by Cara Colter
But now? He did not want to see Cynthia. He hoped she'd be leaving La Torchere soon and their paths would not cross before that happened.
Rick found himself on a bluff, a rocky outcropping west of the beach, and the hair raised suddenly on the back of his neck. This place did not have the manicured feel of the rest of the resort. It had been left natural. A place of rocks and trees, the landscape rugged and untamed.
He was not sure how he knew, but he knew. This was it. This was where the chapel would go. Was it hypocritical for a man who had no belief in romance, nor in the power of love, to build a wedding chapel?
Probably.
And yet, as he stood here, on this piece of ground, he could almost feel the chapel forming around him. The spirit of it, for no vision of the building itself came to him. He just knew he would put it here, on this rock bluff, facing the sea and all its mysteries.
He loved to build. That did not mean he had to believe in love.
A beautiful, carefree feminine laugh floated over the night air. The hackles on the back of his neck rose again. It was almost as though the gods were laughing at his refusal to believe in love.
It was nonsense, of course. When he walked to the edge of the bluff, he could see the water rippling around a woman who was swimming, alone, in the bay. She laughed again, and the sound tickled along his spine.
Good God. Cynthia?
He would know her laugh anywhere. He had heard it, the robust joyousness of it, a long time ago when she had had her cheek pressed hard into the black leather of his jacket, when her arms had been curled tight around him.
For a moment, he could taste the bitterness of her rejection, and it combined with all the other rejections he had received recently.
He squinted at her, her body a pool of light in a sea of darkness. Those unusual, glow-in-the-dark sea creatures lit the water around her so that it looked as though she was swimming in the sky, not the ocean.
That sixth sense, so finely honed, filled in what he could not see. Cynthia-Miss-Snooty-Forsythe was swimming in the buff.
It was childish and vindictive, and Rick Barnett didn't give a damn. It was payback time. For her snub of him, for all the snubs of beautiful women who now found him unworthy, he was exacting revenge. Nothing major. Small but satisfying.
He made his way off the bluff to the beach. It was even better than he thought. Her clothes were in an untidy bundle on the sand. If he was not mistaken, her bathing suit— black and proper, exactly what the Cynthia he had known would wear—was on the top of the heap.
He propped himself up against a huge piece of driftwood that had washed in and took his time preparing and lighting the cigar.
She noticed him right away, the movement in the water suddenly stilled. Though it was very dark out, he could see the white roundness of her head bobbing as she trod water and tried to think what to do.
He let her think, never letting on that he knew she was there.
He took his time with the cigar, but even so, she said nothing, hoping to outwait him. He laughed to himself at that and put out the cigar. He crossed his arms over his chest. No one could outwait a man who had all the time in the world.
Finally her voice called out, tremulous.
He frowned at the faint tremor. He'd meant to embarrass her, not scare her. On the other hand, maybe she was just cold.
"Excuse me?" she called.
"Yes?" he answered back.
The growl was not what she was expecting, because she was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then she continued.
"You've caught me at an awkward moment. Do you think you could leave the beach while I get out of the water?"
"No." Had he known her own delight in the power of that word only hours before, he might have said it again.
Her attempt at politeness vanished. "A gentleman would."
"I'm not a gentleman," Rick assured her, and the rasp of his voice backed him up. In fact these days when he looked in the mirror, a pirate looked back at him, battle-scarred and hard. Miss Snobby would be swimming the other way if she had any idea.
"Look, it would be a shame if I had to report you to the authorities."
He smiled at that. Authorities on Torchere Key? But the smile faded. She had that same note in her voice that he had always remembered. Blue-blooded. Used to being listened to. Her pronunciation perfect.
"Report me to the authorities?" he said. "I'm enjoying a quiet moment on the beach, perfectly attired, I might add. You're the one out there with nothing on."
He heard her gasp.
"How do you know?" she snapped. "It's dark!"
Despite her combative tone, he heard the plea in her words, and the prayer. She was hoping he hadn't seen her. Was she every bit the same Miss Priss she had been? Impossible. She was twenty-six years old now. Some man, somewhere, had tasted the honey of her lips, brought all that leashed passion to the surface.
He didn't want to think about that, so he walked over to the bundle of her clothes and lifted them with his toe. "Your suit is here on the beach. And some sort of shift. And a towel." He studied the suit more closely than he had the first time, and then the shift underneath it. Cynthia had always had a glorious body, slender, but round in all the right places.
The suit, and the hideous shift, did not look like clothing that belonged to a woman who had come into herself, found her passion.
Had she married? The thought brought unexpected pain, like a knife going through his heart. She might have three children by now, for all he knew.
He told himself the ache in his heart was only because it would be so unfair if she had gone on to find happiness when his life was in such shambles. He would just find out, that was all. He'd find out, and then he'd fade back into the night, where he had become so comfortable.
"I'll make you a deal," he said.
"I'll hear what you have to say."
He found it faintly amusing that she wasn't giving an inch even though she was in no position to bargain.
"I'll turn my back while you come out of the water and get wrapped up in a towel."
"Is that your best offer?"
At least she didn't sound afraid. Madder than a wet hen, but not afraid.
"Actually, there's more. I'll turn my back in exchange for something."
Her silence was long. "What?" she finally asked.
It was his silence that was long this time, as he contemplated what he was about to ask her. "A kiss," he finally said.
"Are you insane?" she sputtered.
"Maybe."
Again the silence was long. "What kind of kiss?" she asked, finally.
"How many kinds are there?" he asked back.
"There's the gentle, kiss-on-the-cheek kind." She sounded extremely hopeful.
"That wasn't quite what I had in mind," he said drily.
"There's the little buss on the lips kind."
"Getting closer." This exchange was already revealing an amazing fact to him. She was still the innocent girl she had been, her passion leashed, subdued. If she were married, she'd had plenty of opportunity to tell him she was going to sic her husband on him.
"You are not engaging me in a wet, sloppy kiss! You are a complete stranger. And you've been smoking a cigar."
Cynthia Forsythe was twenty-six years old and she thought kissing was wet and sloppy? And she sounded more concerned about the cigar than the fact he was a stranger.
"Take it or leave it," he said, and he turned his back. "I'm counting to twenty, and then I'm turning around."
"Oh! You are impossible. This is absurd."
"One…two…three…"
Her griping came to an abrupt end and he could hear her moving strongly through the water. His diminished vision had heightened some of his other senses, and so he could tell by the sounds exactly where she was. At the water's edge, coming up the beach, grabbing her clothes. It took a will of absolute iron to not turn and take a small peek.
Her scent caught him. She was right behi
nd him. She smelled of the sea, but also sweet and clean. Delicious.
She could, of course, pick up her clothes and run, but she didn't. He heard her struggling into them, the dry cloth catching on her wet skin.
"All right," she said regally. "You may turn around."
"Close your eyes," he ordered her softly.
"Humph. No description for the authorities."
He turned and looked. Her eyes were obediently screwed closed. She was beautiful up close, her face unmarred by life. Her cheekbones were high; her small nose tilted regally toward the heavens. Her wet hair was plastered against her head, the color of dark gold. It would be lighter in color when it was dry, in the sunlight, and for some reason he was pleased that it was not full of the streaks and dyes dictated by current fashion.
The swimsuit cover was not anything dictated by current fashion either. It looked much worse on than it had off. It had the shape and style and coloring of a gunny sack. But it was clinging delightfully to some of her wetter curves. Her figure was slightly fuller than it had been, and it reminded him she was a woman now, not a girl.
It reminded him he did not know her at all. Not now.
But her mouth was as glorious a creation as he had remembered, generous, the bottom lip plump and full.
"What would you report, anyway?" he asked her, softly, trying to strip some of the harshness from his voice. "A kiss bandit?"
"Just get it over with," she said icily. "And if you taste like cigars, I'll probably puke on your shoes."
He gazed at her a moment longer and then leaned toward her. He touched her lips with his own.
He tasted the sweetness and innocence that he had suspected from her earlier words. And despite her claim that she would be repelled by the lingering taste of the cigar on his lips, her mouth remained soft underneath his, pliable, almost inviting.
How could she be both? Sweet and innocent? And yet inviting a deeper kiss with a strange man?
"Will your husband be coming to even the score with me?" he asked. He had to know. It wasn't enough to guess.
"I'm not married," she said, and her voice held the quiver of that kiss. "I've never been married."
"Ah."
He pulled back from her, saw her eyes begin to flutter open and resisted the urge to see them once again. Her eyes had been her glory, a mix of gold and green and brown that was intoxicating. He covered them quickly with his palm.
"Good night, sweet lady," he said, turned swiftly and walked quickly away through the sand.
He had accomplished nothing that he had set out to, least of all revenge. He felt terribly unsettled by the touch of her lips, by this midnight encounter with an old love.
He turned on the edge of the palm-lined walk that went back toward the main resort and looked back at her.
She stood frozen in the night, a hand lifted to her lips.
A faint breeze had kicked up, and the swim cover was molded to the beautiful ripeness of her breasts, the strong, slender length of her upper legs. Strands of her wet hair lifted and whipped around the soft profile of her lovely face. In dark silhouette, she looked like a goddess who had walked out of the sea.
The scars on his face ached, a painful and ruthless reminder that he was the man least likely to have anything to offer a goddess.
Chapter Two
Cynthia stood, her hand to her lips, looking at the empty space where the darkness had swallowed the stranger. He had disappeared completely, almost reminding her of how wild creatures could melt into invisibility.
The wind off the ocean caressed her wet body and lifted the heaviness of her hair. She felt a wonderful surging power, as if she were a goddess standing on that beach embraced by darkness.
"Wild creatures and goddesses," she muttered derisively, broken from her trance. She stooped to pick up her towel. Still, she felt reluctant to leave the image of herself as a woman of such seductive powers that she could tempt a perfectly sane man into participating in that encounter.
Because for all that it had been bizarre, she had been left with a sense that he was not. His lips, when they had touched hers, had not been hard or grasping. The kiss had not been creepy. In fact, far from it. His lips had told her secrets. They had told her he was a man of solidness and strength, a man who did not make it a habit to kiss strangers on the beach.
"Cynthia," she told herself primly, "you did not lure!" For heaven's sake, she had been accosted by a complete barbarian. Why was she making excuses for him? Who in this day and age demanded a kiss in return for civilized behavior?
And got away with it, she reminded herself with an attempt at stern disapproval.
The problem was that she didn't feel the least little bit accosted. Try as she might, Cynthia could not seem to whip herself into the frenzy of indignation the encounter deserved! She had just come away from a bad deal with the devil. She had actually agreed to trade a kiss for a moment's privacy. The man was a pirate.
"I've been victimized," she told herself, kicking up the sand looking for her shoes. The words totally lacked conviction. If she was honest, she would admit it felt as though she was trying to manufacture the way her mother would have wanted her to feel.
She gave up the search for the shoes and headed across the sand toward the beautiful twisting pathway that would lead her through an exotic world of tropical plants back to the safety of her room. But rather than hurrying back to that sanctuary, she found herself dawdling. She was aware of how delightful the sand felt squishing up between her toes and then of the warmth seeping through the pavement into her bare feet. She was aware of the scent of the night, the sea smell mixed with the wild abundance of colorful and aromatic flowers that bloomed in well-groomed beds. Most of all, she was aware of the night air on her cool, damp skin, sensuous as a touch.
He had touched her, the palm of his hand rough and masculine against the softness of her cheek as he had guided her lips to his.
Why hadn't she pulled away?
"A deal's a deal," she told herself righteously, "even if it is with the devil."
But she knew she was lying to herself. She had not lingered over that kiss on the flimsy excuse that she had made a deal. No, she had been drawn into the unsavory deal because his mouth had tasted faintly of cigars, and, unlike her vow, the taste had not given her the least desire to upchuck on his shoes.
No, there had been nothing repelling about the taste on his firm lips—smokey and faintly sweet—like perfectly aged port wine. And his kiss had been that rich, that intoxicating, that compelling.
From the moment her lips had touched his, the world she knew had faded away, replaced with a far different one. A world of hammering hearts, of sweet-tasting lips, of a scent so masculine it could be bottled and sold. She had entered, without warning, a world of wanting, as unfamiliar and exotic to her as visiting a foreign land. Yet that world had opened to her with the hesitant parting of her lips beneath the command of his.
"That's a little much to read into one kiss," she told herself, but even as she said it, she knew her world was already altered. When was the last time she had felt the simple joy of bare feet on warm pavement, felt night air tingle against her skin like a lover's touch? Not just noticed it, but felt it, as if her eyes and her pores and her heart were suddenly wide open?
Cynthia felt alive.
"Like a sleeping princess awakened by a kiss," she whispered to the night and then snorted at her fancifulness. Goddesses. Princesses. Pirates. Wild creatures.
Obviously her life had become just a little too dull and predictable. She slid in the door of her suite, noting, thankfully, that her mother had not returned to the room next door. Her mother had a gift for knowing things she had no business knowing.
Her back against the door, Cynthia closed her eyes. Her senses were filled with the taste of him and the smell of him once more. She yearned.
"Stop it," she ordered herself, appalled. She pushed off from the door and then noticed the book she had left open on the couch.
Hot Desert Kisses, it was called. Jasmine and the sheik. Did Cynthia have to look any further than her reading material for the reason she was feeling this way? All hot and bothered and unfulfilled? Her mother was right. This type of book was trashy. And it led to all kinds of ridiculous fantasies. Reading this could lead to nothing but restlessness and discontent. No wonder that kiss had affected her so terribly! With stony determination, she plopped the book into the garbage can.
Then Cynthia went into her bedroom, peeled off the damp swimsuit and stared at the shapeless pants and jacket of the pajamas she had taken off just a short while ago. The design had rabbits in it! Had she ever noticed that before? She studied the pajamas with distaste. Cute bunnies with mischievous eyes and pink bows and ridiculously large feet cavorted all over her sleepwear!
In the last hour she had made three rather startling discoveries about herself: She liked walking barefoot in warm sand; she liked swimming naked in the night; and she would die to be kissed like that again! She was not the kind of woman who wore bunny pajamas to bed!
In bed, moments later, clad in a T-shirt and underwear, Cynthia talked sense to herself. "So, you need a new pair of pajamas," she scolded herself, "and maybe a new hobby. Something you can feel excited about. Photography. Bird-watching."
Not quite, a voice inside her insisted, something exciting.
"Okay, then, skateboarding. Downhill skiing."
Nope.
"Skydiving. Bungee-jumping."
But the voice inside her said hot tropical kisses.
"Shut up," she told the voice firmly.
But just before she slept, she thought she heard a voice, rough as a gravel road, scraping along her spine and making her skin feel hot and tender.
Good night, sweet lady.
"Good night," she murmured.
The next thing she knew she was awake, and it was morning. She was drenched in the peach-colored light of post dawn. Cynthia lay very still, contemplating the deep sense of delight within her. When was the last time she had awoken feeling like this? With this kind of tingling anticipation for what the day might hold? With a strange desire to embrace the unexpected?