What ailed him now was anything but simple. In fact, it was damned complicated.
Given a choice, he’d have chosen to lay the blame on the rum punch served the night before. At least that wouldn’t have cast doubts on his sanity. But knowing the stuff packed a powerful wallop, he’d been very temperate. Pity his restraint hadn’t extended to his behavior!
Not that he cared for himself what anyone else thought, but he’d picked up enough to realize that Leila had already been put through the gossip mill. She hadn’t needed him to make matters worse.
Come to that, he hadn’t needed it himself. He was a man who liked to be in charge—of himself, of his surroundings, of his fate. And suddenly, he found himself in control of none of them.
Unsuspecting of the chaos about to assault him, he’d looked up and seen her three nights before, and if he’d been poleaxed smack between the eyes, the impact could hardly have been more acute.
He remembered wading through the mob of guests toward her, helpless to prevent himself, yet hoping the whole time that closer inspection would reveal her to have the kind of flaws guaranteed to put him off any notion of furthering the acquaintance. Hoping she’d be so heavily made up that it would impossible to see the real woman underneath; that her voice would make a crow sound musical by comparison, that she’d be vacuous, silly, or best of all, married.
Instead, she’d been perfect. Lovely. Dignified and delicate. Intelligent and refined. As passionately drawn to him as he’d been to her and, by all accounts, not involved with another man. He’d wanted to fall down on his knees and thank God for the miracle of her. Before he’d even touched her, a bonding of souls had occurred from which he had neither the will nor the power to extricate himself.
He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He supposed he should be grateful she’d had the wit to turn him down last night because if he’d had his way, she’d be lying in his bed right now and he’d probably be lying on top of her. Not a smart move for a man who prided himself on never mixing business with pleasure.
He needed to get his mind back where it belonged: on revving up the troops on the feasibility of setting up a base of operation in Argentina. A hot shower, a shave, and a pot of strong coffee should do the trick.
About to turn back into the room, he stopped, his attention snagged by the sight of a figure emerging from the house. It was Leila.
She crossed the terrace and stepped down to the beach, her small footprints marking a trail through the freshly raked sand. Her swimsuit, a plain black one-piece thing, was modestly cut yet managed to define every curve, every hollow, every inch of her body. She’d tied back her hair so that it hung black and straight halfway to her waist. Her skin glowed apricot gold in the morning light.
She dropped her towel just above the high tide mark and waded into the water. When she stood waist deep, she waited a moment, perfectly silhouetted in the sunshine, then knifed below an incoming wave. Resurfacing another twenty feet out, she headed with smooth, easy strokes for a natural rock arch rising out of the sea at the eastern tip of the reef.
Dry-mouthed, he watched. And the fever to be with her came sweeping back, all the more compelling for its brief hiatus.
“To hell with business,” he said, moving with a speed he’d have thought beyond him five minutes before and dragging on his swimming trunks. “Argentina can wait.”
CHAPTER THREE
HER father had taught her to swim when she was only three years old and it had marked the beginning of a lifelong passion for her. Thoroughly at ease in the water, she’d spent many a happy hour with a mask and snorkel, exploring the secluded bays on the islands lying off the southwest tip of Singapore.
Although it lay farther north of the equator, Poinciana’s warm tropical lagoon reminded her of those times. Even without a face mask she could see schools of fish darting among the coral heads below her: flamboyant striped angelfish similar to those of her homeland waters, gaudy Spanish hogfish, dramatic black-capped basslet and iridescent blue parrot fish.
More relaxed than at any other time since she’d arrived on the island, Leila lost herself in that quietly alive world. But the fish were shy, elusive creatures, posing no threat to her safety, so when something suddenly wound itself firmly around her ankle and held her immobilized, she almost screamed with fright.
Kicking herself free, she turned in a tight somersault and came up to find herself treading water next to Dante. Had it been anyone else, she’d have lambasted him for sneaking up on her like that. But how could any woman hang on to her annoyance when she found herself mesmerized by a pair of eyes made all the more remarkable by the color they stole from the sea and sky?
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, cupping the back of her head in his hand and tugging her close. “I happened to see you leave the house and I just had to be with you.”
He sounded almost indignant, as though he resented the impulses driving him. “But you wished you could have stayed away,” she said, understanding exactly how he felt.
He nodded, the motion freeing the drops of water dazzling the tips of his lashes and sending them flying. Below the surface of the lagoon, his hips brushed against hers, a brief, erotic sweep of flesh against flesh. “Yes, and no. To be honest, I don’t understand a thing of what’s going on. All I know is that I’ve thought of precious little else but you from the moment I first set eyes on you.”
Unable to resist, she slid her hands over the planes of his chest and up around his neck. “I know,” she said. “It’s the same for me. I could hardly sleep for thinking of you and when I did finally drop off—”
Inching closer, he smothered the rest of her confession in a kiss. Long and slow and full of sweet fire, it stole her breath away. And just like fire, it consumed her until she was nothing more than one pliant, aching flame that left her professional aspirations in ashes, along with sound judgment and any intstinct she might once have possessed for self-preservation.
He pulled her into a tighter embrace, sliding his hands around her hips and molding her to him. Clinging together, they rode the gentle waves, oblivious to everything but the rhythm of their own passion. Caught in a current entirely of their own making, their legs tangled, mating with an intimacy that flooded her with a desire as overpowering as it was alarming.
What had happened to the woman whose signature trademark had always been the restraint and modesty with which she lived her life? Where had she gone? Until Dante, she’d never allowed a fully dressed man to take such brazen liberties.
Yet here he was now, practically naked and certainly making no secret of his arousal, twining around her with such potent effect that she was ready to offer herself to him without reservation, in full view of anyone who might happen to notice. To beg him to bury himself in her once again and ease the heavy, throbbing ache he’d awakened.
Before she could act on the impulse he pulled away from her, his eyes darkening with anger. “For Pete’s sake, someone’s watching us through binoculars from one of the front verandas!”
The blood, which seconds before had run rampant throughout her body, rushed to her face. “Oh, Dante, how mortifying!”
“I’d call it pathetic.” Furiously he raked his hair back from his brow. “What the hell kind of nerve does it take for someone to pull a stunt like that?”
Backing away
