with a strength she’d hardly been able to summon, she had flung him from her…
She shut her eyes in anguish, blocking out memory.
Self-respect? The words stabbed at her. Mocking her. Taunting her.
She wasn’t just going to sacrifice her self-respect by having deliberate, cold-blooded sex with Leo Makarios. She was going to lose it for a much, much worse reason…
She turned away abruptly. Grimly, she headed back up the beach in the brief sub-tropical dusk.
Her face had hardened.
She couldn’t get out of it now. That wasn’t in her power. Not if she wanted to keep Jenny safe, herself out of jail.
But she could, she must ensure that it was nothing but deliberate, cold-blooded sex.
Nothing more.
Dear God, let me have the strength I need—please, please!
’More champagne?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Smoked salmon?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Caviar?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘As you wish.’ There was an amused, baiting quality to Leo’s voice. He sat back in his rattan chair on the terrace. From the veranda the gardens were landscaped so that the curve of the beach opened up, framed by palm trees. A light, cooling breeze came off the sea. Moonlight bathed the surface of the water.
It was a beautiful scene—and the woman sitting opposite him complemented it perfectly. His eyes slid over her as she sat there, ramrod-straight, staring determinedly out to sea.
She was wearing a jade-green loose silk-trousered affair, with long sleeves and a high collar. As she’d stalked across the terrace, her hair caught back in a stark, high knot, not a scrap of make-up on her, he’d read the signals coming from her as if she’d been broadcasting in neon.
She was making not the slightest attempt to look alluring.
It hadn’t worked in the least. Anna Delane would have looked alluring in a sack. Her body had a long-limbed grace that could not be disguised, and the bones of her face had been constructed with a natural artistry that meant make-up or hairstyle was an irrelevance.
Oh, yes, Anna Delane had an allure that she could not suppress. Leo gave a mocking, inward smile. Even when she was doing her best to be sullen and monosyllabic, as she was now.
He took a mouthful of champagne and contemplated her. A sliver of irritation wormed its way under his amusement. She really was a piece of work—sitting there as stiff as a board and twice as hostile. He’d caught her red-handed, a proven thief. But was she abashed? Guilty? Contrite?
The words were unknown to her, clearly.
Shameless. That was the only word that fitted her.
He took another mouthful of champagne and washed off the irritation. Well, there was an expression in English that perfectly captured Ms Anna Delane’s forthcoming fate—riding for a fall.
And she would do it, very, very satisfyingly, in his bed.
Anticipation eased through him. He was going to enjoy Anna Delane, every last exquisite drop of her—and the greatest enjoyment would be her enjoyment of him. However galling it was to her.
He reached out a hand and scooped some more beluga with his spoon.
Numbly, Anna took another forkful of grilled fish. Somewhere in her mind she knew it was delicious, but it didn’t register. Nothing registered. She wouldn’t let it. Must not. Instead she just sat there, eating grilled fish and salad like an automaton, without will or feeling. Resolutely refusing to look at the man sitting opposite her.
He’d abandoned attempts at talking to her, and she was glad. It allowed her to keep her mind blank—as blank as her expression. She was well trained in that—it was like having to stalk out onto a runway, features immobile, not a person at all, just an ambulatory clothes-horse, walking, posing, stopping, going, all at the direction of other people. No will of their own.
Just as she now had no will of her own.
She set her fork aside, having consumed enough. She reached for her champagne and took a small, measured sip, then set her glass back. She’d contemplated getting drunk, but decided against it. Alcohol lowered your guard. Made you stupid. Weak.
And weakness was something she must not allow.
It was far, far too dangerous.
She’d known it, known it with a hollowing of her insides, as she’d walked out on to the terrace this evening.
And set eyes on Leo Makarios again.
A jolt had gone through her that had been terrifying in its intensity. A jolt that had nothing to do with him thinking her a thief and everything to do with the sudden, instant quickening of the blood in her veins, the surge of emotion dissolving through her, the debilitating weakening of her knees.
She’d taken in the presence of Leo Makarios.
Waiting for her.
And almost, almost, she had turned and run.
But she’d forced herself to go forward. She couldn’t run. There was nowhere to run to.
So she’d steeled herself, drained all expression from her face, all feeling from her mind, sat herself down and stared out to sea.
Not looking at Leo Makarios. Not looking where he sat, lounging back with lazy, dangerous grace, the open collar of his shirt revealing the strong column of his throat, the turned-up cuffs showing the lean strength of his wrist and hands, the taut material over his torso emphasising the breadth of his chest.
And not looking, above all, at his face. The wide, sensual mouth, the dark heavy-lidded eyes.
Eyes that pressed on her like weights.
With all her strength she sat there, impassive, indifferent, while her stomach contorted in hard, convoluted knots.
Praying for the strength to get through the ordeal ahead.
But she could not, dared not, put into words what she was praying for.
The meal seemed to go on for ever. She refused dessert, desultorily picking at a slice of mango and sipping mineral water, her champagne abandoned. Leo Makarios, it seemed, was in no hurry. He’d eaten a leisurely first course, a leisurely main course, and had made a considered selection from the cheese board.
Finally he leant back, brandy swirling slowly in his glass, a cup of coffee at his place, eyes resting on her contemplatively.
‘Tell me something,’ he said suddenly, his tone conversational. ‘Why did you steal the bracelet?’
Anna’s
