Page 26 of Reclaimed By His Billion-Dollar Ring

Nikos put his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. ‘You’re very far out! Need a tow back in?’

He lowered his hands as he saw her strike out towards the shore in a strong freestyle. He’d wondered whether to go in and fetch her, but she was doing OK. He watched until she was back within her depth. She was clearly reluctant to get out of the water with him watching. Should he do the gentlemanly thing and turn his back? Let her reach her lounger and wrap a towel around her?

No. He would not. But what he did do was fetch the towel for her, shake it open.

‘Think of me as a beach valet,’ he informed her drily.

Expressionlessly, she waded out. Not looking at him.

It was something he found he could not reciprocate. Instead, he fastened his gaze on her, in her clinging one-piece.

Her coltish figure had matured into a softer, richer form, yet her legs were still as toned, her body still as slender. The simple swimsuit moulded her body to perfection, and the cold of the water had done delectable things to her nipples...

He felt a kick in his pulse that he could not stop...felt arousal stir and knew he must turn away, just as she was doing, having snatched the towel from him.

Rigorously she wrapped it around herself, busying herself with squeezing out her dripping hair. ‘I don’t appreciate you following me down here!’ she snapped.

He was back in control of himself.

‘I did not follow you,’ he informed her. ‘As a late invite, I’ve been put in the beach house.’ He gestured to the small stone-built building set back from the beach, its whitewashed walls and blue shutters and door lit by the rich late-afternoon sunshine. ‘Simple accommodation, no staff service, but ideal for midnight swims,’ he said good-humouredly. His eyes glinted. ‘Perhaps you’ll join me for one tonight?’

She glowered fiercely at him, but he was not put off.

‘Lighten up, Calanthe—this is a weekend to enjoy.’ He made his voice still humorous, but there was a message in it all the same.

She was yanking at her hair, starting to rapidly and roughly plait it.

‘So enjoy it!’ she told him. ‘Just not with me! There are any number of women all too willing to help you do so, I’m sure!’

His eyes rested on her face. ‘The thing is, Calanthe, the only one I want is you...’

He had softened his voice. Made it a caress.

An invitation.

A promise.

He felt emotions move within him. Desire, yes—for who could not feel desire as she stood there? Even with the beach towel obliterating her figure and her fingers working on her dripping hair, her face shining with sea water and bereft of any make-up. His breath caught. Whatever it was about her, he could not take his eyes from her. Could not stop these strange emotions welling up within him.

This time... This time we’ll make it come right between us.

That was the promise in his head.

To himself.

To her.

She’d stilled, her fingers still entwined in her half-plaited her. He changed his expression. Became reminiscent, softened his tone more.

‘You used to plait your hair like that in the morning when we were getting up together. You were heading back to the dig and I was putting in my shift at the construction site. You’d pin it up, and I’d have to wait all day until finally I could take those damn pins out, unplait it, and let it tumble around your shoulders. We’d fall into bed, then shower, then get dressed and go and join the others at the taverna. You would look...oh, so lovely. Your eyes glowing from our lovemaking...your skin honey from the sun... And we’d sit together at the table, and you’d sneak some of my deep-fried aubergines, which you never ordered for yourself because you said they were too fattening. But somehow nicking mine wasn’t fattening at all...’

He gave a low laugh, memory vivid in his head.

‘Don’t—’ Her voice was low. Strained. ‘There’s no point remembering, Nik. It was eight years ago. It’s not coming back.’

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s not coming back. But...’ He changed his voice again and felt his arm lifting of its own volition, as if to reach for her. ‘But we can—’

‘Can what?’ She cut across him, and her voice was like a blade. ‘Pick up where we left off? Is that your idea? You bump into me, eight years on, and think, Hey, she’s still fanciable...why don’t I take another tour?’

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