by Tamara Lush
Or would she?
“Where did you get your tattoo?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation light.
“Milan. Three years ago.”
Skylar blinked, unable to focus on his words when Luca stood so close. Was she finally having her own erotic adventure, one that didn’t involve being demeaned and belittled? A small voice told her that she was all of those awful things James claimed, and that she should run from here before Luca discovered the truth. God, what she would give to allow herself to let go and forget about the past, to embrace this wild and wonderful present moment.
No. Get it together and leave. Don’t embarrass yourself.
She had come here on business. To ask him about the plane crash. To be a journalist. She had promised herself that when she came to Palmira she would start fresh and respect herself more, at least where men were concerned. That’s what her mother would have wanted, and God knew her mom would have been horrified if she’d been alive to see how Skylar allowed James to steamroll her confidence. Then again, Mom would probably also have been appalled by Skylar half-naked in a pool, lusting after a guy she’d just met.
“It’s interesting. Like I said earlier, one of the paramedics told me that the man who saved the injured guy on the beach had a tattoo on his arm.”
“Imagine that.”
Luca’s eyes met hers, and she couldn’t read his expression. She tipped her head, and her wet hair spilled toward one shoulder. “Were you the one who helped the victim?”
Skylar’s heart pounded when he smiled. He was so beautiful that it was unsettling, and the look on his face showed obvious confidence and desire. With previous dates—even the first time she was with James—she’d always had a running commentary in her mind: When will he kiss me? Now? Later? Ever? Tonight there was no guessing.
He reached through the water and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, gently guiding her hand to his shoulder. She automatically drifted toward him, clasping her other hand at his nape. She was so close that her breasts brushed his chest. His hands lightly cupped her jaw and neck, while her legs and arms and everywhere in between tingled from his touch.
His mouth hovered over hers, and Skylar was acutely aware of his smooth face, his searching eyes, his scorching fingertips on her skin. His soft mouth met her lips, tentative and gentle at first. He tasted like the wine, crisp and cool and new, and Skylar’s lips instantly flared with heat. It was as if the shimmering blue light in the pool had entered her body and pulsed through her.
Luca pulled back and caught his breath, as if the kiss had taken him by surprise, then again pressed against her. The second assault, too, was shockingly sensual. It slammed into Skylar, defeated all her defenses. Almost.
She shifted her head away from his. Her gaze drifted downward, and she was fascinated by the hard surface of his chest muscles against the softness of the water that surrounded them. Trying to catch her breath, she licked her lips, and guilt over kissing a potential source stung her sensible journalist self. It was a stalling tactic to gather her thoughts, although her only desire was to kiss him again.
“You’re not going to answer my question, are you?” she whispered.
With half-lidded eyes, he slowly shook his head and kissed her again.
* * *
Luca pulled Skylar as close as possible. If his thundering heart was any indication, it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman.
She wrapped her smooth legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He stood against the wall of the pool, and she was tight against him. Their tongues collided, the tips circling one another.
“Che bella ragazza.”
“What does that mean?”
Her voice tickled his ear, teased his senses, and he translated, “What a beautiful girl.”
And she was. Skylar Shaw was his perfect physical fantasy; curvy, with almond-shaped eyes and full, pouty lips. He had fully researched her after their meeting earlier in the day, and everything checked out. Public records revealed where she was born, where she’d gone to school, every dorm room and every apartment she’d ever lived. Her whole life was online, the scholarships she had won and the articles she had written in the Boston paper during her internship. Her Twitter feed detailed her stories here on Palmira, and her Pinterest page revealed that she loved green smoothies, true crime shows on TV, and smoosh-faced dogs.
She smelled like lavender, chlorine, and the sweetest of forbidden fruit. And the most captivating thing of all? She was a journalist—possibly the worst of all types of women he could hook up with.
Her clear blue eyes, her job, her curvy body…the combination was so seductive. His weakness. His kryptonite.
He didn’t care.
After he’d checked her out online, he spent a couple of hours brooding. Considered calling her. Then he’d spotted her on the sand and knew he had to act. A one-night stand couldn’t hurt, he’d rationalized, even if it was with a reporter.
No—he dragged his half-open mouth gently up her neck and felt her shiver in his arms—he probably shouldn’t have told her his real first name, but how would she find out anything more about him? There wasn’t anything to discover, not online anyway. He’d made sure of that. And he sure wasn’t giving her his last name. Wouldn’t, not when he took her upstairs to his bedroom, not when he kissed her goodbye later in the night.
His mind rioted. What the hell was he doing?
He’d hated lying to her about being a graduate student, actually. But concealing his true profession was a necessity. He wished he could tell her that he was also a journalist and a best-selling author. But since his anonymously-authored book came out, self-preservation trumped ego.
“Tu sei bellissima,” he whispered, dragging out each word. He kissed her again, hard, and took a handful of her wet hair and moved her head so that her ear was next to his mouth. “That’s Italian and it means, ‘You are gorgeous.’”
Her hands were suddenly in his hair, sliding down his neck, over his biceps. It had been too long since he’d had sex. The last time was three months ago, in Argentina at a backpackers hostel when he was lonely and a little drunk. Even before he kissed that waitress, he knew it was wrong because he felt nothing, only a release of energy when he climaxed. With Skylar, he knew it was wrong also, but in so many different ways and for so many different reasons.
“Your hair,” he murmured. He skimmed his hands along her bare back under the water, and the blue shimmer of the pool danced on her skin. “Look at how beautiful it is floating in the water. You’re a mermaid.”
He gathered the ends of her floating tresses and captured her bottom lip in his mouth, but she squeezed his shoulders and slipped out of his kiss. “A mermaid. Yeah, right.”
“Okay, how about a sirena, luring me to danger? Is that better? A siren?” Luca grinned wide and pressed his mouth to hers again. He hadn’t wanted a woman this much in years. Maybe not ever. Their bodies made ripples in the water. His hands drifted low, down to her round ass, and he squeezed. God, her body felt incredible in his hands. And she was dangerous. His little siren. “Let’s move to a drier spot.”
She unwrapped her limbs from his body, and he led her out of the water. They stood there on the tiled pool deck for a moment, not kissing, just staring at each other while droplets of water ran down their legs. Luca played with Skylar’s long hair, tugging it and running his hands carefully over the damp, chestnut waves.
“I can’t wait to play with you all night long,” he murmured. “Can’t wait to watch that beautiful mouth of yours kissing and licking and sucking every part of me.”
She opened her mouth in surprise. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just…very forward, that’s all.”
“Do you like that?” he murmured.
Her eyes drifted down and she stroked his bare chest with a hesitant touch. She explored the ridges of his muscles, her fingertips fluttering across his pectorals and pausing to circle hi
s nipples, but she said nothing.
“You’re stunning, Skylar Shaw,” he said to draw her out of her shell.
“You’re pretty stunning yourself, Luca-without-a-last-name.”
Her big eyes, parted lips, and high cheekbones gave her a slightly astonished, sexy expression, as if everything he said or did took her breath away. He couldn’t wait to make that breathlessness for real.
“Last names don’t matter right now, do they?” he whispered. He was so captivated by her in that moment that he almost would have told her anything about himself.
Almost.
He grabbed her and drew her against him, gripping her hips and pressing her into his erection. She moaned a little bit, and he knew it was his night’s mission to listen that sound over and over. He had hooked up with a few American girls when he was in boarding school and found them to be the easiest of all to get into bed. A few whispered words of Italian, and pronto, they were ready.
“Vieni qui,” he said. “Sorry. Come here. Onto the chaise lounge. Or we can go upstairs to the bedroom if you’d like.”
Her body tensed, and she moved back a half step. “Wait,” she whispered, putting a palm in the middle his chest. “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
His hands cupped her face, and he stroked her bottom lip with his thumb like he had wanted to do earlier in the day. These were the steps of a dance he knew well. She wanted to let him know that she wasn’t a slut. Fine. He’d play. “Why not?”
“I…I don’t usually do this with guys I just met. I don’t feel comfortable. I shouldn’t tease you. This was a bad idea. I should go home.”
“If you’re sure…” His eyes narrowed as he trailed a finger down her throat and in between her breasts then circled the puckered nipple that strained against her wet bikini top.
She gasped and nodded. “Yes. I know my body’s saying one thing, but my mind is telling me to slow down.”
Her fingers clasped his hand on her breast then moved it to her shoulder. She stared at him, unblinking, defiant, and the message was clear: She really didn’t want to sleep with him.
A twinge of annoyance and then a wave of relief washed over him. As much as he wanted her, this was probably for the best. Especially if he was going to be on this island for a while. He needed to lay low, not get laid by a local reporter. He’d known that all along.
Her face turned toward the ground, so he tilted her chin upwards. She closed her eyes. Something about how vulnerable she looked tugged at him, and he kissed her mouth tenderly then trailed his lips over her forehead. It was good that she was leaving. He couldn’t afford to get attached to this alluring woman.
“It’s okay. Don’t apologize,” he said, gathering himself and planting a chaste kiss on her lips. “Want me to walk you to your car?”
She inhaled, shivering, and nodded. Turning away, she went to the chaise where she had left her dress. He chewed on his lip while she pulled the garment over her head. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out an elastic, and he watched her scoop her long hair in both hands, twist it around and secure it. She missed a tendril that stuck to her neck, damp. He longed to move the wisp aside and bite her skin.
Luca opened his mouth, about to beg her to stay, but stopped himself. He wanted to respect her wishes. From what little he knew about her, he liked her too much to second-guess her decision to go home. And there were all his personal problems as well.
He accompanied her through the gate and up the public beach in the dark, sighing silently to himself while holding her hand. The downed plane was still there, illuminated by floodlights powered by loud mobile generators.
Skylar squinted in its direction. “I wonder when they’ll take it away. I’d go over and ask the FAA right now, but I’m not really in any shape to do that.”
Luca huffed out a laugh. He wasn’t either.
They reached her car, and against his better instincts he cradled her head in his hands then put his lips to hers, touching her tongue with his and savoring every second of their kiss. Surprising him again, she pulled away.
“You have my card if you feel like talking.”
“You said that earlier today,” he murmured. His body ached because he knew this would be their final kiss. “I think you know that I want to do more than talk.”
She did not answer. He watched her shut the door then give a sad wave as she drove off. While jogging back to the house, Luca felt regret punctuate every step. Skylar Shaw was the most intriguing and sexy woman he’d met in years, only at precisely the wrong time. Thank God she was saving them both by leaving.
CHAPTER THREE
Bathed in an aqua glow, with pale wood and white leather seating, the lounge on the top floor of the Miami high-rise overlooked the city’s glittering downtown from one bank of windows and the blue expanse of Biscayne Bay from another. It was the kind of place they would have gone on their honeymoon. Instead, Annalisa Martinelli was alone at the bar, searching for information on him. Luca Rossi. The man who should have been her husband.
She scanned the guys ordering craft beers and bourbon at the bar, sizing up which one might lead her to him. This was the obvious place to hunt for information about Luca. His only living relative, his uncle Federico Rossi, owned a law firm that took up three floors of the skyscraper. A woman working the newsstand downstairs said this was where the firm’s lawyers drank after work. Surely someone here would know a little about the top attorney and his family—like where they lived and if Luca was indeed in Florida. If they didn’t, Annalisa knew, she could entice them to find out.
As she sipped her mojito, she studied the people in the reflection of the mirror that hung behind the rows of liquor bottles. Too old. Too fat. Too nervous-looking. She appraised herself in the mirror and was pleased that her hair had stayed so straight and shiny, and that her low-cut silk blouse had long sleeves, to hide scars from the tiny cuts she had etched into her forearms.
She tapped her burgundy-painted fingernails on the glass of her mojito. Which one of these men looked most like a lawyer? With their expensive suits and carefully groomed facial hair, any of them were candidates. So she chose the most earnest-looking, a tall, younger man with close-cropped dark hair.
He was cute, which was a prerequisite. She would probably fuck him later.
Tossing her long hair, Annalisa fixed her eyes on the man. A beat after she caught his gaze, she smiled, closed-lipped, then lowered her eyes demurely, and within minutes he was next to her with two mojitos in hand.
“You have beautiful eyes,” he said, setting the drink in front of her empty glass.
“Thank you,” she purred. She took the mojito and raised it to his, and the glasses touched softly against one another.
“You work in the building?” the man asked.
Annalisa shook her head and launched into her prepared talking points. “Not yet. I’m interviewing at the accounting firm on the tenth floor. I think it went well. You?”
“I’m a lawyer with the Rossi firm. We’re on floors twenty through twenty-three.”
Perfect.
“Oh, the firm that advertises on television all the time?” Annalisa opened her eyes wider, but not too wide. She tended to look manic when her eyes were too big. Act impressed when he talks. Laugh at the right moments. Her mother had taught her how to respond to men, and those charms never failed.
“Yep. That one. What’s your name?”
“Annie. Yours?”
“Carlos.”
“Thank you for the mojito, Carlos. It’s delicious.”
“Annie. You’re not Cuban like everyone else in Miami. I can tell. Where are you from? You have a different accent.”
Annalisa grinned. She knew she couldn’t hide her heritage but also suspected it would play to her advantage. “Italy. You?”
“Nice. An Italian girl. I’m like everyone else here. Cuban.”
“Is it true what they say about Cuban men?”
He licked his bottom lip and grinned when she flashed he
r sexiest smile. “What’s that?”
“That they’re as good in bed as they are on the dance floor.”
He laughed, hard. “Maybe you’ll find out.”
Yes, maybe. And later, if she had one more mojito and looked at Carlos the Cuban lawyer just right when he entered her, she would be able to imagine that he was Luca. She had done it so many times in the past, with so many different men.
Soon that would end.
CHAPTER FOUR
Florida humidity was a bitch. Skylar’s skin was sticky from her face to her feet. Combined with the sweaty sheen on her face, she was a wreck.
Wearing a suit to work was torture and she was glad the week was over. She wriggled out of her black jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat, her arms finally free in her white silk tank top. At least she’d worn a black, knee-length pencil skirt that allowed for some circulation. Yanking out her ponytail, she shook her hair and swiped a slick of clear gloss over her mouth, rubbed her lips together, tried to gather her hair and tamp it down into a smooth column then tied it in a low, messy bun.
The week had been consumed by follow-up stories on the plane crash. The victim’s wife had talked to her, thankfully, which was the one bright spot. She’d also gotten the scoop that the man definitely wouldn’t lose his arm, which made Jill happy, but Skylar was emotionally strung out by the constant demands of deadlines and updating social media. She’d been forced to juggle several other stories from the crime beat as well, and to write a feature on an odd woman who collected rare orchids.
She wasn’t often a features writer, but she routinely said yes to any assignment Jill tossed her way. Her editor had told her to push herself, and Skylar was doing exactly that. She’d also launched into a project on how the tiny local police department had spent hundreds of thousands on military surplus equipment. Failure wasn’t an option, because she had no other options. She had no childhood home to return to, no mother or father or siblings to rely on. All she had was a tiny condo and a car, and student loans that cancelled out the value of both.