she was maybe five-four and all curves. He’d have her over ten tall blonde Celias any day.
‘Did they go with a gift list?’ He played along.
‘Yes.’ She ground out the answer. ‘The cheapest item was just under a hundred bucks—and you had to buy a pair.’
Money was definitely an issue. He supposed it must be—fledgling actresses and café staff didn’t exactly earn lots. And this resort was one of the most exclusive and expensive in the country. To be having a wedding here meant someone had some serious dosh. Was she worried about not keeping up with the family success?
He laughed, wanting to keep the mood light. ‘Lists are such a waste of time. They’d be better off leaving it to chance and getting two coffee plungers. That way when they split up they can have one each.’
Surprise flashed on her face. ‘Oh, and you call me cynical.’
‘Marriage isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’ He’d been witness to that one all right—hit on the head with a sledgehammer. It was all a sham.
‘You think?’
‘Come on, how many people make it to ten years these days, seven even? What’s the point?’ Because at some point, always, it ended. Owen figured it was better to walk before the boredom or the bitterness set in—and it would set in. The feelings never lasted—he’d seen that, he’d felt it himself. Now he knew it was better not to get tied into something you didn’t want—and certainly not to drag the lives of innocents into it either. He wasn’t running the risk of that happening ever again. No live-in lover, no wife, no kids.
Bella sat back and thought. She had to give him that—one of her older cousins had separated only last month, a marriage of three and a half years over already. But other marriages worked out, didn’t they? She had high hopes for Vita and Hamish. She had faint hopes for herself—if she was lucky.
She frowned at him. ‘Yes, we already know it’s not on your agenda.’ He couldn’t commit to marriage—the monogamy bit would get him. He was too buff to be limited to one woman. Smorgasbord was his style. Well, that was fine. She was hardly at a ‘settle down’ point in life. She was still working on the ‘get’ a life bit.
‘That’s right.’ He grinned. ‘But I’m not averse to helping others celebrate their folly.’
‘So you can flirt with all the bridesmaids?’ A little dig.
‘Not all of them. Just one.’
The shorter, darker-haired, dumpier one with the long straight nose? He was just being nice because he hadn’t actually seen all the others yet. When he did, it would be all over. She looked up from her cleared plate and encountered his stare again. The glint was back and notch by notch making her smoulder.
His stare didn’t waver. And the message grew stronger.
Pure want.
She curled her fingers around her chilled wine glass. She felt flushed all over and had the almost desperate thought that she needed to cool down. Her fingers tightened. Then his hand covered hers, holding the glass to the table.
‘I think you’ve had enough.’
She narrowed her eyes, unsure of his meaning.
He lifted his hands, spread his fingers as he shrugged loosely. ‘I’m not suggesting you’re drunk. Far from it.’ His smile flashed, and it was all wicked. ‘But the more you drink, the duller your senses become and I wouldn’t want you to lose any sensation. Not tonight.’
‘I’m going to need my senses?’ She was mesmerised.
‘All of them.’
OK.
He inclined his head to the large bi-folding doors that opened out to the deck. A small jazz ensemble was playing. She hadn’t even noticed them set up. Too focused on her companion—the most casual customer in the place yet the one who commanded all her attention.
‘Dance with me.’ He stood. ‘We can see how well we move together. Make sure we’ve got it right for the big day tomorrow.’
Why did she take everything he said and think he was really meaning something else?
He grinned, seeming to understand her problem exactly, and silently telling her that she was absolutely right. He held out his hand.
For a split second she looked at it. The broad palm, the long fingers, the invitation. The instant she placed her hand on top, he locked it into his. There was no going back now.
They walked out the doors together, to the part of the deck by the band where people were dancing. The waves were gently washing the beach. The evening was warm and for Bella the night seemed to exude magic.
‘I like this old music,’ he muttered, curling one arm around her waist while holding her hand to his chest with the other. ‘Made for my kind of dancing.’
‘Your kind?’
‘Where you actually touch.’ His hand was wide and firm across the small of her back as he pulled her towards him, and she went to him because she couldn’t not. Because in reality she wanted to get closer still. Her head barely reached above his shoulders, but it didn’t matter because she couldn’t focus much further than on the material right in front of her anyway, and on the inviting, warm strength beneath it.
His fingers feathered over her back, skin to skin. She trembled at the sensation, nearly stumbled with the need that rose deep within her. She masked the craziness of her response with some sarcasm. ‘I said yes to dancing, not having your hands up my shirt.’
‘I thought up your shirt might be quite good.’ His low reply in her ear made her need heighten to almost painful intensity.
Good was an understatement. He pressed her that little bit closer, so her breasts were only a millimetre from the hard wall that was his chest. Not quite close enough to touch, but she could almost, almost feel him and her nipples were tight.
She dragged in a burning breath. ‘Owen, I—’
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Your family is watching.’
He danced her away from the others and into the farthest corner of the deck, where the darkness of night lurked, encroaching on the lights and loud conviviality of the restaurant. Gently he swayed them both to the languid music, talking to her in low tones, telling her just to dance with him. Was it one song, was it three, or five? Time seemed suspended. He muttered her name, his breath stirring her hair, then nothing. And as she moved to his lead she fell deeper into his web.
When the band took a break, she took a moment in the bathroom to try to recover her aplomb—cooling her wrists under the rush of water from the cold tap. She shouldn’t have had those shots. She’d barely drunk a drop since, but she felt giddy. And as she looked at her reflection—at her large eyes, and the heightened colour in her cheeks and lips—she knew she didn’t want to recover her aplomb at all. She wanted to follow this madness to its natural conclusion. Nothing else seemed to matter any more—nothing but being with Owen. Just for while she was on this fantasy island.
She
