She could feel the warmth of his body, his breath on her cheek, his eyes pinning her to the wall behind. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run and absolutely no desire to do either. The air was crackling with sexual tension as his hand brushed her arm. The tiny hairs stood up and her nipples jutted through the fabric of her dress, painfully greeting their master.
‘We get married in two days.’ Her tongue moistened her lips nervously, and she knew the innocent gesture had aroused him. ‘Maybe we should wait.’
‘Is that what you want?’
It wasn’t. Right now all she wanted was to be in his arms, for him to take her upstairs and for the skill of his lovemaking to obliterate the endless conundrums in her head, for him to take her to a place far away from the problems of the surreal world they had created. Picking up her hand, he ran it across his face, burying his mouth in it. She could feel his tongue running along her palm, working slowly along her life line, then up her wrist. Her knees were trembling; she was sure at any moment she might faint with longing. Suddenly he pulled her hand down to his groin. With a start she felt the weight of his arousal through his dark suit, angry and fiery under her fingers. He pushed her hand still harder against him.
‘Someone might see,’ she gasped, trying to pull away, but his vice-like grip only tightened.
‘It’s too dark outside for them to see.’ He was pushing her hand against him and he let out a low groan as her fingers moved independently, tightening around the velvet steel of his manhood. She was stunned at her own boldness, berating the clothing that separated their searing skin.
‘That analogy you wanted,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve made my bet; I’ve narrowed the odds.’ His hand pushed hers deeper into his groin. ‘That,’ he growled, but there was a breathless edge to his voice, ‘is the reason you’ll be there.’
His wicked eyes grinned mockingly into hers as she angrily pulled her hand away. ‘Who knows, Tabitha? You might be the world’s first bride to get there early.’#p#分页标题#e#
CHAPTER NINE
HER body ached with fatigue. Most of the night she had lain on tenterhooks, painfully aware of Zavier just a few feet away, aching for him and yet simultaneously dreading him coming into her room; wanting him to, yet terrified he might. Finally she had drifted into an uneasy sleep, only to be awoken what seemed like moments later by the sun. For a while she lay there, taking a moment to orientate herself. The lapping of the ocean was so close she felt as if she might reach her hand out of the bed and touch the cool water. How peaceful it all seemed, how serene compared with reality, with the Pandora’s box of lies they all were living. One wrong step, one misguided comment and the whole festering mess would burst forth.
Not that Zavier seemed bothered. Did nothing upset him? Did nothing worry him?
Slipping on some shorts and a T-shirt, Tabitha pulled some runners onto her bare feet. Creeping slowly through the darkened house, sliding the bolt, she slipped quietly out onto the driveway.
She had no direction, no purpose behind her steps, but instinctively she made her way to the beach. Slipping off her runners, she walked a while, trying to fathom the hows and whys, the impossible puzzle that was Zavier, until finally, with a moan, she sank to the soft sandy floor, the damp sand cool against her bare thighs, the lapping waves tickling her toes, rushing in up to her knees, skimming the top of her cotton shorts before being pulled back to the ocean, back to where they belonged.
He saw her first. Sitting there alone on the deserted beach, the rising sun catching her Titian locks, setting them on fire, her long limbs blending in with the water. She looked like some exotic surreal fantasy, an auburn mermaid washed ashore, cast out from the ocean and into the chaos of life on land.
Last night his façade had slipped. Despite what he had said he hadn’t slept on the plane, and that had been a bad idea. Whisky and jet lag were a dangerous mix, a lethal cocktail that had, for a moment, blinded him to what she was about, had made her seem appealing, tempting. She wasn’t a mermaid, she was a vixen—stealing her way in, menacing and dangerous—and it would serve him well to remember the fact. His face hardening, Zavier picked up his pace, running directly towards her.
He watched her face turn, the set of her slender shoulders stiffen as she realised it was him, wariness filling those stunning jade eyes.
Bewitched, yet not in the way he had expected. The passion from before was gone; the calculated moves of yesterday had all evaporated. More bewitching, more achingly appealing, was the undisguised depth of despair in those calcite pools, and, gazing into them, Zavier found himself breathless, as if he had run the length of the beach and back.