Won by the Wealthy Greek. Cathy Williams
provided the perfect theme for her article.
She replayed the words in her head just to be sure: Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure. It was perfect—as the hook for her article, as the theme she had been searching for.
She only had to think about the fisherman to know the direction her article would take now. It was a theme that was sure to resonate with her readers, make them pause over their lattes: a man fulfilled, a man who had found his destiny working close to nature in the sleepy environs of a small Greek island.
Good as far as it went, Charlotte mused, shivering a little as she waded deeper into the water. But what had happened to her determination to reinvent herself? Was the fisherman going to be confined to the printed page? Living in the imagination was great—it had always provided her with an escape—but was it enough? And should the thought of the mysterious fisherman be sending her heart-rate off the scale? She put that thought on hold as she embraced the chilly waves with a shriek of excitement.
Plunging deep, Charlotte began to swim out strongly towards the red floats. She swam well, with her head underwater much of the time to streamline her position and minimise drag. The sea was as clear as if it had been filtered, and the sandy floor was littered with rocks giving shelter to the shoals of colourful fish streaking past her legs. She saw the fisherman’s lobster pots first, nestling between two rocks, even before she realised she had reached his markers.
Treading water, Charlotte grabbed hold of one of the fat red globes and clutched it to her chest. Her nipples tightened as she traced the curved lines with her fingertips and let her thoughts fly. Closing her eyes, she careered off on an erotic adventure where the fisherman’s tight buttocks moved with the same insistent thrust as the waves beneath his float. She allowed her legs to rise behind her, and used the float to keep herself above the waves. It felt cool and smooth against her cheek, with just enough scratchy damage to make her think of how a stubble-roughened jaw might feel against her skin. Her thoughts lingered on his strong hands, touching it, controlling it, much as she was doing now—
‘Oy! Min to kanis afto!’
Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat as she thrust the float away. The barked order carried clearly across the water and came from the shore. Back-pedalling furiously, she sent a curtain of spray high into the air as she whirled around to try and see who was shouting at her.
So much for romantic ideals! It was her fisherman, and even the shock of reality and fantasy colliding was overtaken by a new fear when she saw him take a few fast steps forward. He thought she was in danger and was coming to her rescue, she realised. Quickly thrusting her arm into the air, she gave him a confident ‘thumbs-up’ signal. She relaxed a little when he halted abruptly, but he still exuded a sense of purpose she sensed might be triggered at the slightest provocation. She didn’t flatter herself it was out of concern. He was just plain furious.
But then she began to resent his arrogant occupation of her beach. What did he think she was doing? Did he think she was hoping to steal her supper? Did he own the sea? Charlotte had a good mind to stay exactly where she was until the man gave up and went away. But then she heard an engine put-putting towards her. Swinging round in the water, she saw that a small fishing vessel was closing in on her fast.
Back on the beach, the fisherman had planted himself in front of her pyjamas, whilst in the fishing boat she saw the stocky figure of a much older man sporting a swirling moustache. He had spotted her too. The boat was close enough for Charlotte to see the blue stripes painted down its sides.
She couldn’t stay treading water for ever. Was it fate lines colliding, or a disaster unfolding? Charlotte knew there was only one way to find out. She began to swim back to shore, and only slowed when she was close enough to see the water frothing around the fisherman’s naked feet. As their gazes clashed he brandished her clothes in his hand like a flag.
Was he showing them to her or taunting her with them? she wondered. But, noting the cynical slant of his eyes, Charlotte pulled away towards the shelter of the rocks clustering at the shoreline.
Nothing like a little real-life experience to spice up your writing, she mused, turning in time to see him make a second imperative gesture—past her this time, out to sea.
Quite suddenly the boat’s engine was cut. The fisherman on board retreated to the stern, where he busied himself with some nets. The only sound now was the restless surf sighing against the reef and slapping lazily against the side of the small fishing boat.
Crawling commando-style through the shallows on her forearms, Charlotte slipped into hiding between two large boulders and waited there out of sight until she had caught her breath. Then, snatching a quick look, she saw that the fisherman was still standing where she had first seen him, still holding her pyjamas in his fist.
‘Throw them over here!’ she called, pressing herself back against the rock. She waited, but when there was no response she was forced to dart her head out again. The fisherman shook her nightwear, and then his head—slowly and deliberately.
Charlotte sank back with a gust of frustration. Rock and a hard place came to her mind. It was clear this man was no push-over, but, on the plus side, he was an incredible-looking individual. His eyes were extraordinary. Their intensity alone was enough to send a shiver coursing down her spine.
Maybe it came from living so close to nature, Charlotte reasoned impatiently. But she was forced to admit that the hard, muscular body, combined with such an arrogant stare, added up to a lot more than she had bargained for when she’d daydreamed about the mysterious and then-unseen fisherman.
He was taller than she had imagined too, and built like a kickboxer, with incredible legs shown off to best advantage in a pair of battered shorts. Her senses surged at the thought of being controlled by such well-muscled thighs, and she quickly shut her eyes, as if that was enough to make the danger go away.
Fantasy was one thing. Reality, in the shape of this particular Greek male, was another thing altogether. He even wore a knife at his waist, hanging in a long sheath from a low-slung leather belt. ‘Dinosaur,’ Charlotte muttered fiercely, feeling her pulse speed up. He was such a compelling individual that one crazy part of her wanted to tear his clothes off with her teeth, whilst her sensible self was angry with him for provoking such an irresponsible response.
She sank down again in the shallows behind her rock, and it was a good few moments before she steeled herself for another look—and that was a mistake.
Charlotte’s breath flew out of her chest as their gazes clashed. Something in the man’s brooding expression suggested he knew every position in the Kama Sutra, and had devoted his life to perfecting each one of them in turn. Ideal research material for her article, no doubt—but was she really ready for this?
Charlotte shouted down the warning bells clamouring in her head. This was the moment. She could seize it, or live to regret it.
Predatory and very masculine interest was coming off the man in waves. She judged him to be in his midthirties—old enough to know what to do in the bedroom, without having lost either the interest or the stamina required for her purposes…
Closing her eyes, Charlotte brushed the last of her doubts aside. Rolling back the film in her mind, she evaluated what she knew of him: his hair was thick, raven-black and slightly wavy, and he wore it longer than the average man—but there was nothing remotely average about this man.
Most crucially he wore no ring. But she would still have to make discreet enquiries of Marianna, who worked at the villa and seemed to know everything about everyone on the island. So far, though, Charlotte thought confidently, the signs were looking good—delectable, unattached male with perfect body for lonely journalist’s entertainment. For research purposes only, naturally.
He could easily have passed for one of the Ancient Greek gods—except they’d been too petty and far too pretty, she decided. She cast him instead as Jason, the Argonauts’ legendary leader, instantly elevating the small blue and white fishing boat to the fifty-oared Argo—though it was too great a stretch even for