One Summer At The Beach: Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire / Not-So-Perfect Princess / Wedding at Pelican Beach. Melissa McCloneЧитать онлайн книгу.
He paused, looked at her expectantly.
She laughed. ‘OK. Yes, it is.’
‘Finally I get around to it. I ask. Have dinner with me.’
She went back to serious.
‘We’re two people on holiday. Why not join forces and see some sights together? Do a little dinner. Maybe we could hit a club afterwards?’ He caught her eye. She was blushing again and quickly looked away. Damn, he should’ve put the damper on the gas jet.
But then she spoke. ‘What about lunch?’
Lunch. She was playing safe. Tortoise speed rather than hare. He figured he should be glad it wasn’t ‘maybe a coffee’. Right now he was happy she was still in the game. Besides, a long leisurely lunch could lead to a long lazy afternoon—or not so lazy. A chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc and seafood perhaps? They could go to…
He halted. No. He was supposed to be as much of a tourist on holiday as she was, foreign to this town. They’d have to go to a place foreign to him. Actually he’d prefer they didn’t go to a restaurant at all. He wanted to keep out of the spotlight, to stay in this small stretch of beach. An idea bubbled. He answered. ‘Lunch would be fantastic.’
She smiled warily. ‘OK.’
It was his turn to look wary. ‘So it’s a date? You’re not going to disappear?’
‘No.’ She seemed both decisive and apologetic. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘The foyer of the hostel over the road? Midday? You’re sure?’
Her smile peeked out again. ‘As sure as you are.’
He couldn’t hold back any longer. Reaching out, he took her hand. The fire flashed. He looked at where his skin touched hers. Looked back to her face and saw it in her serious expression. No exaggeration. The current rippled from her through every inch of his body. ‘Good.’
He got away then. Needing some space to think, to plan, to perfect his new persona. He approached Reception quickly. Happy no one else was around. It was the same guy, looking ragged around the edges. He got a smile this time.
‘Maitland, wanting to check out?’
‘Call me Rhys. Don’t you ever stop working this desk?’
He shrugged. ‘I need the money.’
‘I need a few more nights.’
‘Sure. How many?’ He tapped at the computer with a cunning smile. ‘Find what you were after?’
Rhys gave him a narrow-eyed glance. ‘Maybe.’
He walked out of the hostel again, straight to the taxi rank—soon in the back of a car and heading to his apartment. He pushed away the guilt with determination. Rhys Maitland didn’t want to be Rhys Maitland for a couple of days. He wanted to be free and on holiday and able to do whatever—just Rhys. Maitland, Monroe, Smith—what was in a name? Justifying it because he couldn’t not. He’d gone a step too far to backtrack now and he wanted to be with Sienna more than he wanted to risk being honest with her.
He stuffed a few casual clothes into a small carryall, paused when his mobile beeped. He checked it. A text from Tim.
‘Where the hell r u?’
Rhys laughed. He’d forgotten about Tim and the others. He’d just gone after Sienna without thought of anything or anyone else. He was supposed to have helped pack the band’s gear away. He was supposed to be at some barbecue Tim was organising for the new crop of interns this afternoon.
But now he had other plans. Better plans. He was having time out. He pushed at the buttons with his thumb.
‘On holiday.’ He sent the message, waited for the confirmation it had gone. And then, with a broad smile, he hit one last button—‘Off’.
TROUSERS were the only option. Together with the obligatory high-necked, long-sleeved top. Hell, Sienna was going to swelter. But she was going to be steaming up anyway—just from being within three feet of Mr Sex God. She took off the note wedged into the straps of her pack. Scanned it.
‘We have lots of questions. We want answers. Later!’
She grinned and grimaced at the same time, then started the rummage through for some suitably unsexy outfit for her ‘date’. She should have said no. She should have been rude. She should have let him think what he liked.
Impossible.
Mouth like that, eyes like those. She didn’t want them frowning at her and looking icy. So she’d go. Have lunch. Do as Rhys suggested and play the game in reverse. But there’d be no re-match, pre-match or after-match frills. No resumption of body contact. But maybe she could give him the kiss goodbye she’d forgotten last night.
She pulled out her quick-dry, billion-pocketed, zip-off-leg, multi-climate, all-terrain, all-purpose pants and stared at them.
Never in a million years. Even if contact was off the menu she wasn’t going looking like such a frump. They’d be great for trekking at altitude. But for a lunch in a hip Sydney café in the middle of summer? Whether accompanied by off-limits sex god or not, it was definitely a no to the trousers. Had to be a skirt. She’d go denim. It was slightly longer than the quick-dry equivalent of the combat travel pants, and no way could she wear the number from last night. Then it was just a matter of selecting which high-neck slim tee she’d team it with.
She tried to blow away the helium floating her hopes. But every breath in had them rising higher. So stupid. This was the finale—the bitter-sweet end to a fantasy come true. She sat on the bunk bed and stared into nothing.
Just go and enjoy the first half of the date that you missed out on last night. Let him see you’re not some scary serial slapper or some desperate-to-get-pregnant wench. Then walk away.
Who was she kidding? It wasn’t about what he thought. It was about what she wanted—more time in his company. And it wasn’t just that he oozed a raw sexuality that had her hot in the ping of a bra strap. She didn’t just want him, she wanted to get to know him. There was more going on in those greeny-grey eyes that she wanted to explore.
Exactly midday she left the room and went downstairs, met his gaze across the foyer. He was over by the reception desk watching as she descended the last few steps. He made her feel as if she were supermodel beautiful, as if the eyes of the world were on her—watching, wanting. No one had ever looked that way at her before. Everyone had always known. For once she was centre-stage, not in the wings—actively involved rather than in the audience.
She walked up to him as with deliberation he looked her up and down and back up again. Ordinarily his mouth held sensual promise; right now, the smile stretching it was utterly carnal. She had no idea if anyone else was around, all she could see was him, all she could sense was the force of his presence, his breadth, the awareness crackling so near the surface. He looked up the length of her legs once more and the desire in his eyes had her wobbling. Deep inside her body was soft and hot and aching with emptiness. But the pounding of her heart reminded her. That look in his eyes would be snuffed out the instant he saw her scar. He might lie, as Neil had, and say it made no difference. But it would make every difference—he wouldn’t treat her as real any more. She broke the eye contact, looked down to the ground, registered the big red chilly bin beside him.
He finally tore his eyes from her legs and nudged the bin with his foot. ‘Tell me you like seafood.’
‘I like seafood.’
‘Really?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Should have asked earlier.’
‘We’re having a picnic?’
‘That