the best of a bad situation, that was all.
But they’d spent the long flight here talking. He’d sat right beside her, plying her with Greek dishes, asking her interested, sympathetic questions about her family and home.
She’d answered in monosyllables at first, giving him one tart reply after another. But instead of being offended, he’d seemed to enjoy the repartee. And his undivided attention had been strangely…pleasurable.
She’d felt his arm along the back of the white leather sofa behind her, so close to her body, and she’d trembled. Every time he looked at her, the intensity and heat of his dark gaze turned her inside out.
Rose didn’t want to think about it now. Or why she’d not only noticed his favorite flower in a lush garden, but she’d also picked a rose for him and placed it in water.
Looking up from her book, she noticed the dark-haired, plump young housekeeper struggling to carry a table across the beach to a spot overlooking the surf. Relieved to leave the lanai and lounge chair and all her disconcerting thoughts behind her, Rose got to her feet and hurried down to the beach. “Wait! Can I help?”
The housekeeper, who looked only a few years older than Rose, shook her head, even though she looked as if she were fighting back tears.
“Really?” Rose bit her lip. “Please, Mrs. Vadi, won’t you let me help?”
“No,” the woman said, then burst into tears. Within minutes, Rose had learned the woman was grieving for her husband, who’d died six months before, and that she was worried about her feverish eight-year-old daughter, whom she’d had to leave at home alone.
“But I can’t lose this job, miss,” the woman gasped, wiping her eyes fiercely. “If I do, I won’t be able to keep a roof over my child’s head.”
“Go home!” Rose said, sympathetic tears welling in her own eyes.
“I can’t.”
“Mr. Novros will never know you’re gone.” When the woman still hesitated, Rose grabbed her sleeve. “Please, it’s such a small thing,” she whispered. “I’m so far away from my own family. Let me at least help yours.”
The housekeeper wept and embraced her, then gave her detailed instructions about how to make the dinner, instructions Rose found herself unable to remember when she faced the stainless-steel kitchen alone half an hour later. After several inedible attempts, she gave up and prepared her own favorite dinner instead. As the rice noodles bubbled, Rose went outside and finished setting up the table by the beach.
She cast an anxious look at the sun lowering in the west in streaks of red and orange. Expecting Xerxes to return any moment, she hurried to the cottage, where she showered and brushed her hair. What to wear? Beachwear was all she had, thanks to him. Scowling, she went back to the wardrobe. She briefly considered wearing one of Xerxes’s T-shirts or khaki shorts, but the thought of wearing his clothing was too intimate. That would be the action of a lover, which—she told herself firmly—she would never be.
Ultimately, she wore two gauzy beach cover-ups layered over a pale pink bikini. She surveyed her modest look with satisfaction. The two robes together blocked her body from view. She smiled at herself in the mirror, anticipating his reaction. That would teach him!
Carrying out the dinner tray, she impulsively grabbed the pink rose she’d picked in the garden, still in a bud vase, and placed it in the center of the table. Then she sat down and waited, staring across the white sand beach toward the red and purple sunset streaking the sparkling sapphire ocean.
She jerked awake as she felt Xerxes shaking her shoulder. With a start, Rose realized she’d fallen asleep with her head cradled in her arms on the table.
It was now almost dark. His silhouette was black against the fading red sunset. He’d changed on the plane, but she saw that his jeans and T-shirt were dusty, and his face was grim. His good mood of just a few hours before had evaporated.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “What’s happened?”
“Forget it,” he said heavily, sitting in the chair next to her.
“Where have you been?”
He shook his head bitterly. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at the flower. “Where did that rose come from?”
She bit her lip. Had she done something wrong, something that would reveal that she’d sent the housekeeper home? “Why do you ask?” she evaded.
“The rose,” he said, then looked up at her. “I heard it was the national flower of these islands, but I’ve never been to this resort. I’m not known by the staff. Is it a coincidence? Or did you request it for me?”
“It was nothing, really,” she said awkwardly. Her cheeks felt burning hot. “I found them in the garden. I was surprised to see the same roses here, growing thousands of miles from your home. I thought you’d like it. That’s all.”
“I do,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
Taking the rose out of the vase, he reached across the table and tucked it behind her ear, in her long, wavy blond hair. His hand trailed slowly down from her ear, caressing her cheek. Then he took her hand in his own, across the table, and she shivered in the warm night.
Overhead, the sky was streaked with red and purple like the echoes of ash and fire. Like the fire slowly smoldering in his dark eyes as he looked at her. Like the fire that was filling her body with the bewildering ache of desire.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he murmured, then looked at the covered silver dish. “Dinner must be long cold.” He sighed with regret. “I’ve been dreaming for the last hour about the dinner the housekeeper would prepare for us. Maldivian food is supposed to be spectacular, a mix of Indian, Asian and Middle Eastern flavors. Nikos has raved about her cooking more than once. I can hardly wait—”
With a flourish, he pulled the lid off the silver tray. And stared. He sat back into his chair with an amazed thump.
“Spaghetti bolognese?” he said faintly.
“Spaghetti is delicious,” she said defensively.
He looked at her.
“And with rice noodles, too!” she said, taking the spoon from him. “That’s certainly exotic! Shall I serve?”
Rose dumped some spaghetti on each plate, then looked down at her cold, rather unappetizing concoction. She’d had to improvise for ingredients. She’d used rice noodles for pasta, and since she hadn’t found a handy can of marinara sauce or even tomato paste, she’d improvised by smashing fresh tomatoes into a rudimentary sauce. She’d added a mishmash of chopped mystery meat she’d found in the fridge with whatever spices she could find in the kitchen, and hoped for the best.
All right, so she wasn’t always the best cook—except where candy was concerned—but even she couldn’t ruin something as simple as spaghetti, she hoped.
She took a bite, and discovered she was wrong.
It was awful. And cold, in the bargain. She nearly choked it out, then covered up her gag reflex with a cough before she managed to swallow it down. “Wow,” she managed to
