"Oof.” She swore loudly and brushed a frond rudely out of her way.
Marco halted and she slammed into his back. “You okay?"
"If you mean am I okay about having damn palms slap me in the face for the umpteenth time, then no, I'm not."
"We're nearly there."
"Good."
"Do you want to rest?"
Carly eyed Marco. He looked cool and totally unfazed, whereas she felt a wreck. The thought of taking a break was tempting, but one look at that upward quirk in his jet-black brow and the haughty measure of his gaze changed her mind.
"Just so you know genie, I'm not happy. This isn't a wish of mine."
"It's not?” His eyes crinkled. Carly could see he was holding back a laugh at her expense and fumed.
"I'm aching, tired, hot, dirty, and sweaty,” she railed, gathering in a jagged breath, “and did I mention aching? Playing ducks and drakes with palm fronds isn't my idea of fun."
But they had to keep going. Dragging up determination she didn't realize she had, Carly started walking, simply concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. She ached in places she'd forgotten could ache and although grateful Marco had the forethought to insist she wore her sneakers, they'd long ago filled with gritty sand and dirt.
However, despite it all she was surprisingly happy, though she wasn't going to admit that to Mr. Genie who hadn't oozed even an ounce of sweat.
"See, you can enjoy yourself,” Marco commented as they headed back a short while later.
Carly swatted a palm out of her way. “I never said I couldn't."
"Really? Could have fooled me."
She came to an abrupt halt, spinning around on her soaked and mud-caked sneakers to face Marco. She wagged a finger at him. “What is this, Marco Valente? Are you trying to psycho analyze me?"
He chuckled, and that same old twinkle in his eye she had come to recognize as dead-set dangerous sparkled. Her lips pursed and her body stiffened as if trying to brace herself against his chemistry.
"As if I would.” His smile broadened and she balled her fists at her side.
Stand firm, Mason, she silently advised herself.
"Life is for living, Carly. Balance. That's what you need. Work—and play."
* * * *
Carly hummed a very out of tune melody as she quietly moved about the small connecting bathroom. Surrounded by a haze of mist from the hot water pulsating from the shower she caught her reflection in the mirror. Grime streaked her face and her hair hung in sweaty clumps. She grimaced. Yep, a total wreck and yes, okay, she was tone deaf and sang off tune. She couldn't be good at everything.
And you're good at?
She was good at work. Her design business had flourished. What else could she want?
Work and play, Marco had said.
She loved her work, and yes, she would admit, she'd enjoyed their hike inland. She had enjoyed playing—with Marco.
Her genie had done well.
Above the sound of the water, she heard him call from the kitchen and so quickly finished her shower, toweling dry with one of the big, luxuriously fluffy bath sheets.
But despite her happiness, a disconcerting niggle tugged at her heart and her normally very vocal inner-conscience remained mute, questions unasked.
Noise from the small kitchen echoed through to the bathroom and brought a smile to her lips. A domesticated man. Her father liked cooking ... Carly caught herself before she went down that all too familiar track. That, however, was another story, one she'd tried to forget.
Marco had offered to fix dinner and she graciously accepted, once again thinking how delightful it was to be cared for; a luxury she rarely, if ever, experienced.
Donning a fresh tank top with spaghetti thin straps and a pair of cut off jeans, she cinched the shorts around her waist with a belt and gave her hair a quick brush. Under the luminescence of the single bulb the silken strands glistened a deep, rich auburn, grazing her shoulders in soft waves. She curled the ends of a strand of hair around her fingers.
Like burnished copper or autumn leaves. The memory of her father's muffled voice sent a shiver of disquiet racing through her, and her smile faded. What on earth made her think of him again? Vincent Mason was long gone from her life. “Out of sight out of mind,” she muttered at her reflection, roughly tugging the brush through a knot.
Huh! That was another falsehood. Her father may not be in her life, but he was in her mind albeit occasionally, and it hurt as much now as it did seventeen years ago.
* * * *
"Dinner's up,” Marco called from the kitchen as the sound of rushing water stopped and he heard Carly's footfall as she left the shower cubicle. But damn it, thoughts of a naked Carly in the shower played havoc with his concentration.
Dinner had been ready.
Marco glanced at the burnt offering in the sink and grimaced, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the still lingering acrid smoke. The blackened meat had shriveled beyond recognition.
Damn it. He was Italian and prided himself on his finesse in the kitchen. Wasting two bits of prime beef was an anathema to his skill. Nevertheless, he threw another couple of steaks onto the still smoldering grill. This time he'd better concentrate or they'd starve.
Carly Mason had upset his equilibrium. Hell, it was more than upsetting, he acknowledged ruefully. She was under his skin and it hadn't even been twenty-four hours. Where was the successful businessman who loved and left them? CV Hotels was his life—not love, or commitment.
"Smells good."
Carly's soft whispery voice thwarted Marco's concentration and the steak knife clattered from his grip. He sucked in a lung full of air. She was ... stunningly beautiful.
His eyes widened and the pulse in the base of his throat throbbed, blood rushing to his nether regions. He smothered a swallow and tried to pull his warring, urging body into line. It was a struggle. He was a Valente he reminded himself. Struggle went arm in arm with the name.
"Sit down,” Marco directed her to the small pine dining table in the corner. “I'll bring it over."
"You're spoiling me."
"As I said, your wish is my command."
"I'll have to think up something difficult then."
"Such as?"
"Some weird and wonderful commands for the genie,” she said suddenly lowering her gaze, dark sooty lashes shadowing her expression. Marco couldn't see her eyes. He wanted to—very much. He wanted to see what was going on behind those long, lush lashes and look into the depths of her eyes. Look into her soul.
Snatching up his wine glass, he downed its contents in one gulp, refilling his glass immediately. Finally, he managed to speak. “Wonderful, huh? What sort of wonderful?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Oh, yeah. He sure did. The beat of his heart upped its pace and his blood pulsed. “A challenge?"
"You sound worried, Marco. Do you think I'll ask you to do something uncomfortable?” she said emphasizing the last word.
Marco choked on his wine and was suddenly beset by an intense sense of disquiet as he fought to corral his very scattered common sense. Images of him serving a naked Carly whirred through his brain, torturing him. Hell. This woman could bring him to the brink of no return.
"You are a minx,” he chastised.
"Absolutely.” And she chuckled lightly, the soft corners of her mouth tilting upwards, a shining brightness in her eyes once more.
"So what are these ideas?"
Marco waited impatiently while she pretended to consider it carefully, chewing on a piece of steak with over-stated thought.
"How about making you wear a loin cloth?"
He gulped. What the hell had he got himself into? He should have kept his mouth shut. But oh no, he'd gone and asked. Dumb move, Valente!
"Genies always wear a loin cloth when they're serving their masters, well in this case, mistress,” she corrected.
"Mistress?” Marco kept his voice smooth as silk. “You want to be
my mistress?"
He heard her sharp gasp, embarrassment registering on her face and felt a moment of triumph.
"That's not what I meant at all."
"No? You disappoint me, cara mia.” Yeah. Shame. “Is it that a mistress is not the same in Italian as in English?"
Carly's face flushed with color and her lips parted. She wiped the tip of her tongue over them and his body tightened.
"You're having me on, Marco Valente."
Marco heard a shaking resonance in her voice. He wanted to smile at her courage under fire, but restrained himself. She was a good sparing partner and he always liked a challenge. “You speak English. Don't try and confuse me."
"As if I would."
"Yeah,” she smiled, “You would. You know perfectly well I wasn't inferring I'd be your mistress."
"Perhaps,” he shrugged, giving her a broad grin as he took another sip of his wine, savoring the fruity taste as it slid over this tongue. His gaze rested on her lips. Lush and ripe, and so very ready to be kissed. “This is a game,” he admitted, smiling. “Like cat and mouse.” Yet, Marco reasoned to himself, he had still to decide who was who.
* * * *
Dinner over, night loomed and with no city lights, the glow of the lighthouse to the north was the only sight of man. On the table the naked flame of candlelight flickered.
"Fancy a coffee?” Marco questioned and passed her a cup. Carly took it, giving a brief nod and headed out to the patio. And he followed like the proverbial bee to honey he thought with a wry sense of self-mockery.
Outside the night air was warm, a testament to the gulf winds. Cicadas chirped, and a faint breeze wafted up from the ocean stirring the tips of the palms and banana trees. The fragrance from the wild frangipani and the gardenia growing nearby were a heady mix to his already over indulged senses.
Carly sat down on the step and rested against the railing. He followed.
"I..."
Carly burst into laughter as they both spoke at once.
"You first,” he acquiesced.
"Okay, I was ... um,” she prevaricated. “I was teasing, before. Joking, you understand."
"About being my mistress?"
"Mm.” Embarrassed, she looked away.
"How do you know I wasn't?"
Her head whipped up and she stared at him wide eyed, lips parted. It set his body into overload once more.
"You're lips are for kissing and your body made for loving."
A strangulated choke escaped her lips. She looked—frightened. “You know the deal, Mr. Valente,” she said, her tone thick with a concoction of fear and formality. “I'm not sleeping with you, Marco. There are separate rooms. I expect you to be honorable."
"Deals can be broken,” he suggested.
"You are joking—aren't you?"
He wished he were, but he realized as soon as he'd said the words, he meant them. Totally. His body told him. Heat coursed through his veins as the more than fleeting thought of sleeping with Carly lit his brain like fireworks on bon fire night.
"For forty-eight hours I've wondered what it would be like to make love with you. Feel your body under mine, touching, tasting. Filling you..."
"Enough,” Carly screeched and jumped up. Her cup toppled to the sand and at the same time the wail of an owl fluttering overhead brought Marco crashing to his senses. He shouldn't tease her. He wasn't some uncouth youth unable to control himself. He choked back an oath and sucked in a steadying breath.
"Carly?"
But it was too late. He'd scared her off; she'd scuttled to her own bedroom, leaving him alone and his body on fire for what he couldn't have.
* * * *
So much for bedtime! Sleep eluded Marco as it had the previous night and the reason was exactly the same.
Carly.
Carly with eyes so somber and so sad at times he wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. His reaction was an anomaly he couldn't understand. He wasn't acting like the Marco Valente he knew himself to be. That Marco was business first and pleasure second, with no room for relationships.
The fact that she lay on the other side of his bedroom wall was in no way soothing. He was wired and every microscopic sound reverberated in his ears ten-fold. Playing Romeo was a lot harder than he expected. Groaning he turned onto his side and tossed aside the coverlet. His skin prickled from the soft ocean breeze wafting through the window.
Good.
Perhaps a little chill would tame his libido. But as the crescendo of the crashing waves with their age old rhythm drifted up from the foreshore he cursed, mouthing the worst Italian could he think of. He rolled onto his stomach and shoved the pillow over his head and tried to drown out all sound.
Minutes ticked passed and he rolled over again. It wasn't working. Besides, who was he trying to kid? It had nothing to do with the beach, the waves, or even the constant chorus of cicadas as they rubbed their back legs. It was Carly. Carly with the lustrous hair that tantalized him so relentlessly; he wanted to wind his fingers through it and let it drape across his bare skin. Carly with the long, sleek legs that were every man's fantasy—especially his.
"Sh...” he cursed into the darkness. It was no good. Sleep was impossible. Giving up, he hauled himself out of bed. Perhaps a swim would knock some sense into him.
Some hope. But he'd try anything to expunge the vision of auburn tresses and legs from heaven from his brain.
He hadn't gone more than a few metres when a whispered breath caught him unawares. “Who's there?"
"It's me,” he answered. “What are you doing out here?” Marco stepped up close and froze. Carly was wearing the skimpiest of nightdresses. A baby doll number that was enticing and yet innocent all at once.
He gulped. Under the shards of the silvery night sky, her attire was as sexy as hell and outlined every curve, every nuance, molding to the crest of her breasts. Who needed lace and silk, when white cotton and Carly were combined? The vision was as alluring as anything he'd ever seen.
A shy smile lit her face. “I couldn't sleep."
"Must be the sea air. Too much of a good thing."
"Mm.” Her gaze returned to the ocean, while his was held captive by the siren in front of him.
Moonbeams swept across the sky and over the peak of the waves making them glitter while the stars appeared like icy diamonds in the inky blackness. Every few minutes the beacon from the lighthouse scanned the horizon, then disappeared. As it vanished from view Carly shivered.
"Here, let me.” Marco pulled her to him, exhaling as she leaned into his chest. He wrapped her in the circle of his arms and held her close. His body tightened as the tangle of her glorious amber locks scraped across his bare chest and lit a fire so deep and so raw within him, he thought he might explode.
"That better?” he finally managed to ask.
She nodded.
He was thankful she wasn't in one of her bantering moods because he didn't think he could string more than two syllables together, let alone a sentence.
Dipping his head, his lips trailed across the soft strands of her hair and he inhaled the heady scent he had come to recognize as hers. Lavender and roses, a combination as old fashioned as it was intoxicating.
Time stood still. Lost in his own world, he could only feel. And it felt damn good. The rise and fall of her breasts swelling against the cotton drugged him, catching him in a web of need. His body was on fire, hungry for hers.
"I should get some sleep.” Carly's soft voice interrupted Marco's wild dreams and thrust him back to reality. He dropped his hands and she stepped from him. The emptiness swallowed him whole.
"Sleep would be good,” he agreed. It was an outright lie. Sleep was impossible. What he really wanted was to keep her here at his side. To touch her, taste, feel. Blood surged in his veins. His body was awake with an urgent, burning and absolute desire he'd never felt before.
But without a backward glance Carly walked away and he could only stand and watch, mesme
rized by the sensual sway of her buttocks beneath the filmy nightdress. His groin swelled in protest and he bit back a groan. Right now any sort of oblivion would be better than the war his body waged.
Marco desperately wanted to follow her.
He didn't.
Instead, he turned and stared numbly out across the ocean with his brain cells in a go-slow mood. It suited him just fine. That way he didn't have to feel, or think.
Huh! Who was he kidding? Carly was so very much under his skin—and it itched like hell.
* * * *
She'd survived day one.
Carly snuggled beneath the bed covers as daylight filtered through the lace panel undulating in the breeze at the open window. She wondered what would day two bring. And day three, and four?
More of the same?
She hoped—for what?
Hoped not?
A light tap at her door interrupted her musings and when Marco entered her heartbeat upped a notch and her senses came suddenly alive.
"Breakfast madam.” He held a tray; a bud of hibiscus lay to one side beside a cup of steaming hot coffee and plate of toast and jam. The rich and intoxicating fertile aroma of the toasted coffee beans yanked Carly instantly awake, the pungency making her nostrils flare. She sat up, aware at the same time of where she was and hauled the bed cover up under her chin.
"You didn't have to do this,” she said, annoyed her cheeks heated automatically.
Marco acknowledged her blush with a slight upward flick at the corner of his mouth, an action that sent the blood surging through her veins and made her bones melt. Her own lips were as parched as the desert and it wasn't because she was thirsty—well, at least not for water.
"Perhaps not, but as your genie, it is my honor to serve you."
"Honor, now that's a word you don't hear too often these days.
"Honor is a lost commodity."
"Is honor important to you?” she questioned
"Honor in life, in business. Family. These are important things."
"You've never mentioned your family,” she intervened, hoping he might hint at his past. So far she knew absolutely zilch.
Hiring Cupid Page 5