One Summer At The Beach. Natalie Anderson
centre-stage, not in the wings—actively involved rather than in the audience.
She walked up to him as with deliberation he looked her up and down and back up again. Ordinarily his mouth held sensual promise; right now, the smile stretching it was utterly carnal. She had no idea if anyone else was around, all she could see was him, all she could sense was the force of his presence, his breadth, the awareness crackling so near the surface. He looked up the length of her legs once more and the desire in his eyes had her wobbling. Deep inside her body was soft and hot and aching with emptiness. But the pounding of her heart reminded her. That look in his eyes would be snuffed out the instant he saw her scar. He might lie, as Neil had, and say it made no difference. But it would make every difference—he wouldn’t treat her as real any more. She broke the eye contact, looked down to the ground, registered the big red chilly bin beside him.
He finally tore his eyes from her legs and nudged the bin with his foot. ‘Tell me you like seafood.’
‘I like seafood.’
‘Really?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Should have asked earlier.’
‘We’re having a picnic?’
‘That OK? I thought it was such a great day…’ He trailed off, attention back on her legs.
She clamped her upper thighs together, halting the warm urge to swing them open, and managed a cool friendly smile. ‘That’s great.’
She took the blanket that rested on top of the container. Hugged it in a protective hold. He took the chilly. They crossed the road and wandered down to the beach. Hunted out a nice spot to park their burdens and themselves.
She was glad of the crowds. Glad of the broadness of the daylight—because she seriously needed to get a grip. When he was with her she had the crazy feeling that anything was possible. And it wasn’t. He didn’t know about her. And when he did, everything would change. Better for him never to know so she didn’t have to witness that change. Better to end it before it began. He’d been right—this was just the beginning, but of a fantasy. She would have to finish it so she could treasure it for ever—before it turned into a nightmare.
He set up the umbrella that had been strapped to the side of the chilly.
‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble in a short time.’
He grinned. ‘Not at all. The umbrella is from the hostel. I bought the chilly bin from the store down the road and the food is from a great seafood market I found. They packed everything.’
She spread the blanket for them to sit. She was glad she’d gone with the skirt option. Even though the umbrella shaded them, the temperature was still hitting hot—her internal heat going way higher.
‘Drink?’ He’d unscrewed the lid off a bottle of sauvignon blanc, deftly holding two glasses in one hand while pouring the wine into them.
She glanced at him, catching his eyes for the first time since leaving the hostel, read the challenge.
‘Thank you.’
Her fingers touched his as he gave her the glass. With more luck than skill, she managed not to drop it. All that raced through her head was the memory of those fingers brushing across her back.
Sensible speech was impossible. So she asked a few meaningless, ice-breaker questions. Barely heard his meaningless, ice-breaker answers. Relief came as he unwrapped the food—a fabulous platter of deep-sea delicacies. He piled a few chunks of French bread on a plate, added a swipe of butter to each.
Cool, tasty, satisfying. The succulent seafood slipped down her throat—mussels, prawns, shredded lobster. He handed her an oyster, artfully sitting in its half shell. He winked.
A spurt of mirth bubbled in her. ‘Are you trying to feed me aphrodisiacs?’
He laughed aloud. ‘I’m doing everything in my power to seduce you.’
He’d already done that. And she’d succumb again this minute if there were any way to maintain the level of excitement and enjoyment evident in his eyes. He was out for a little holiday fun—that was obvious. And if only she was truly able to escape her history, she’d do the same.
They ate, talked a little more, looked a lot more—he was so handsome, she couldn’t help but stare, until she could no longer take the need slicing through her. She concentrated instead on the beach volleyball game a few yards away, amazed the women actually managed to stay decent in the teensy, eensy, weensy minuscule strips of Lycra that they passed off as their bikinis. They must use tape. Had to.
He was watching her, amusement apparent. ‘You want to play?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘No?’
‘I’m not good with ball games.’ Never played. Never allowed. Always on the sidelines while her overprotective mother and brother told her she couldn’t and shouldn’t. Consequently she was hopeless and not about to show him and a beach full of others how bad she was at catching a ball.
His amusement had increased—he wasn’t in on her teen angst.
‘Really?’ His mind seemed to have gone in another direction entirely. ‘You know, if you want, I can give you some help with that.’
She looked at him.
His grin was wicked. ‘Ball skills.’
She cleared her throat, narrowed her eyes at him but ducked the challenge. ‘I didn’t do team sports as a kid.’
‘No?’ He let it slide. ‘What did you do?’
‘I was in the orchestra—percussion.’
‘You were the girl clanging the cymbal, huh?’
She giggled. ‘Yeah, waiting the entire length of the piece for my one moment of glory.’
Much like now. And the satisfaction couldn’t be repeated.
‘So no team sports. Were you a runner or something? Track and field?’
She laughed aloud. Her mirth rather more than the question merited.
‘I’m guessing no, then. But you’re fit. You’re very fit.’
She nodded. She liked feeling strong. She’d taken years to get strong. ‘Yoga.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. And Pilates, Thai Chi. All sorts, really. Anything good for strength and flexibility.’
‘Flexibility?’ He drew in an audible breath. ‘Interesting.’
She paused, aware of the extra charge in the already electric air. He was looking at her legs again. She could almost see into his mind. See the mental movie he was playing there.
The atmosphere was so humid and heavy not even a scimitar sword would slice it. Breathing utterly impossible. With great deliberation, and sheer force of will, she turned and stared at the volleyball players some more.
This had been a terrible idea. How had she thought she could seriously sit and lunch with the sexiest guy ever to walk the earth and rein in temptation? Especially when he was making it more than clear that he wanted to tempt.
But he started chatting again. Asking idle questions that had her answering, soft laughter ensuing, relaxing. God, she needed to find a reason not to like him. And fast. But he was making it impossible with his warm eyes, attentive, listening close. Quite some time passed before she realised she wasn’t getting to know anything much about him—other than that he looked fantastic in long shorts. He was all questions, all ears, not offering up a lot of himself in return. Usually she was the listener, the one steering the conversation with questions and open-ended comments. She liked it, liked learning about other people, what made them tick, what made them the way they were. She decided to ask a few questions of her own.
‘What