Page 3 of Her Diamond Deal with the CEO

‘No.’ His hand clamped around her wrist, surprisingly strong. ‘I don’t need help. I have help. You’re a lifeguard—’

‘But I’m not a doctor.’ She spoke calmly but firmly as she’d been taught. ‘Look, I just live over there. I’m going to run back to my house and call the EMS and they’ll come and check you out.’

For a moment she thought he was going to argue. It was a fairly common response. People, men particularly, were often embarrassed at being ‘rescued’ but medical opinion on the protocol for post-near-drownings was clear. Anyone requiring any form of resuscitation needed to be evaluated by a healthcare provider, even if they appeared alert with good breathing and a strong pulse.

‘Fine. Whatever.’ He let go of her arm, waving his hand in the same dismissive way as before.

Reaching for her shorts, she pulled them on and got to her feet. ‘I’ll be five minutes, tops. Just sit tight and try not to worry. It really is just precautionary. My name is Ondine, by the way.’

‘Jack.’ He shifted back against the sand, his eyes still closed. ‘Jack Walcott.’

I know who you are.

She almost spoke the words out loud and her face felt suddenly hot.

Jack Walcott was the heir to the Walcott energy empire. He was also a guest at Whitecaps. In a hotel filled with beautiful, indolent people, he was the most beautiful. A baby-faced billionaire with dirty-blond hair, eyes the colour of pirate gold and a face of such absurdly perfect proportions and symmetry that it was hard not to simply stare and keep on staring.

And he knew it.

How could he not? Jack Walcott was movie-star-gorgeous with a smile that could tip the planet into meltdown.

Her mouth thinned. He was also hedonistic, self-indulgent and arrogant. Lolling on a lounger in a pair of plain blue swim shorts designed to highlight his smooth gold skin and curving muscles, he had looked straight through her. And on the days when he’d eaten in the restaurant, he hadn’t so much as glanced up from his steak when she’d brought him the mustard he’d requested. To him, she was just staff. One of the many minions paid to meet his every need.

But he would have to be in a trance or unconscious not to notice the effect he had on people. How they craned their necks to watch him walk by, elbowed their neighbours, whispered behind their hands.

Her eyes dropped irresistibly to the contoured lines of his stomach, and now she didn’t just want to stare, she wanted to touch, stroke, scratch—

She felt her fingers twitch and, aware of the impropriety of her response, she clamped her hands tightly to her hips and got to her feet.

‘I’ll be right back, Jack,’ she said quickly. His eyes stayed shut.

She ran across the sand and was halfway up the dunes when something made her look back over her shoulder to check on him. Her mouth fell open. Jack Walcott was not where she’d left him. He wasn’t even lying down. He was walking along the beach, her hoodie draped across his shoulders, moving with a slow, languid grace that made her feel light-headed. Swearing under her breath, she ran back towards him.

‘Hey—’

He turned, his blond hair flopping across his forehead. His shirt was almost dry now so that instead of sticking to his skin it was lifting in the breeze, revealing even more of the spectacular body beneath. She glared up into his face to stop herself from looking.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

His eyes narrowed into the sunlight.

‘Oh, yeah, my bad. Here.’ The gold signet ring on his little finger glinted as he unpeeled her hoodie from around his shoulders and draped it over hers.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she snapped, and now finally he looked at her. Really looked at her in a way that made her feel suddenly and intensely conscious of herself, of the rise and fall of her breasts, the heavy thud of her heart, the tightness of her skin.

The gold of his eyes was steady but then something rippled beneath the flawless features, like the tremors that preceded an earthquake, almost as if he could feel her reaction, as if he was feeling it too—

Afterwards, she would wonder who made the first move. Perhaps he leaned forward or maybe she lost her footing but one moment she was glaring up at him, the next their lips were brushing and there was an emptiness in her stomach like hunger, only it was a hunger she had never felt.

His mouth was soft and warm and teasing and, dissolving with desire, she felt his hand slide round her waist and then heat was seeping through her limbs so that it was impossible not to melt against him, unthinkable not to press her body against the hard muscles of his chest.

His lips parted hers, stirring her, and she kissed him back, tasting salt and a hunger that matched her own and all the while her body was melting, her defences softening—

She breathed in sharply, and, heart hammering, she stumbled backwards. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

It was a good question, particularly because it meant that she didn’t have to ask herself what she was doing kissing someone she had just pulled out of the sea. ‘You can’t just go around kissing people.’

Tilting back his head, he looked down at her. ‘To be fair, you kissed me first,’ he said softly.

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