Leslie felt her breasts tingle at the nearness, but she couldn’t move. His eyes held hers with binding warmth. “There are lots of pretty women here, Les, but I was totally unaffected … until I saw you.”
“Sounds like the lyric to a song,” she teased by way of self-defense, lifting her eyes and singing, “’Til I saw you.…” Then, recalling how boldly she’d been lying on her back with her breasts bare, exposed to the sun, she blushed.
“I’m serious,” he said, brushing the back of his fingers against the swell of her breast. Suddenly she was, too.
“I know,” she whispered. Had his earnestness been faked, something would have given it away—the glimmer of an eye, the twitch of a mouth, the rush to offer other lofty words. Oliver’s expression, however,
was solemn, every feature in harmony with the intensity of his gaze. He said nothing more, simply looked at Leslie as though imprisoned by the very charm that gave credence to his claim. Only his hand moved, sliding very gently along the side of her breast, up and back, doing ragged things to her pulse, damaging things to her composure. She felt his touch through every inch of her being. Her gaze dropped to his lips.
“You’re very soft,” he mouthed. He slid his thumb forward until it skimmed her aureole.
Leslie caught her breath, then, swept up in the sensual magic of the moment, released it and whispered his name. It was as though her entire life had been in a state of limbo … and only now took direction once more.
4
Her lips were parted. Stealing forward, he accepted their invitation, grazing her in soft, slow mouthfuls until she closed her eyes and yielded to his quiet fire. Her insides burned, and still he teased, growing evasive between lingering kisses, forcing her mouth to be more aggressive in its search for satisfaction.
“Oliver!” she whispered, angling her body just high enough to slip his hand beneath and press it to her breast. “I can’t stand this!” she gasped, watching the slow opening of his eyes.
“You can’t stand it?” he growled hoarsely. “They’re apt to arrest us in a minute.” He wiggled a finger against her throbbing nipple and took pleasure in the moan she suppressed. Her fingers tightened over his, yet she didn’t pull his hand away. She couldn’t. His touch felt far too good, as though that of a long-lost lover who’d just come home. Feeling suddenly light-headed, she gave a mischievous grin.
“Do you think they would?” She cast a surreptitious glance around. “I mean, there have to be other people fooling around here.” Then she frowned. “Why don’t I ever see it?”
“Because you’re not a voyeur,” he returned simply. “If you were looking, you’d find it.”
“You did?” she asked, eyes alight, curious. “Come on, Oliver,” she whispered conspiratorially. She tugged his hand upward and cushioned it against her cheek so that his arm fully crossed her nakedness. Their bodies were snug, side by side. She felt wonderfully alive. “Tell me.”
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