but she knew of another one, hidden away, just ten minutes’ walk through the trees. It was quite small, so few people ever found it, and she could usually be guaranteed almost total privacy. Swinging her straw bag across her shoulder, she set off along the path which led past the beach cottages and up over a spur of dark volcanic rock, and then down to the tree-sheltered cove, with its deserted patch of white sand lapped by the turquoise-blue Caribbean Sea.
At this time of the morning the water had already been pleasantly warmed by the sun. She swam for a while with a smooth, powerful stroke, diving down beneath the sparkling surface to visit the rock pools and pockets of coral where shoals of tiny bright fish darted about, until she felt the coiled springs inside her begin to unwind and a pleasant ache of tiredness in her muscles.
The tiny beach was still empty as she climbed up out of the water. Scrubbing her hair roughly dry with the towel, she tucked it beneath her sunhat and then spread the towel out beneath a convenient rock, smoothed a generous dollop of suncream into her skin, perched her sunglasses on her nose and sat down with her back against the rock to enjoy the sheer bliss of solitude and a good book.
For about a minute. She had barely read half a page when the peace of the morning was abruptly shattered by a banging and thumping, and she glanced up to see a tall, familiar figure emerging from beneath the trees, a wind-surf board clutched clumsily under his arm. Uttering a most unladylike expletive under her breath, she bent her head over her book, shielding her face with the brim of her hat.
Dammit! Any intrusion on her quiet retreat would have been unwelcome—but if it had to be invaded, why on earth did it have to be by Hugh Garratt…?
‘Hello, there,’ he greeted her with amiable good humour. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Indeed.’ Her tone would have dampened most men’s attempts to engage her attention.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’ he queried politely—though the unmistakable lilt of amusement in his voice confirmed that he actually knew perfectly well that he was disturbing her. In fact, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had come down here with that deliberate intention.
‘Not in the least,’ she rapped in answer, not bothering to look up from her book.
‘I came down to try out this windsurfing lark,’ he confided disarmingly. ‘Only I didn’t want anyone to see me making a fool of myself until I can get the hang of it.’
She tilted up her head, slanting him a suspicious glance from behind her sunglasses. ‘You’ve never tried it before?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve often promised myself I’d have a go, though, so I thought I might as well take this chance, while I’m here.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’ She returned her attention to her book, doing her best to ignore him as he stripped off his faded T-shirt to reveal a remarkably well-made torso, all smooth, hard muscle beneath lightly bronzed skin, with a smattering of rough dark hair across the width of his chest, arrowing down to…
Swiftly she snatched her eyes back to the jumbled words on the page, angry at her own awareness of him. He was just another punter—and one who couldn’t tell the difference between a brush-off and a come-on, apparently. Hadn’t she known more than enough of those? Her mouth compressed in irritation, she turned the page of her book—and then realised that she hadn’t read any of the previous three paragraphs.
‘Excuse me…?’
His shadow fell across her, a few grains of sand sprinkling onto her feet. She drew in a long, slow breath to indicate her annoyance, and then looked up at him. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I could borrow a little of your suncream?’ he queried with a hint of diffidence, as if afraid she would bite his head off. ‘I forgot to bring any, and I don’t want to get burned.’
She was tempted to remark that he already seemed to have a pretty good tan, but she knew that wasn’t necessarily enough protection from the damaging rays of the hot Caribbean sun. ‘Of course.’ She nodded curtly, dipping her hand into her bag and pulling it out. ‘Here.’
‘Thank you.’
Even without looking up, she was still aware of him standing so close to her—and to judge from the sounds of the gloops and slurps he was using up half the tube of cream. Then there was another moment of hesitation.
‘I don’t like to bother you again…’ His voice was all innocent apology, his smile one of ingratiating charm. ‘But would you mind putting some on my back for me? I can’t reach.’
With a sigh of weary exasperation, she laid down her hat and her book, and, rising to her feet, almost snatched the tube from him. ‘Turn around, then,’ she ordered grudgingly, squeezing out a pool of cream into the palm of her hand.
She began at the nape of his neck, working out along his wide shoulders, smoothing the cream briskly into his warm skin. Beneath her hand, those well-defined muscles were firm and resilient over the steel hardness of bone. She had been right about how fit he was, she mused absently—this was all prime male, not a trace of softness in him.
Slicking the cream across his back, she continued to rub it in, circling slowly, over and over, all her attention focused on her task as she worked her way over the smooth ridges of muscle and down the long cleft of his spine. Last night, even with the three-inch heels of her evening sandals, she had been aware of how tall he was, but now, barefoot in the sand, his six-foot plus seemed to tower over her.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and the sun seemed to have grown hotter, making her feel a little light-headed. And some kind of strange magnetic force was drawing her closer, closer, until she could have slid her arms around his waist, leaned herself against him, felt the raw power in that hard male body next to hers…
Abruptly she drew back, startled. She had been within an inch of actually doing it, of making a complete fool of herself.
‘There you are.’ Her voice was stiff from the effort of suppressing the slight tremor in her throat. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Thank you.’ He turned, smiling slowly—and she was quite sure that he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. At least she still had her sunglasses on—he couldn’t see her eyes. But he must be aware of how ragged her breathing was, the way her hand was trembling as she tried to put the lid back on the cream. He was much too close—and that wide chest, hard-muscled and hair-roughened, was much too male. She just had to touch…
‘There’s a bit there you haven’t rubbed in properly,’ she excused herself awkwardly, putting up her fingertips to a melting streak of white just above his heart, where that fascinating smattering of rough hair curled over the sculpted curve of a well-defined pectoral muscle.
‘Thank you.’ His voice had taken on a huskier timbre, and with an odd little frisson of excitement she realised that he too was aware of that strange sizzle of electricity between them…
But he had deliberately engineered this, the warming voice inside her brain reminded her sharply—it hadn’t happened by chance. He was sly, devious, manipulative—in short, a man. She drew back, retreating behind her usual façade of icy disdain. ‘There. You shouldn’t get sunburned now, so long as you don’t stay out too long.’
He laughed that lazily mocking laugh. ‘I’m very obliged to you. You can go back to your
