Nighttime Sweethearts. Cara ColterЧитать онлайн книгу.
a man of solidness and strength, a man who did not make it a habit to kiss strangers on the beach.
“Cynthia,” she told herself primly, “you did not lure!” For heaven’s sake, she had been accosted by a complete barbarian. Why was she making excuses for him? Who in this day and age demanded a kiss in return for civilized behavior?
And got away with it, she reminded herself with an attempt at stern disapproval.
The problem was that she didn’t feel the least little bit accosted. Try as she might, Cynthia could not seem to whip herself into the frenzy of indignation the encounter deserved! She had just come away from a bad deal with the devil. She had actually agreed to trade a kiss for a moment’s privacy. The man was a pirate.
“I’ve been victimized,” she told herself, kicking up the sand looking for her shoes. The words totally lacked conviction. If she was honest, she would admit it felt as though she was trying to manufacture the way her mother would have wanted her to feel.
She gave up the search for the shoes and headed across the sand toward the beautiful twisting pathway that would lead her through an exotic world of tropical plants back to the safety of her room. But rather than hurrying back to that sanctuary, she found herself dawdling. She was aware of how delightful the sand felt squishing up between her toes and then of the warmth seeping through the pavement into her bare feet. She was aware of the scent of the night, the sea smell mixed with the wild abundance of colorful and aromatic flowers that bloomed in well-groomed beds. Most of all, she was aware of the night air on her cool, damp skin, sensuous as a touch.
He had touched her, the palm of his hand rough and masculine against the softness of her cheek as he had guided her lips to his.
Why hadn’t she pulled away?
“A deal’s a deal,” she told herself righteously, “even if it is with the devil.”
But she knew she was lying to herself. She had not lingered over that kiss on the flimsy excuse that she had made a deal. No, she had been drawn into the unsavory deal because his mouth had tasted faintly of cigars, and, unlike her vow, the taste had not given her the least desire to upchuck on his shoes.
No, there had been nothing repelling about the taste on his firm lips—smokey and faintly sweet—like perfectly aged port wine. And his kiss had been that rich, that intoxicating, that compelling.
From the moment her lips had touched his, the world she knew had faded away, replaced with a far different one. A world of hammering hearts, of sweet-tasting lips, of a scent so masculine it could be bottled and sold. She had entered, without warning, a world of wanting, as unfamiliar and exotic to her as visiting a foreign land. Yet that world had opened to her with the hesitant parting of her lips beneath the command of his.
“That’s a little much to read into one kiss,” she told herself, but even as she said it, she knew her world was already altered. When was the last time she had felt the simple joy of bare feet on warm pavement, felt night air tingle against her skin like a lover’s touch? Not just noticed it, but felt it, as if her eyes and her pores and her heart were suddenly wide open?
Cynthia felt alive.
“Like a sleeping princess awakened by a kiss,” she whispered to the night and then snorted at her fancifulness. Goddesses. Princesses. Pirates. Wild creatures.
Obviously her life had become just a little too dull and predictable. She slid in the door of her suite, noting, thankfully, that her mother had not returned to the room next door. Her mother had a gift for knowing things she had no business knowing.
Her back against the door, Cynthia closed her eyes. Her senses were filled with the taste of him and the smell of him once more. She yearned.
“Stop it,” she ordered herself, appalled. She pushed off from the door and then noticed the book she had left open on the couch.
Hot Desert Kisses, it was called. Jasmine and the sheik. Did Cynthia have to look any further than her reading material for the reason she was feeling this way? All hot and bothered and unfulfilled? Her mother was right. This type of book was trashy. And it led to all kinds of ridiculous fantasies. Reading this could lead to nothing but restlessness and discontent. No wonder that kiss had affected her so terribly! With stony determination, she plopped the book into the garbage can.
Then Cynthia went into her bedroom, peeled off the damp swimsuit and stared at the shapeless pants and jacket of the pajamas she had taken off just a short while ago. The design had rabbits in it! Had she ever noticed that before? She studied the pajamas with distaste. Cute bunnies with mischievous eyes and pink bows and ridiculously large feet cavorted all over her sleepwear!
In the last hour she had made three rather startling discoveries about herself: She liked walking barefoot in warm sand; she liked swimming naked in the night; and she would die to be kissed like that again! She was not the kind of woman who wore bunny pajamas to bed!
In bed, moments later, clad in a T-shirt and underwear, Cynthia talked sense to herself. “So, you need a new pair of pajamas,” she scolded herself, “and maybe a new hobby. Something you can feel excited about. Photography. Bird-watching.”
Not quite, a voice inside her insisted, something exciting.
“Okay, then, skateboarding. Downhill skiing.”
Nope.
“Skydiving. Bungee-jumping.”
But the voice inside her said hot tropical kisses.
“Shut up,” she told the voice firmly.
But just before she slept, she thought she heard a voice, rough as a gravel road, scraping along her spine and making her skin feel hot and tender.
Good night, sweet lady.
“Good night,” she murmured.
The next thing she knew she was awake, and it was morning. She was drenched in the peach-colored light of post dawn. Cynthia lay very still, contemplating the deep sense of delight within her. When was the last time she had awoken feeling like this? With this kind of tingling anticipation for what the day might hold? With a strange desire to embrace the unexpected?
She was probably never going to see that man again, Cynthia reminded herself sharply. Or encounter him. “Seeing” him was stretching the experience a bit.
She was becoming an old maid—desperate and pathetic—building dream castles out of a ridiculous and demeaning encounter that any woman with an ounce of good sense would have found insulting!
If she ever encountered that man again, what was she going to do? Swoon? Of course not! She would never give him the satisfaction of knowing the chaos and confusion he had stirred up inside her. She would be cool. Composed. Icy, even. Daring him to steal another kiss…
A knock came on her door, and she pulled a pillow over her head, not willing to encounter the real world.
But then the possibility entered her head that, now that her life had expanded to include the potential for unpredictable moments, it might actually be him!
What if he had tracked her down, as enthralled and intrigued by that kiss as she had been? What if he stood outside her door, with a bouquet of red roses and an apologetic smile on his face? She’d let him have a piece of her mind…before she forgave him.
Cynthia flew from the bed, tugged a hand through the tangle of her hair, tossed a housecoat over her T-shirt and panties and stormed to the door.
She threw it open, and no one was there.
Fantasy collided abruptly and painfully with reality when she realized the knock was coming from the door that adjoined her suite to her mother’s.
Trying to bite back her disappointment, resigned, she opened that door. Her mother stood there, perfectly coiffed, not looking the least as if she had danced the night away.
“Darling, time for breakfast.”
“You don’t eat breakfast,” Cynthia