One Summer At The Beach. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Her weight was no longer his sweet burden. Her legs were gone from his waist. His hands hung, unusually useless, as he tried and failed to get his body working again. He whistled air into his burning lungs—rough and ragged.

      He felt her fingers on his neck as she pulled his head down to hers. He felt her warm breath in his ear. He heard the jerky whisper.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Before he could reply, she’d slid back the bolt and opened the door, escaping into the passage between bar and restaurant and pulling it shut again quickly behind her.

      Rhys blinked. Colour spots floated in front of him, caused by the split second of harsh light. Plunged into blackness again, he reached forward. Palms hit wood.

      Hell. She was gone.

      He braced his hands on the door, light-headed from the expenditure of energy and sheer disbelief over the intensity of the moment he’d just experienced. Blood rushed all over. To his body, not his brain. That he couldn’t seem to work. He couldn’t seem to move at all. Stunned. Sapped of all strength.

      Then he felt the sweat running off his brow. Felt the way his shirt was sticking to his back. Felt the burn in his thighs and arms, his muscles now seizing from the effort of taking her weight, taking her completely for he didn’t know how long.

      He pressed the light on his watch. Hell. They’d been in here over an hour. Had she turned him into some tantric sexpert? Rhys was no stranger to a sustained sex session, but he’d never managed quite such a marathon before. And the thing was it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Incredibly he wanted more this minute. He straightened. His body recharged in only those few milliseconds and filled with the need to seek and conquer. Again. Now.

      He found the light switch, fastened his jeans, and stuffed a couple of shirt buttons through holes. He gave a quick glance round the cold store—amazingly not a thing appeared out of place. In the small square foot of space in the centre of the room the earth had shifted, reality had receded, and yet not one grain of rice had hit the floor. For a second he frowned—had he just imagined that whole thing? Maybe the hospital had been right and he really, really needed this holiday. Was his brain reduced to feeding him the ultimate fantasy? Losing it, definitely losing it.

      Then he caught sight of the slip of black. He bent and retrieved it. A faint, tantalising scent whispered to him. It registered and hit hard in the groin. Her panties. She must have slid them off right at the start. He smiled at their size—a scrap of lace and nothing. He paused, thinking the encounter through. She’d known exactly what she wanted from the start. His smile faded, frown returned. What had gone on tonight? Had she had a hidden agenda? But she’d seemed so genuine. She’d seemed as blown away as he had. Doubt rushed in with anger hot on its heels as an evil thought occurred to him. Maybe she did know who he was. Maybe she’d known his identity exactly and targeted him. And he’d been the fool. Had he just fallen prey to the biggest honey trap ever? And was a million-dollar baby her prize? The Mandy mess would be nothing compared to that.

      His blood pumped faster. He knew nothing about her. And he’d just had unprotected sex with her. Stupid. Reckless. Risky. Rhys didn’t do risk. He always ensured he retained control of a situation—never allowing circumstance to change so vulnerability could be possible. Vulnerability led to disaster. That he did know.

      But he hadn’t been in control of that situation—she had. She’d sprung on him, surprised him and—got what she wanted? For once he’d just let go, gone with something that had felt so incredibly good he hadn’t had the strength to fight it. Been tempted by the whole holiday idea, the fun of forgetting who he was for a while. Was he now going to pay the price?

      Seriously angry with himself, he yanked his belt. Angry with Tim for bringing him to this hellish haven for traveller types. Hell, he couldn’t even blame booze for that moment of madness. It had been all-consuming lust. He’d been unable to think beyond having her, hearing her, being in her.

      Again. He still wanted it.

      Jaw clamped, he stuffed the delicate garment into his jeans pocket. He’d better find her damn fast. And find out exactly what kind of game she was playing. He burst out of the pantry—ignored the startled yelp of the bartender who, with unfortunate timing, happened to be walking past the door.

      Rhys strode into the bar. Only a few seconds had passed but that could be her make-or-break advantage. And she had wanted to escape. But the bar was thick and crowded. Thankful for his superior height, he soon spotted the divine stretch of skin that was her back as she slowly threaded her way through. She was almost at the door. He barrelled through the masses, uncaring of knocking someone, hearing the glass fall. He muttered an unintelligible apology that wouldn’t have been heard anyway, given he was already three paces past. His eyes were glued to the prize. But then she was out the door. Left. She turned left.

      He reached the exit and whipped his head to spot her. There. Several yards along. Even from the distance he could see she was struggling. Her hand rose to her head, fingers knotted in her hair to hold it back from her face. She seemed oblivious to the storm that threw wind and rain at her.

      Humidity’s hold had been shattered, but until now Rhys hadn’t noticed either. The sound of thunder had been disguised, not by the beat of the band, but by the cacophony of their sighs and whispers in the cold store. Her song still rang in his ears, driving him to follow her. Fast. The large drops of rain pelting him were a relief, cooling his lust and anger-heated body.

      Something stopped him from calling out to her. He wanted to see where she was going first. Hoped like hell she wasn’t about to disappear into a taxi—he could see the lights of one at the stand not too far ahead. Only the one vehicle. Damn.

      But instead she turned, stepping through the brightly lit doorway. He read the sign in a second. A hostel. Backpacker paradise. So maybe one part of her story checked out. On the surface at least she was on holiday.

      He entered in time to see her ankles disappearing up the stairs. He went to follow but the guy on Reception nobbled him.

      ‘Can I help you?’

      ‘The woman who just went past here. Slim, strawberry-blonde.’

      The doorman blinked lazily.

      ‘She’s staying here?’ Rhys rapped out the question.

      ‘I can’t give out information about our customers.’

      ‘So she is staying?’

      The bland expression remained.

      ‘More than one night?’

      No answer again, but there was a suspicion of a wink.

      Rhys savoured the slight satisfaction but it wasn’t enough. He’d get all the answers, thank you very much. Utter irritation, unquenchable desire, undeniable need to know forced his actions. ‘Got any vacancies?’

      ‘Dormitory or own room?’

      He thought for a moment—wicked intent winning over cold curiosity. ‘Got any doubles?’

      The door guy grinned. ‘Sure.’ He pulled a form and started filling it in. ‘I need name and details, how many nights you want and I need ID—passport or driver’s licence.’

      Damn. He didn’t want to reveal who he was. ‘Can’t I just pay up front? Cash?’

      ‘We still need ID.’

      Rhys deliberated for a nanosecond. Privacy was precious—but the guy on the desk was an American. He’d have no idea who he was. He’d be in the clear. Just one night—so he could find her over breakfast and ask what the hell was going on. So he handed over his driving licence. Filled in the forms. Got the key.

      He