Summer Beach Reads. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
looked behind her at his bad-boy grin and rolled her eyes. ‘By myself.’
‘I can do smut.’
Stella laughed. ‘I bet you can.’
He held up his hand. ‘Just saying. The offer’s out there.’
Stella shook her head. ‘I think this is called flirting, Rick.’
‘Hey, you said, with women I meet along the way. I already know you. You’re fair game.’
Stella guessed she’d walked right into that one.
‘Besides I gotta put the flirt somewhere. It’s not good to let it build up. Men,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘should never let anything build up.’
Lucky for her she was used to Rick’s teasing and was sufficiently over the jet lag to not let it push her buttons. She stood. ‘Goodnight, Rick.’
‘Sleep tight.’ He grinned as he watched her walk away.
Then there were just the stars, the ocean and him, but not even they could keep him from the smutty book he had secreted in his cabin.
He gave her five minutes, then followed her down.
* * *
Six hours later, Rick read The End and knew he would never be the same again. Diana had been right. It was most illuminating. The hard-on he’d got in chapter two was still there and there was no way it was going away unless he did something about it.
Fortunately now he had plenty of images to help him in that department.
Two things were crystal clear.
Number one—Dale was an idiot of the first order. Hell, if he had a woman that had this sort of stuff in her head—the sheer eroticism of the beautifully scripted love scenes still clung to his loins—he wouldn’t let her out of his bed let alone his life.
Number two—the most shocking of all.
She’d written the book about him.
He was Vasco Ramirez.
Lady Mary stifled a gasp as Captain Ramirez rose from the tin bath tub with the fluid grace of a stallion. Water sluiced down the long lines of his body as the flickering lamplight gilded his bronzed skin, throwing it both into mysterious shadow and enticing relief.
The mucous membranes of her throat cracked as dry as parchment, her heart skipped frantically in her chest.
She should not be here.
She should not be spying on a man, a nude man, who was unaware of being watched.
But she simply could not stop.
The last time she’d seen flesh this magnificent had been at Lord Ladbrooke’s stables and her nostrils flared as she remembered how all that leashed power had felt beneath her jodhpurs as she’d straddled and then ridden the Arabian beauty bareback.
Much to her aunt’s chagrin.
Lord alone knew what she’d do now witnessing Mary’s scandalous behaviour. There’d be smelling salts for sure.
But, alas, Mary could not take her eyes off the man.
Steam still rose in wisps around his calves as he stood waiting for the excess water to run off. She held her breath as her gaze roamed over the board-taut planes of his shoulders, obscured towards the middle by sleek wet strips of dark hair. Water trekked from the dripping ends and she followed the path of one errant droplet, gleaming in the light, as it slid down the furrow of his spine nestled between the well-defined muscles either side.
She lost it in shadow as it entered the dip of his back, bracketed by enticing hollows, but her eyes roamed south regardless to the rise of his buttocks. Two firm slabs of muscle, potently male even in his relaxed state, greeted her.
Her gaze was drawn to the left where an imperfection snagged her attention. There, in the centre of his left buttock, lay a large smooth brown birthmark.
It was utterly fascinating and Mary stared at it open-mouthed. It was a perfect circle as if some lover, for he looked to be a man who took lovers, had drawn it deliberately to brand him.
Mary’s cheeks flamed at the risqué image and she felt the roughness of her breath as it quickened in her lungs.
Just when she thought he’d turned to stone he turned slightly, affording Mary a different view. Her gaze brushed along the flare of a bicep, the jut of a masculine hip, which seemed as savage as it did graceful, and the perfect delineation of a meaty quadricep that seemed to vibrate with barely leashed power.
And then there was his...
Mary swallowed. She had seen illustrations of the nude male anatomy in obscure texts in her uncle’s library when she’d been fifteen but they hadn’t managed to capture the sheer beauty of the real thing. The long elegant line of the male member in all its potency was a sight to behold.
It was more elongated and the girth more significant than she’d ever imagined. The curls at its base more enticing.
How magnificent would it look standing out proud as she’d seen on the midnight Arabian?
Mary felt a strange sensation take root deep inside her.
How on earth did it fit?
Captain Ramirez suddenly reached for a nearby towel, covering himself as he stepped out of the bath, his fascinating birthmark the last thing she saw before everything was obscured. Just as quickly he’d padded over to the door that led to his private bedchamber and disappeared through it.
Mary let out the breath she’d been holding. It stuttered noisily into the air around her. She knew she should move but she was utterly incapable.
Until now she’d assumed that pirates didn’t bathe.
She would be grateful until the day she died that Captain Vasco Ramirez had shattered that rather high-handed illusion.
Vasco was breathing rather heavily himself as he shut the door to his bedchamber, leaning against it, his long sable lashes covering the smoulder in his devil blue eyes. Ever since he’d seen Lady Mary in the looking glass peeking out from behind the curtains he’d been determined to shock her.
But he hadn’t been prepared for her thorough appreciation. Nor for his completely involuntary reaction to her fascinated scrutiny.
His fancy did not usually involve gently bred ladies but he’d seen those flared nostrils, heard that muffled gasp.
Maybe beneath all those prim petticoats and haughty eyes beat a passionate heart. Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent to him as her demeanour suggested.
Maybe she could be persuaded to make this voyage a lot more bearable for both of them?
RICK shut the book as he finished chapter two.
Again.
He could hear Stella moving around above him and knew he had to get out of bed and get under way but he wasn’t sure he could look her in the eye this morning.
And—he looked down at the tented sheet—he needed a little time to compose himself...
He ran his fingers over the glossy cover of Pleasure Hunt, the metallic letters boldly pronouncing her name—Stella Mills.
This was not the Stella Mills he knew.
What on earth had happened to her? The Stella who had played mermaid and pirates? Who liked to snorkel and scuba dive? Who liked to read and watch the stars at night? The Stella who hated carrots and could almost hold her breath as long as he could?
The one who had been devastated when her parents had divorced and had made him promise that whatever happened in