Stripped. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
into work seemed like the only solution at the time but after jumping through proverbial hoops for Alf for twelve months I’m still no closer to a promotion. Considering he’s an old family friend who did my dad a favour in hiring me in the first place, it’s awkward.
‘I know the feeling.’ He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and now he’s staring at the ocean, like he wants to swim out and never come back.
I rarely do things on impulse. I’m the good daughter, the good employee, the good girl. Everyone can rely on good old Daisy Adler.
But with this brooding stranger on a balmy beach, I take a risk.
‘Want to take a walk?’ Now it’s his turn to stare at my outstretched hand. ‘I’m Daisy, by the way.’
His brow furrows as he glares at me with disapproval. ‘Hart.’
Oh, no. Hell no. This is Hart Rochester? It’s an uncommon name so I can’t imagine him being anyone other than the guy I have to work with. I have screwed up so badly. His first impression of me is a drunk who can’t stand up after a cocktail or two.
And I can’t hide my identity. It’s only going to make it harder when we meet in the morning. So I aim for levity.
‘I’m your new PR person.’ I force a laugh that sounds inane. ‘I’m really not drunk. I’m a lightweight with alcohol because I rarely drink and those cocktails are strong.’
‘I don’t think anything.’
His stare is intense and unwavering, and I’m increasingly uncomfortable: it’s like being looked at under a microscope, like he can see every one of my flaws.
To make matters worse, I realise my hand is still outstretched. Mentally cursing my inebriated bravado I start to lower it and am startled when he takes hold of it, his grip firm, decisive.
‘If you still want to take that walk, there’s an alcove at the end of the beach where you get a great view of some of the surrounding islands. It might give you a feel for the place before we start working together,’ he says, tugging my hand so I fall into step alongside him. ‘And just so you know, this hand-holding means nothing. I just prefer my PR person to be ready to hit the ground running tomorrow in the office and not hit the ground literally, again, tonight.’
I chuckle at his dry response but he doesn’t join in. This is so weird. In any other circumstances this could be misconstrued as romantic but he’s dour and I’m flustered and we’re like two robots trudging through the sand.
It’s crazy. I’m here to work. Though perhaps for one night I can just live in the moment without second-guessing every damn thing I do. Perfection comes at a high price and I’ve been paying it my entire life.
‘I can hear you thinking,’ he says, squeezing my hand lightly. It sends an unexpected tingle up my arm, a mild, pleasant shock.
‘Just mulling over ways to showcase the parts of the resort we’ve passed.’
Great, now I sound like a kiss-ass, but I need to do something to focus on the professional when the pressure of his hand holding mine is making me feel things I shouldn’t.
I’m hot all over and it has nothing to do with the temperate tropical night.
Once again, we fall silent and after a few minutes we reach the end of the beach, step around an outcrop and he points at the sea with his free hand.
‘Can you see the lights from the other islands?’
‘I can see a glow.’ I’ve been wearing my contacts all day and my eyes are gritty and tired; I have no hope of seeing individual specks of light.
‘I love this spot.’
‘You come here often?’
The corners of his mouth curve upwards. ‘Are you trying a pick-up line on me?’
I laugh. ‘No.’
‘Pity.’ His gaze drops to my mouth again and I can’t resist flicking my tongue out to moisten my lip. Not in any practiced move to attract, but a simple reflex action to a guy like him staring at me like he wants to taste my lip gloss.
After what feels like an eternity he drags his gaze back to mine. ‘We should head back.’
‘Yeah, we should.’
But neither of us move, trapped in some weird alternate universe where two strangers meet on a beach one night, know they can’t flirt because of an upcoming professional work arrangement, but can’t seem to tear themselves apart.
The wind gusts, blowing strands of hair into my face, and before I can tuck them behind my ear he does it for me. A strangely intimate gesture that makes me hold my breath. Then again, we’re still holding hands so he’s just being helpful. It’s all rather bizarre.
His fingertips graze my earlobe and I gasp as a bolt of unexpected longing shoots through me. They drift lower, along my neck, my jaw, tracing the curve of my cheek. It’s like he’s trying to commit me to memory, which is ludicrous. I’m far from memorable.
His fingertips are roughened, calloused almost. They prickle my skin, setting nerve endings alight. My breathing becomes laboured, shorter, as he steps closer and I can smell him. Not aftershave exactly but a clean, crisp citrus blended with something subtler. Body wash? Shaving cream? Whatever it is, I want to devour it. Him. Whatever.
This is so wrong. I need to step away. Now. I swear my brain computes the instruction but my feet don’t co-operate. So I try a few deep breaths. Wrong move. Catastrophic, as that citrus blend fills my lungs, sending messages to the rest of me, messages like ‘you need to taste him now’.
I will him to move away, to be the sane one for both of us. Instead, he edges closer and I’m gone. Falling headlong into a monumentally stupid decision I know I’ll regret but I’m powerless to stop.
I step even closer.
Filled with a daring I rarely possess, I eyeball him. I can’t read his expression. The angle of the moon has cast his face in shadows. But he hasn’t moved, his hand still cupping my cheek, and I know I have to do this before I chalk it up to yet another regret in my life.
Standing on tiptoes, I press my lips to his. Gently. Tentatively. Testing him. Me. I have no freaking clue.
He angles his head and I can’t hold back. The alcohol has loosened my usual constraints and I’m a woman possessed.
I plaster myself against him and start to kiss him in earnest. Our mouths open and the first touch of his tongue on mine makes me moan. He takes control, deepening the kiss to the point where I can’t breathe. I don’t care. I want more.
His hands caress my back in a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass. It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.
His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause. What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?
It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.
‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’
I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’
There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.
Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt