‘Hardly barging in. I saw you through the trellis and, as neither of us could sleep, I figured I might as well pop over, make sure you were okay.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine. You’re shaking. Are you cold? You’re wearing next to nothing.’
‘I’m wearing more than you.’
Nick gave her a rueful smile. ‘Apologies, but like you I didn’t expect company at one thirty in the morning. It was either this or nothing.’
Rose gulped.
‘I don’t possess pyjamas.’
‘Everyone possesses pyjamas.’
‘I challenge you to rifle through my belongings.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Let’s go inside. We wouldn’t want the neighbours talking, would we?’ There was no chance of that. The hotel was cleverly designed to ensure that guests had almost total privacy, with only the double cabanas sharing the same veranda split by leafy trellises. Nick took advantage of her momentary lapse in concentration to walk into her rooms, which were identical to his with only variations in some of the decor to differentiate the two.
She was as neat as he had expected her to be. The little sitting area was tidy, unlike his, which always bore the signs of work in progress. She had only switched on the side light by the sofa and he preferred to leave it that way.
Looking at her, he could tell that she was on the verge of imploding and it had obviously hit home that she was in a very transparent item of clothing because her arms were once more protectively around her as she hovered by the door. Wondering, no doubt, what tactic she could employ to chuck him out.
Well, he had waited for days in a state of frustration. He wasn’t going to blow this chance. He wanted her and he knew that all he needed to do was smash through her veneer of polite aloofness and she would be his because she wanted him too. The air between them had sizzled ever since they had arrived on the island. He intended to douse it.
‘It’s mad to be up at this hour.’ Rose laughed nervously, keeping her distance. ‘We’ll be fit for nothing in the morning and we’ve another busy day ahead.’
Nick strolled lazily towards her until he was standing right in front of her. In the muted light, breathtakingly sexy and very, very dangerous. Every alarm bell in her head was clamouring, but there was still a part of her that scoffed at the notion that there might be anything to be afraid of. After all, what was he going to do? A man like that? Kiss her? Men like that, she knew, made passes at girls like her sister. They didn’t look at her twice and if her heart was beating like a hammer, it was simply because she was scared of her own reaction to him, scared of him getting physically any closer just in case her legs gave way and she did something undignified like swoon.
‘Sometimes mad can be fun,’ Nick mused. ‘Have you never done anything mad in your life, Rose?’
‘No.’ Rose laughed, this time a little hysterically. ‘No—’ she cleared her throat and tried to get a grip ‘—mad really isn’t me.’
‘How do you know if you’ve never tried?’
She had managed to somehow find herself with her back to the wall, which turned out to be not a very good idea as he now laid his hands on either side of her so that she seemed to be surrounded by him, locked in and deprived, if not literally of oxygen, then certainly of the ability to think coherently.
‘Here we are, Rose…on one of the most stunningly beautiful islands in the world. Outside, the night is like black velvet and in here…well, just the two of us…Shall I tell you what my mad thought is?’
No! Her head screamed. ‘What?’
‘This…’ Nick leant into her. She felt his hand cradle the back of her neck and she almost couldn’t believe what was happening even as her skin burned where he touched her.
‘No…’ she protested in a pathetically weak little voice and Nick half smiled, already hearing her submission and knowing, in that instant, that his suspicions had been right: she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. His body reared up with a sudden, savage heat that shocked him, and he brought his mouth down to hers, turned on by her small whimper as she parted her lips and closed her eyes.
Rose pressed her hands against his chest and felt the hard bunch of his muscles under the flat of her hand. Yes, of course she should push him away. That was a given.
She ran her hands over his chest, contouring the outline of his flat brown nipples, and moaned softly under her breath while his mouth continued to devour hers, catapulting common sense into orbit.
When she finally surfaced sufficiently to draw breath and speak, she did manage a weak protest, but her breasts, pressed against him, were aching and sensitive. Weeks of yearning left her helpless. The feel of him was like a miracle of revelation.