Page 67 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

She could do this instead of hiding away like a little mouse. There were also apologies to make of sorts. Lying in bed reflecting obsessively over their conversation the night before, she’d realised some things. Some of the conversation had been fun. Aston had been trying to make her comfortable. He’d shared things about himself. And, if she truly wanted to try at marriage, she couldn’t flee at the first sign that things were getting difficult.

Ana selected a pair of flat gold sandals from an array in the wardrobe that seemed the best match for her dress, then set off through a carpeted passageway towards the bow of the yacht.

Outside on the deck the sunshine was bright, so she slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the glare. Ahead of her a small table was set with some drinks on ice and other refreshments. Her stomach growled. When had she last experienced real hunger? Most of the time over the last six months she’d eaten for fuel, forcing herself because her appetite had disappeared. It was a strange sensation, that gnawing feeling in her stomach. She selected smoked salmon blini and ate it. She had another, then grabbed a small bottle of sparkling water from a bowl of ice and cracked the seal. She took a sip of the chilling fizz before walking further out onto the deck.

A large, aqua-blue pool lay ahead of her. In it swam Aston, slicing through the water with powerful strokes as he reached the end, executed a perfect turn and came towards her. Another turn and he swam away. She was transfixed as he continued, lap after lap, by how his body cut through the water like his yacht had done, slicing through the ocean as it had left Halrovia’s harbour. The rhythmic splashes were somehow soothing as she watched the power of his body, the water coursing over his back as he maintained his solid strokes.

Then, as he reached the end of the pool furthest from her, he stopped. Grabbed the edge for a few moments as if catching his breath. Placed both arms on the side of the pool and launched himself out of it. The water sluiced over his bronzed skin as he hauled himself from the water, wearing only black swimming trunks that gripped his muscular backside.

She’d seen men in states of undress before when Halrovia had hosted international swimming competitions and she’d handed out medals to the winners. Those men had all been powerful athletes with smooth skin and the typical swimmer’s shape, with strong physiques and peak fitness.

None of them had affected her like this. She was pinned to the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes from Aston, couldn’t stop her gaze roving over him. The solidity of his shoulders looked as if they could carry the weight of the world. She watched the bunch of his biceps, the taper of him, his narrow waist, lower...

Then he noticed her. His mouth curled into a slow smile as he stalked past a sun lounger and grabbed a towel, lashing it round his waist. The bottle of sparkling water almost slipped through her nerveless fingers as he approached. His towel hadn’t helped. It simply drew her attention to the smattering of hair on his muscular chest, the trail of it that bisected the muscles of his abdomen, disappearing below the knot at his waist. The way the droplets of water on his body sparkled like diamonds in the light. He raked his hand through his hair, rivulets of water dribbling down the sides of his neck, his pectorals.

She didn’t know where to look or what to say. He stood near her, grabbed a bottle of still water, opened it and put the neck to his mouth, tilting his head back and gulping it down, Adam’s apple bobbing. When he finished, he placed the bottle carefully on the table.

‘Good afternoon. I see you found something to wear. I hope the selection was a reasonable one?’

He seemed so formal today. Perhaps it was unsurprising that after last night the conversation might be a little stilted. It was then that she noticed that he appeared breathless. A man like him looked in peak fitness. Surely he wouldn’t have been puffed out by a mere swim? Although, he’d been pushing himself, like those champion swimmers, almost as if he’d swum a race.

‘It was, thank you. How long have you been in the pool?’

He checked the time on the watch, still on his wrist. ‘Around an hour.’

An hour? ‘You looked to be swimming hard.’

He shrugged, the muscles of his shoulders bunching distractingly as he did. ‘I like to train.’

‘What for? Your climbing?’

He smiled, as if she’d somehow made a confession by revealing she knew of his exploits. It was an incendiary curl of his lips, slow, deliberate, setting her on fire. What she wouldn’t give simply to dive into the pool herself to get away from the sensation, to cool down. There was a selection of swimwear in the clothes in her wardrobe. Once she might have worn it. There were no paparazzi here to take photographs and sell them to the press. But her scars were things she hid, not flaunted. Maybe one day she’d be brave enough. Today was not that day.

‘I need the stamina, the endurance. It’s useful, not only for my climbing.’

She swallowed, her mouth dry even though she had a drink in her hand. A trickle of perspiration slid down the back of her neck. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

‘I’m happy at your easy acceptance of what I say, Princess.’ His intense blue gaze fixed on her. ‘But please,’ he said, motioning to a casual seating area with soft-looking couches. ‘We should sit.’

She led the way, not wanting him to get too close, really not wanting him perhaps to put his hand on the small of her back and guide her, as he’d done as they’d been walking up the gangplank onto the yacht, and when he’d helped her to her seat over dinner. She knew what his touch was like, how heated, branding her. She liked the burn of it a little too much.

Ana sank into the soft cushions of the outdoor lounge, placing her bottle of water on the table in front of her, crossing her legs at the ankle as she was taught to do, her hands positioned primly in her lap. He on the other hand seem to sprawl, still with a towel wrapped around his waist. His bare chest was an impossible and distracting display. He didn’t make any effort to find a shirt. Did he know how he affected her? Most likely. If she was asked to describe the expression on his face, she’d say he was amused.

He looked at her shoes. ‘You lied.’

Her heart pounded at the shock of his comment. What did he know? Had he found something on the Internet?

‘When?’

‘Your feet aren’t made of clay, and I was right—they’re pretty.’

She couldn’t help herself. The shock of it—she burst out laughing. The earlier tension faded away. ‘No one’s ever sung the praises of my feet before.’

He grinned. ‘That’s a terrible oversight, but I didn’t really want to talk about your feet, alluring as they are.’

Her nerves began to kick up again. ‘Okay.’

‘You have charity interests—child literacy, correct?’ he asked.

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