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 behind 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.
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