had already made a string of rash decisions with regard to Zane. Before she made even more of a fool of herself, she needed to think things through.
Although the fact that she was going to make a fool of herself again was suddenly, glaringly, obvious.
The following morning, Lilah woke, exhausted and heavy-eyed after a night spent tossing and turning.
She had lain awake for hours, listening to the sounds of the sea and Zane’s footsteps when he had finally gone to bed in the small hours. Aware of Zane, a short distance away in the next bedroom, she had eventually dropped off, only to wake periodically, thump her pillow into shape and try to sleep again.
Kicking the sheet aside, she padded to her bathroom and stared at her pale face and tangled hair in the mirror.
Zane’s withdrawal had created an odd reversal in her mind. Sexually, the ball was in her court. If she wanted him, it was clear she would have to make the first move. No more excuses or deception about who was driving what.
His demand had succeeded in focusing her mind. Now, instead of trying to talk herself out of a wild fling with Zane, she was consumed with how, exactly, one went about asking a man for sex.
Lilah showered and dressed in a white camisole and a pair of board shorts, a bikini beneath, in case she felt like a swim.
After applying sunscreen, she walked out to the kitchen, only to discover that the nervous tension that had dogged her all morning had been unnecessary. Zane had left the house early. According to Marta’s gestures and the few words Lilah could recognize, he had gone sailing.
Feeling relieved and deflated at the same time, she walked out on the deck where the table was set for breakfast. One glance at the empty sweep of the bay confirmed that the yacht was gone.
After breakfast she walked down to the beach and went for a swim. After sunbathing until she was dry, she walked back to the house, showered off the salt and changed back into the camisole and boardies.
To fill in time, she strolled through the house, examining the art on the walls, pausing at the watercolor that had been done by Sebastien Ambrosi.
Zane had said the painting was an actual place on the island, behind the villa. From the distant peaks included in the landscape, the cave was set on high ground. On impulse, she decided to see if she could find the cave and, at the same time, see if her cell phone would work.
Pulling on a pair of trainers, she slipped her cell in a pocket and indicated to Marta that she was going to walk to the place in the painting.
A few minutes exploring around the old villa site and she found the entrance to a narrow track that ran up through the steep hills behind the villa.
Twenty minutes of intermittent walking and climbing and she topped a rise. The view was magnificent. In the distance she could even make out hazy peaks that formed part of the mountainous inland region of Medinos. She hadn’t seen any evidence of the cave.
Sitting down on a rocky outcropping, she tried the phone, but the screen continued to glow with a “No Service” message.
Instead of feeling trapped and frustrated, she felt oddly relieved. She had done her duty, attempted to make contact with the outside world, and had failed.
She was clambering down a steep, rocky slope when she saw Zane’s yacht dropping anchor in the bay. Her heart skipped a beat as she watched Zane toss the inflatable over the side. In the same instant her foot slipped. A sharp pain shot up her ankle. She tried to correct her footing and ended up sliding the rest of the way down the bank.
Sucking in a breath, she tested her ankle, the same one she’d turned in Sydney. Annoyed with the injury, which, while minor, would make the trip down slow, she began to hobble in an effort to walk off the injury.
It started to rain. She was congratulating herself on traversing the narrowest, most precipitous part of the track with steep slopes on both sides, when she glimpsed Zane walking toward her and slipped again, this time landing flat on her back. She lay on the wet ground, eyes closed against the pelting rain, and counted to ten. When her lids flipped open, Zane was staring down at her, water dripping from his chin, wet T-shirt plastered to his torso faithfully outlining every ridge and muscle. “Two days. Paradise, you said.”
“It would have been if we’d spent the time in bed.”
“Huh.” She pushed into a sitting position and checked her ankle and in the process realized that the white camisole she was wearing was now practically invisible.
Zane crouched down beside her. Lean brown fingers closed around her ankle.
“Ouch. Don’t touch it.” Despite the slight tenderness, a jolt of purely sensual awareness shot through her.
His expression was irritatingly calm. “It’s not swollen, so it can’t be too sore. How did you do it?”
“I saw you and slipped. Twice.”
The accusation bounced off him. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad.” He pulled her up until she was balanced on one foot then swung her into his arms.
The rain began to pelt down. She clutched at his shoulders. “I’m heavy.”
He glanced pointedly at her chest. “There are compensations.”
He continued on down the hill but instead of taking a broad track to the beach, he veered left heading for a dark tumble of rocks. They rounded a corner and a low opening became visible. “Sebastien’s cave.”
“I thought it might be near.”
The mouth to the cave was broad, allowing light to flow into the cavern. Ducking to avoid the rock overhang, Zane set Lilah down on one of the boulders that littered the opening. He shrugged out of the rucksack he had strapped to his back, unfastened the waterproof flap and extracted a flashlight. The bright beam cut through the gloom, revealing a dusty brass lantern balanced on a natural rock shelf and an equally dusty brass lighter lying beside it.
He crouched down and examined her ankle again. “A bandage would help.”
She retracted her ankle from his tingling grip. “I can wait for a bandage. Really, it isn’t that bad.”
“Bad enough that it’s starting to swell.” He peeled out of his T-shirt.
Murky light gleamed on ridged abs and muscled pecs, the darker striations of the two thin scars that crisscrossed his abdomen. One was shorter and lighter, as if it hadn’t been so serious, the other more defined and longer, curling just above one hip.
She dragged her gaze from the mesmerizing expanse of bronzed, sculpted muscle, abruptly aware that he knew exactly the effect he was having on her and that he was enjoying it. “Don’t you need to wear that?”
“It’s either my T-shirt or your top. You choose.”
She
