rather than a burning need for retail therapy—no matter how many times Beth dragged her from one boutique to another trying to make her see otherwise.
Yet here, with the balmy breeze ruffling her ponytail and the tempting shopfronts laid out like bright, sparkling jewels in the sun, she couldn’t help but browse.
Entering a small boutique, she meandered through aisles crammed with enough hangers and clothes to outfit the entire cast of South Pacific. Her hands drifted over soft silky sarongs, short strappy summer dresses, before lingering over the swimwear. The only bathers she’d brought on this trip were an old black one-piece cut high in the front—the ones she used if she swam at home as part of a workout.
So why was she picking up a cerise bikini, its hot pink colour the exact shade her cheeks would be if she ever had the guts to wear something so revealing?
She put it down and trailed her hand over some straw hats, before her gaze settled on the bikini again, drawn to it, mesmerised by its newness, its brightness and its blinding contrast to everything else in her wardrobe.
Glancing down at her worn black flip-flops, khaki Bermuda shorts and well-washed grey T-shirt, she hovered over the bikini, sorely tempted. Just looking at it gave her the same buzz she’d had when floating around the dance floor in Zac’s arms—the feeling she could be more assertive if she set her mind to it.
Spurred on by an eagerness to recreate that feeling, she snatched it up and headed for the counter before she changed her mind.
After thrusting the bikini at the young Melanesian guy behind the counter, she ducked her head on the pretext of searching for her purse in her straw carryall, hating how her cheeks burned when making what was a simple, everyday purchase for most women.
She rummaged around, waiting for him to ring it up, and was unprepared for the small puff of perfume in the vicinity of her right ear.
‘This fragrance will be perfect for mademoiselle.’
She shook her head, ready to tell him she wasn’t interested, when an intoxicating blend of light floral tones mingling with subtle vanilla drifted over her. She inhaled, savouring the heady scent, feeling surprisingly feminine after one small squirt.
She never wore perfume, had never owned a bottle in her life, but when the young guy stared at her with soulful choco-late-brown eyes and insisted again that it was perfect for her, in a divine French accent, she found herself handing over her credit card and being handed back a duty-free bag with two purchases she’d never dreamed of making, let alone using.
But for those few minutes when she’d watched him wrap the bikini and the perfume she’d stood a little taller, felt a little braver—as if she could be the type of woman who wasn’t passed over for an amazing trip to Egypt as the museum’s spokesperson just because she wasn’t articulate or outgoing enough.
However, her flash of spirit didn’t last as she strolled back to the ship. The perfume box banged against her leg, a constant reminder of its presence, and she couldn’t help but feel a fool.
Since when did she wear perfume? Let alone go for something so… so… out there? Seductive, feminine items were for girls not short on confidence—girls who’d have the guts to live up to the perfume’s promise; girls who’d have the spirit to match wits with sailor boys. Girls absolutely nothing like her.
Impulse buying a stupid perfume with a naughty name wouldn’t give her the confidence boost she needed. Nothing would. And she’d be better off remembering that rather than entertaining foolish dreams of showing everyone, Zac included, that she wasn’t the shy nerd they’d labelled her.
When she got back to her cabin, she flung the duty-free bag into the wardrobe and slammed the door shut.
Ruing the waste of money—as if she’d ever have the chutzpah to wear that bikini—she wriggled into her trusty one-piece and headed for the Dolphin Deck pool. She dumped her towel and sarong on a deckchair before plunging into the water, eager to wash away memories of her recent foolishness.
Closing her eyes, she flipped over, floating blissfully until a dark shadow passed over her. When it didn’t move, she opened her eyes.
And promptly sank.
Torn between the natural urge to fight her way to the surface for air or stay submerged, safely away from charming sailor boys, she eventually floundered her way to the surface, spluttering and coughing and ruining her Esther Williams impersonation.
‘Need a hand?’
She glared at his outstretched hand and shook her head, deriving some satisfaction as water droplets sprayed his immaculate uniform.
‘No, thanks.’
His lips curved into a deliciously tempting smile. ‘You sure? Not tempted to try and pull me in?’
The thought hadn’t crossed her mind, but now he mentioned it maybe a good dunking would cool him off.
‘Not really. And I’m quite capable of hoisting myself out of the pool—if you’d move out of my way?’
‘I like a strong woman.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You like women, period.’
‘What’s wrong with that? I’m a healthy red-blooded male.’
Her gaze drifted across his broad shoulders of its own volition, and lower, before snapping back to meet his all too sure of himself stare.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
She pushed away from the side of the pool, treading water, floundering out of her depth physically and literally. Ever since she’d been silly enough to dare him that first night he’d been teasing her, pushing her for a reaction.
‘As much as I’m enjoying your mermaid impersonation, why don’t you come a little closer so we can have a proper chat?’
‘About… ?’
‘Tonight. You and me.’
How did he do that? Infuse every word with mystery and mayhem and untold promise? As if his sexy smile and come-get-me eyes weren’t enough.
For the second time in as many minutes she went under, cursing her inability to be anything other than clumsy and inept in his presence. He unnerved her to the point of bumbling, and it was high time she got over this funk he had her in with his constant teasing. Either that or jump ship.
She breaststroked underwater to the side, and hauled herself up the pool ladder. ‘Don’t say a word. Just hand me that towel, please.’
He was smart as well as good-looking, for he didn’t speak as he passed her the towel. Then again, he didn’t need to. His smug smile said it all.
He had her squirming, wanting to match wits with him, wishing she could, but scared of the consequences. Her heart was slamming against her ribcage at the thought of what they might entail.
For some strange reason he’d fixated his charms on her this cruise. Her—the last woman who’d reciprocate, the last woman to put up with his nonsense, the last woman to dally with if that was his intention.
She
