For Revenge or Redemption?

‘Do I have a what?’

Turning her attention to the bunching muscles in those powerful arms, she said, ‘A course.’

Solid and purposeful, his work taking all of his attention, he didn’t say anything until he’d drawn the small sail down again.

‘Why,’ he enquired suddenly, turning back to her, ‘does everything you say sound like a challenge?’

She remembered being puzzled by his remark. ‘Does it?’

‘And why do you answer every question with a question?’

‘Do I?’ she’d exclaimed, and then realised what she’d said and burst out laughing.

As he laughed with her it seemed to change his whole personality from one of dark, brooding excitement to one of devastating charm.

Caught in the snare of his masculinity, she could only gaze up at his tanned and rugged features; at the amusement in those sharp, discerning eyes; at those strong, white teeth and that wide, oh, so sexy mouth. Madly she wondered how that mouth would feel covering, pressing down on, plundering hers.

‘Do you do anything else but mess about with boats?’ Her voice cracked as she asked it. In her heady state she wondered if he might have guessed at the way she was feeling and wondered, mortified, if he might take her question as another kind of come-on, because where he was concerned she couldn’t seem to help herself.

‘That’s about the size of it.’ His tone reverted to that familiarly curt and non-communicative way he had of answering her, like he was challenging her to criticise all he did—the person he was.

She walked round to the other side of the dinghy. ‘Is this one yours?’

A hard satisfaction lit his face at that. ‘She’s not worth much.’ Lovingly he ran a hand over the boat’s smooth contours, a long, tanned hand that had Grace speculating at how it might caress a woman’s body. ‘But she delivers what she promises.’

She sent him an oblique glance. ‘And what’s that?’ she quizzed, wondering instantly why she had asked it.

Heavy-lidded eyes fringed by thick, black eyelashes swept over her scantily clad body, and there was a sensual curve to the hard, masculine mouth as he uttered in a deeply caressing tone, ‘Just pure pleasure.’

And he wasn’t just talking about sailing his boat! There was a sexual tension between them that screamed for release, unacknowledged but as tangible as the hard shingle beneath her feet and the sun that played across her face and bare shoulders.

To break the dangerous spell that threatened to lead her into a situation she didn’t know how to handle, she searched desperately for something to say. Remembering his reference to the sea-nymph, earlier and deciding that there was much more to him than she could possibly guess at, without thinking she found herself suddenly babbling, ‘Where did you study the romantic writers?’

‘I didn’t.’ He started pushing the boat towards the water’s edge. ‘Not everyone’s lucky enough to go to university.’ She wondered if that remark was a dig at her, and her family’s wealth and position, but she let it go. ‘I have a widowed mother.’ Foster mother, as it had turned out. ‘And foster siblings to support.’ The boat was down in the water then, released from its support, bobbing on the gentle waves. ‘I pick things up.’

Nothing would escape him, Grace decided, before he said, dismissing the subject, ‘Right. She’s ready.’ He was holding the rope that was still attached to the trailer. ‘Do you like the water?’ he threw back over his shoulder. ‘Or would it be another first for you if I took you out for a spin around the bay?’

‘Are you asking me?’ Her heart had started to beat like crazy.

‘Is that a yes?’

She nodded, too excited because he’d asked her to say anything else. But quickly, as he leaped into the boat, she slipped off her sandals and started wading in.

‘You’re right, this is a first. I’ve never been in a dinghy before,’ she gabbled, too conscious of the callused warmth of the hand he extended to help her, although she couldn’t avoid adding with a provocative little smile as she was climbing in, ‘My grandparents have a yacht.’

Suddenly she was being yanked down so forcefully beside him that she gave a little scream as the boat rocked precariously, and she had to make a grab for the soft fabric of his T-shirt to steady herself.

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he drawled.

Caught for a moment in the circle of his arms, aware of the deep contours of his chest and the heavy thunder of his heart beneath, she thought that he was going to kiss her as he dipped his head.

Instead, with his lashes coming down to hide any emotion in those steel-grey eyes, he said, ‘Take the rudder while I get the sail up,’ before moving away from her, leaving her fiercely and inexplicably disappointed.

It was an unforgettable afternoon. They sailed until the sun began to dip towards the sea while they seemed to talk about nothing and everything. She learned about his background—how he had never known his father and how he had been given up by his mother when he was three years old; about the orphanages he’d lived in and the foster homes. He had been with the family he was living with now, he told her, since he was fifteen. Now they were his responsibility, he stated with a surprising degree of pride. Just as they had made him theirs in the beginning.

He reminded her of how she had asked him earlier if he had a course, and he told her of his interest in architecture and his intention one day to build a new house for his foster mother. Marina-side, he said. With a view of boats from every balcony.

She laughed at that and said, ‘All yours, of course!’

He didn’t share her laughter, lost as he was in his personal fantasy. ‘I think I’ll put it there,’ he speculated, pointing to the piece of derelict industrial wasteland where the tall chimneys of a disused power-station created a blot on the landscape.

‘There?’ She frowned, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘I don’t think she’d thank you for that!’ She laughed again.

‘And what about you? Do you have a dream, Grace?’ His tone was slightly off-hand as though he didn’t think too much of her making fun of his dreams. ‘Or do you have so much that there’s nothing left worth striving for?’

‘No. Of course not!’ she stated indignantly. ‘I intend to settle down. Marry.’

‘What—some ex-public-school type that Daddy’s vetted who’ll give you two-point-five children and a houseful of business associates to entertain?’

She didn’t tell him that her father didn’t figure in her life, that he’d given up his paternal duties after she’d caused her mother’s death simply by being born. Those things were too private—too personal—to share with a total stranger, however handsome or amazingly sexy he might be.

Instead, guessing that it was mere envy that made him speak so derisively of her future, she asked, ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

‘And that’s all you intend to do?’

‘No,’ she argued, wondering why he made it sound so mundane, unromantic, as she watched him lowering the sail. ‘There’s the company. I’m earmarked to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps one day.’

‘Ah, yes, the company. And that’s it—cut and dried? With no deviating from the pre-arranged course, no surprises, no dreams of your own?’

‘Dreams are for people who crave things they haven’t a hope of ever attaining,’ she stated, feeling a little piqued. ‘We inhabit different worlds. In mine the future’s carved out for us, and that’s the way I like it.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he said dismissively, giving all his attention then to securing a rope around a mooring buoy, while Grace had been glad to let the subject drop.

A little later, when he was leaning back relaxing for a few minutes with his face to the sun, she took a small sketch-pad from the big silver beach-bag she’d brought out with her that morning and drew a cormorant sitting on a rock drying its outstretched wings in the early-evening sun.

‘You’re good. You’re very good,’ Seth praised over her shoulder, making her clasp the drawing to her, warmed by his compliment, but suddenly terribly self-conscious at her efforts.

‘You’re too talented to be embarrassed about it. Let me see,’ he insisted, but in reaching for her pad his fingers accidentally brushed the soft outer swell of her breast beneath her top, and it was that which had put the spark to the powder keg waiting to blow.

‘Would you care for a swim?’ His voice was suddenly thickened by desire, the grey eyes holding hers communicating a message that was as sensual as the feelings that were raging through her.

‘I—I don’t have any swimwear,’ she responded, excitement coiling in her stomach.

His mouth compressed wryly. ‘Neither do I.’

She looked away from him, suddenly nervous as she’d laid down her sketch pad. ‘OK. But turn around.’

He laughed, but did as she requested, while she made short work of stepping out of her shorts and pulling her red bandeau-top over her head.