CHAPTER THREE

brIGHTSUNLIGHTSCALDED Milly's retinas as soon as she opened her eyes the following morning. It took her several seconds to adjust to the daylight, and several more to figure out where she was. Then everything came rushing back in lurid Technicolor.

She still had Roman Garner's jacket on, except now the designer fabric was hopelessly crushed, along with the jewelled material of her sister's dress. One look in the mirror of the bespoke stone bathroom attached to her bedroom had the last of her misplaced excitement and confidence from the night before—when she'd had some daft notion of seducing her uber-hot and arrogant host—evaporating in a rush of cringe-worthy memories.

Garner could even now be calling the police. Had she imagined the hot look in his eyes last night? Probably. It seemed highly unlikely a playboy billionaire would be interested in an unemployed teaching assistant-cum-wannabe-artist with panda eyes, grubby feet, a borrowed designer gown and a collapsed chignon.

Make that certainly not interested.

After a long hot shower, to revitalise her decimated ego and wash away the evidence of last night's shenanigans, it occurred to Milly she didn't have a lot of sartorial options after putting on the guest suite's complimentary bathrobe. Not only did she have no make-up with her, she had no clothes either, other than Lacey's wrecked designer gown and Garner's oversized jacket—even Lacey's uncomfortable heels had been left on the launch.

Thoughts of Lacey brought back memories of their midnight chat. She blinked back the emotion threatening to destroy what was left of her confidence.

She had sixteen days to prove she wasn't a total screw-up to Lacey and Brandon, and most importantly herself. Now all she had to do was get off this island—while naked and barefoot—before the police arrived, use her meagre savings to buy a return coach ticket to the UK for Arthur Cade's christening, and find the time to do enough artwork in the meantime to have a viable portfolio to boast about when she got there in between doing two jobs.

No biggie, then.

First things first though, she needed clothing. She eyed the house phone, remembering a vague conversation with the very nice estate manager. Depending on the kindness of strangers wasn't her usual vibe, but she didn't have much of a choice.

A friendly voice answered on the second ring. ‘Signorina Devlin, you are awake. I hope you slept well,' the estate manager said in perfect, if heavily accented, English.

‘Yes, thank you, the bed is very comfortable.'

‘Would you require breakfast?' he asked, as if she really were a guest, and not a thief.

‘Actually, I'd really like some day-clothes. If you have any—that might fit me,' she said, as embarrassment heated her cheeks.

‘I will send up my wife Giuliana with some options for you.'

‘Oh, thank you.' Milly's relief was palpable—escaping in a bathrobe had always been a tall order.

‘Is there anything else you require?' he asked.

‘Could you...could you tell me if the police are coming?' she managed around the thickness in her throat. How much time did she have to work out a convincing defence for attempting to borrow Garner's boat without his permission.

‘La polizia?'The man sounded shocked, but then he laughed. ‘Signor Garner did not contact the police, Signorina Devlin—this is not his style,' he added. ‘And also, he would have some uncomfortable questions to answer about why he kidnapped you.'

She huffed out a nervous laugh at the man's amused and paternal tone—apparently, Giovanni at least thought last night's antics had been a joke.

Good to know someone found them funny.

After thanking him and hanging up the phone, she felt some of the impending doom lift off her shoulders. But the acute embarrassment remained.

It was still there half an hour later, when she ventured out of the bedroom, now clothed in a pair of shorts and a tank top and trainers, which Giuliana had told her belonged to one of her daughters.

Giuliana—the estate's housekeeper and head chef and also the very nice estate manager's wife—had also been a font of knowledge about her employer. Apparently, Roman Garner had bought the island two years ago, rebuilt the villa, and kept the place fully staffed all year round. Although Garner had only visited the island twice in total—once to host a lavish team-building event for his executives and once with one of his dates for a weekend rave, complete with two hundred specially selected guests, and entertainment provided by world-famous DJs, chart-topping bands, a roster of celebrity chefs and fitness and health gurus. But he'd been at the rave for only one night before he had returned to work in London and left the date behind.

It hadn't taken much more probing for Milly to discover Signor Roman—as the housekeeper referred to her employer—was well liked by the staff, because he paid them all a very lucrative salary and never made unreasonable demands, but his celebrity friends and dates not so much.

Giuliana had also supplied the information Garner was spending a fortnight alone on the island this time, on doctor's orders, because he was burnt out. But despite being exhausted when he had arrived yesterday afternoon, he had insisted on attending the Cade Ball, then woken this morning at dawn and left to swim to one of the hidden coves on the far side of the island over two miles away.

Giuliana was concerned about his safety. Milly wouldn't care if he drowned.

Then again, Milly couldn't deny the prickle of disappointment—that she wasn't going to see Roman Garner again—as she made her way down to the dock after the delicious breakfast laid out for her by the very talkative Giuliana on the villa's sea-facing terrazzo.

That the staff seemed to have decided she was a guest, not a prisoner was also good news. So why did Garner's apparent indifference to her this morning feel so deflating?

Because you're a fool, Mills. Who clearly needs to lose her virginity pronto, before she starts getting inappropriate crushes on arrogant burnt-out billionaires.

Garner had brought her here to teach her a lesson. But, of course, he'd lost interest as soon as they'd arrived. That hot look last night—and the flirty nature of their boat altercation—had all been in her head. The well of anticipation, the ripple of awareness and the sizzle of attraction a result of the fact she'd spent so much of her life convincing herself she didn't want male attention—thanks, Dad. So, when a man like Garner paid her the slightest bit of attention, even in a back-handed way, she totally overreacted.

It would be ironic, if it weren't so excruciatingly pathetic.

At the dock below the villa's lavish gardens, she found the motor launch, alongside a beautiful hand-crafted sailboat, while an enormous super-yacht was anchored in the bay.

Her conversation with the dockhand, Marco, soon added a nice thick layer of frustration to her embarrassment.

‘I am sorry, signorina. I cannot take you to Sorrento without the permission of my employer. And he left no instructions this morning.'

Probably because he's totally forgotten about me!

‘Can you contact him? And ask him?' she said, desperate to leave. She did not want to still be hanging around when Garner got back.

The young man shook his head. ‘He does not have a phone with him, he is swimming.'

‘Do you know when he's likely to return to the villa?'

‘It is a long swim. He asked for the dinghy to be left at La Baia Azzurra, which is at the opposite end of the island.'

Right.So, he would be a while, then.

And she was stranded here, until he deigned to return.

She could ask Giuliana or Giovanni to help, but she'd inconvenienced them enough. And, while they seemed relaxed about their relationship with their employer, she did not want to make things difficult for them, or any of his other staff.

As she turned to trudge back to the villa through the groves of olive and lemon trees, though, she spotted an old bike propped against the boat shed.

‘Marco, is that your bike?' she asked.

He nodded.

‘Could I borrow it? Just for a little while?'

The boy smiled. ‘Of course, yes, you are a guest, signorina.'

She stifled the prickle of guilt. She wasn't really a guest. But she didn't know what she was any more—which in some ways was almost worse, because now she felt like an inconvenience, and a forgotten one at that... Which was exactly how her father had always made her feel.

Garner hadn't kidnapped her precisely, because he really hadn't put that much thought into last night's ‘abduction'. And after his parting shot when he'd left her in the guest bedroom, she suspected he had changed his mind once they'd arrived on the island.

But her phone had died during the night, so she couldn't get anyone to come over from Sorrento and collect her, even if she had the funds to pay them, which she did not. So she was basically an accidental prisoner here, until she got Roman Garner's permission to leave.

The arrogant, entitled egomaniac.

She jumped on the bike, and took the coastal path past the dock, heading in the direction Giuliana had mentioned. As she pedalled down the bumpy island tracks, past the ruins of fisherman's cottages, and the collection of secluded beaches and rocky coves, the cliffs decorated with rambling bushes of bougainvillea, she was struck by the island's natural, unspoilt beauty—and how much she would have loved to capture some of the landscape in pen and ink and acrylic, if she weren't here under duress.

But as the sun rose higher in the sky, and she began to sweat, she found herself scanning the deserted cliffs, trying to locate the Blue Cove Marco had mentioned, or a lone billionaire swimming in the sea. She needed to find out where Garner was hiding, apologise again for borrowing his boat, thank him for the bed for the night and the delicious breakfast, and then ask him, ever so politely, to let her off his blasted luxury island, pronto.

Roman ploughed through the water, the soft waves buffeting his aching limbs and the tide dragging his tired body back into the surf.

Where was the damn Baia Azzurra? Because it felt as if he'd been swimming towards his favourite cove for days, even with the fins he'd slipped on when he'd set off at the dock just after dawn. He had not slept well last night, again, thanks mostly to sweaty erotic dreams of his uninvited guest—aka the boat thief. If the beach wasn't around the next rocky outcrop, he might have to attempt a cliff climb, in his swimming shorts.

He cursed the decision to venture out on this marathon swim before he'd really woken up properly for about the thousandth time as he finally cleared the headland.

The sight of the translucent sea, calmed by the rocky bay, its stunning azure waters lapping lazily onto the white sand beach less than fifty feet away, pumped renewed vigour into his leaden arms. He powered towards the shore, letting the waves carry him into the shallows, sending up a prayer of thanks that his staff had left the sailing dinghy anchored on the sand as requested.

No way was he swimming back.

But as he stood in the thigh-deep surf, his knees shaky from the one-and-a-half-hour swim, he spotted movement beneath the trees near the cliffs.

He swept his wet hair back, and stared, as a figure—dressed in perky shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt—jumped up from the rock and walked barefoot across the sand towards him.

Her.

Shock came first, swiftly followed by annoyance.

What was the star player in last night's X-rated fantasies doing in his favourite cove?

The denim cut-offs moulded her butt like a second skin, while the figure-hugging vest made her lack of a bra all too obvious. Holding a pair of worn running shoes, she looked fresh and young and appealing, and as beautiful as the trashed socialite boat thief he'd met the night before.

He swore under his breath, unable to detach his gaze from her figure as she strolled across the beach as if she had every right to be there—invading his downtime, again. And sending inconvenient pheromones firing through his exhausted body.

He scowled. Maybe he was hallucinating, courtesy of the nightmare swim that had nearly drowned him—and which he had only embarked on in the first place to forget about her.

No such luck.

‘Hello, Mr Garner,' she called, waving, the tone sweet and accommodating. He stood like a dummy, aware of the heat he had hoped to freeze out coursing through his system all over again.

She used a hand to shield her mesmerising golden eyes from the dazzling sunlight.

‘Are you okay?' she asked. ‘I spotted you swimming around the point from the clifftop. For a minute there, I thought you weren't going to make it.'

He tugged off the flippers and shoved them under his arm, annoyed she had spotted him struggling. He hated to show a weakness to anyone, especially women—but showing a weakness to this woman was even more galling.

He trudged out of the water, gratified when she backed away as he arrived on the sand. No doubt she could guess from the frown he could feel turning into a crater on his forehead he was not pleased to see her.

‘What are you doing here?' he demanded.

She propped a fist on her hip and glared back at him. So much for the sweet and cheerful act. That didn't last long. The surge of adrenaline only irritated him more. He would not be aroused by her snotty attitude again, because it was infuriating, not intriguing. He wanted her gone now. What was she still doing here? Ruining his break and stopping him from getting the rest he so desperately needed?

If she hadn't got him all riled up last night he wouldn't even have been here, he would have been lying comatose in his suite!

‘Really? You want to know what I'm doing on your private island?' she snapped, misunderstanding his perfectly reasonable question deliberately, the little minx. ‘I'm stranded here,' she said, her voice rising with indignation. ‘Or did you forget already you kidnapped me last night?'

He dragged in a furious breath, and a lungful of her delicious scent—flowery shampoo and musky female sweat—got lodged in his solar plexus.

The heat rose. Along with his anger.

‘I know why you're on my island. I want to know why you're here, in this cove.' He strode to the fibreglass sailing dinghy beached on the sand and grabbed a towel from the supplies his staff had left for him. ‘Perhaps I should add stalking to the ever-growing list of your misdemeanours,' he added. But as he rubbed his hair, he could hear her soft footsteps following him.

‘I'm here because I can't leave Estiva without your say-so, according to Marco.'

He swung round to see her standing behind him. But the belligerent expression dissolved as her gaze dipped to his bare chest. Her throat contracted as she swallowed. The heat in his groin flared as the whisky colour of her eyes darkened...

The same vivid awareness he had noticed the night before, when she had stared at him in his guest bedroom, made her look a little dazed.

‘A-and...s-stop pretending you're going to call the police,' she managed, although her voice had lowered to a husk, her gaze still anchored to his chest. ‘B-because we both know you're not,' she finished, struggling to sound outraged, when all he could hear was desire.

She wanted him... And he wanted her.

Damned if he knew why that was, she was hardly his type. Not elegant and sophisticated and compliant, but feisty and fierce and quite frankly a complete pain in the backside since the moment he'd set eyes on her.

But he couldn't deny the surge of heat any longer.

He tucked a thumb under her chin, tilted her face up.

‘Stop staring at my chest,' he said.

She blinked, a vivid blush firing across her cheeks and highlighting her exceptional bone structure. She really did have the most compelling face, the gold nose ring adding to her funky appeal.

‘I—I'm not,' she said, but the protest was weak at best. And didn't fool him for a second, her expression as transparent as her desire.

‘You know, I'd have a lot more respect for you if you admitted why you really followed me here...' he goaded, enjoying the way the fiery blush spread down her neck to explode along her collarbone. And those expressive eyes lit with a combination of desire and confusion.

Why did her dazed arousal only make him want her more? The chemistry between them made no sense—she was a complication, her connection to Cade only making his knee-jerk decision to bring her here more problematic. But after an hour and a half spent attempting to drown the spark she had created, he was through fighting it.

‘I—I don't know what you mean...' she murmured, but he could see the lie in her eyes. She knew exactly what he meant, because she felt it too, even if she was unwilling to admit it.

He swept his thumb across her bottom lip, the last of his anger releasing in a rush of longing when she shuddered and stumbled back.

He let his hand drop, but he kept his gaze locked on hers and embraced the surge of awareness that had driven him here in the first place.

The long swim was supposed to have controlled this incessant, inexplicable desire, and ensure she was gone when he returned to the villa—because he'd decided during the night, when he woke aching for her, that he had no intention of pursuing this inconvenient attraction. But she'd ruined his best-laid plans. So now, they would both have to deal with the consequences.

‘Stop playing the clueless virgin, Milly,' he murmured. While he found her confusion intriguing, he wasn't fooled by it. She was as drawn to him as he was to her, last night's arguments had been foreplay, so why not see exactly where this would lead? ‘We both know why you really followed me here.'

She stared at him, dazed and wary, but not denying the obvious any more.

Then her tongue flicked out to moisten dry lips, and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. The plump bottom lip, the slight overbite, the cupid's bow at the top that had tempted him beyond bearing the night before, although he'd been too damn mad to admit it.

He didn't feel mad any more. He felt vindicated. By the answering awareness in her eyes.

‘Now that you've gone to considerable trouble to track me down,' he said, spotting the bike on the sand behind her. ‘What do you want to do about it?' he asked, goading her, deliberately.

They were both consenting adults, and they wanted each other. Sometimes it was just that simple. But he'd be damned if he'd do all the work. Or if he'd let her play the kidnapped virgin sacrifice.

He hated those kinds of games. And despised the women who played them.

This chemistry was vibrant and volatile enough to be extremely rare. But if she wanted him to take this further—and the delicious quiver of her bottom lip would suggest she certainly did—she would have to tell him so.

Her head rose, her gaze meeting his. His lips quirked at the slight frown on her brow. And the brightening hue on her cheeks.

Her throat contracted. And he wondered if her mouth was as dry as his. Lifting his hand again, he cradled her cheek, and felt her shudder of reaction—as her eyes flared with need.

She didn't draw back this time, though. And he knew he had her.

‘You're going to have to ask for what you want, Milly,' he murmured, struggling to keep things light, even as his own control hung by a single torturous thread.

The need pounded in his groin as he waited, the chilly exhaustion of the long swim incinerated by the volatile, visceral yearning, to discover where their extraordinary chemistry would lead.

Her frown deepened. But then her gaze snagged on his mouth. She seemed to consider his proposition for a moment, but when her eyes rose to his, he could see she had made a decision. Need fired through his torso, and down into his trunks.

‘I think... I really want to kiss you,' she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. But he could see the delicious combination of determination and arousal turning her whisky eyes to gold.

He clasped her cheeks, angled her face up to his, her scintillating shiver setting fire to the last of his control.

‘Snap,' he murmured.

But his determination to take things slowly, to tease and tempt, to savour the experience, exploded in a rush of desperation when his mouth found hers and he felt her jolt of response. She gave a sob of surrender and her hands grasped his waist.

He thrust his tongue deep when her mouth opened to let him in. And proceeded to take what they both wanted.

This is nuts... But I don't care!

Milly clutched Garner's waist, dragging him closer, until his hard, warm naked chest pressed against her unfettered breasts barely covered by the thin vest. The heady rush of adrenaline turned to the deep, visceral throb of desire as his lips claimed hers. She writhed against him, desperate to ease the ache in her nipples—both of which had become torpedoes ready to launch as soon as she'd got a good look at those spectacular pecs.

Roman Garner wasn't just fit, he was seriously gorgeous, his long lean physique bulging and flexing in all the right places. His skin was soft, and yet firm, toned and tensile as she let him take control of the kiss.

He sucked on her tongue, then probed deep into the recesses of her mouth, claiming her in a way she had never been claimed before.

She probed back. She didn't want to surrender to his moves. But it wasn't easy to focus, when the man was a seriously good kisser.

Determined to be bold, the way he seemed to be so effortlessly, she let her hands explore as she lapped up his addictive taste. Salt and musk and man, with the hint of his morning coffee.

She caressed the smooth skin of his lower back, found the band of his wet trunks and edged her fingers underneath, tracing his spine, and finally landing on the bunched muscles of his glutes. She squeezed, brutally aware of the ridge of his erection, thickening in his trunks—and pressing into her belly.

His harsh shudder had triumph hurtling through her, before he dragged his mouth free. And yanked himself back, dislodging her eager palms from his phenomenal backside.

Fire leapt in his eyes—turning the vivid sea green to a rich emerald—before his sensual lips, reddened by their ferocious kiss, quirked in a challenging grin.

‘Now, really, Milly. I don't remember giving you permission to grab my arse,' he said, the faux outrage contradicted by the wicked glint in his eyes.

She cleared her throat. Then forced an obsequious smile—determined to flirt back, and pretend he hadn't just overwhelmed her with one phenomenal kiss.

If he had any inkling about her body's ferocious reaction, the need pulsing and pounding at her core, and making every single one of her erogenous zones beg for mercy, he would know exactly how inexperienced she was, and how far out of her depth.

‘Please, Mr Garner,' she said, fluttering her eyelashes for all she was worth. ‘May I have permission to grab your arse?'

His eyebrows shot up to his forehead, but then he choked out a rough laugh. Not cynical this time, but rich and husky and surprised.

‘Damn,' he murmured. ‘You're quite the little ball-buster, aren't you?' But he was still smiling as he took her wrists in his and returned her hands to his backside. ‘Permission granted.'

Before she could let her new-found power go to her head, though, his thumb stroked across her collarbone, then dipped to circle her breast through the loose cotton.

She gasped, the nipple drawing tight, her hands rising from his butt to cling to him as his mouth landed on her neck. He nipped and sucked at the pulse point as those devilish hands found their way under her vest to cup her naked breasts.

A low groan escaped her as she bowed back, thrusting her tender flesh into his palm. He played with first one nipple then the other. Her guttural moans echoed around the quiet cove. She might have been embarrassed, but she couldn't think about anything but the sweet, vicious darts of sensation arrowing down to pound heavily at her core.

Eventually, he wrenched himself away, leaving her panting.

‘Damn it, I need to see you...' he demanded, the mocking tone replaced by impatient demand. He wrestled her top off and threw it onto the sand, exposing her to his avaricious gaze.

The warm sea breeze rushed over far too sensitive skin, making her breasts feel heavy and tight.

No man had ever seen her naked to the waist before, and had certainly never studied her bare breasts with such concentration and entitlement. But what she saw in his gaze wasn't judgement or disdain, it was pure unadulterated lust.

‘Offer them to me,' he groaned, part plea, part demand.

She cupped the swollen orbs, lifting and caressing them, doing instinctively as he asked. Passion flared in his eyes, before he brushed her hands aside and leant forward to capture one turgid tip in his lips.

He worked the pebbled flesh with his teeth, then trapped it against the roof of his mouth and suckled hard.

She grasped handfuls of his damp hair, held his head to her, pressing into his mouth. The warm weight became heavier between her thighs, the drawing sensation reaching all the way into her abdomen.

He transferred the exquisite torture from one breast to the other, while he plucked at the buttons of her shorts with his other hand. The fabric released and dropped to her ankles, then those demanding fingers delved into her panties.

She bucked against his hold, her body a mass of throbbing, aching, painful sensation now. His thumb circled the swollen folds, touching and then retreating, teasing her with a titanic release, which hovered so close, but just out of reach.

She gasped, panting, unable to draw a full breath, riding his hand, desperate for relief. She wanted to demand more, but was unable to speak as the coil at her core tightened, and twisted, becoming painful, and all-consuming.

‘Please...' She moaned.

‘Please, what? Ask my permission, Milly...' he coaxed, his voice raw now, no longer teasing, the exquisite unfulfilled desire torturing them both.

She grasped his wrist, rubbed herself against those talented fingers. ‘Give me more.'

He chuckled, but then his thumb centred at the heart of her at last.

With one flick, two, exactly where she needed it, the wave barrelled towards her.

She cried out, and crashed over, plummeting into a huge vat of molten pleasure as the fire raged through her.

As she came down, her knees dissolved. And she heard him grunt as he lifted her into his arms.

Her eyes fluttered open, to find him studying her. Embarrassed heat washed away the afterglow. His fierce expression became hooded, but then he grinned.

He carried her to the small boat, perched on the sand, and deposited her onto the seat.

She sat on the bench, aware of her naked breasts, and the visceral rush still making every inch of her glow. Then her gaze took in the thick ridge in his trunks, which were at her eye level. She assessed the impressive size and girth of his erection.

Her throat dried to parchment. Again.

He'd given her an incredible orgasm, but he hadn't found release.

She reached out and traced a finger down the length of him through the damp shorts, suddenly desperate to return the favour. Desperate to make him beg, too. And fascinated by the evidence of his desire he couldn't hide.

Having exposed herself, she needed to regain some of the power. To make them equal somehow, even though she knew they weren't.

But when she reached up to tug the waistband down, revealing the swollen head of his erection to her greedy gaze, he grasped her wrist and dragged her fingers away.

‘I don't think so,' he said, stuffing himself back into his trunks. ‘Not here.'

‘Why not?' she asked, the throb of need painful again as he covered himself.

‘Because I want to be inside you,' he said. ‘And for that we need condoms and a bed. Plus, this sailboat is too small to get comfortable on and sex on a beach tends to get sand in all the wrong places—trust me, I know.'

The bold statement was full of arrogance and entitlement. But the husky desire in his voice, and the feral gleam in his eyes, had a raw laugh popping out.

‘I'm not sure what's so damn funny,' he said, his gaze narrowing. But his pained expression made her feel impossibly powerful all of a sudden.

He doesn't know that you don't have a clue what you're doing. And he doesn't have to know. If you play it cool.

The ache at her core began to throb again, her gaze returning to the thick outline in his trunks.

His erection looked... Enormous. Disconcertingly so. But it didn't dim her desire in the slightest. She wanted to feel him inside her, too. Stretching her tight, aching flesh—and taking her to places she had always yearned to go.

And, surely, he was the perfect person to finally lose her virginity to. Not only was he super fit, and beyond hot, and a phenomenal kisser, but he seemed to know just how to touch her and caress her to make her want him. And he was a playboy, which meant he didn't do commitment... So she could use him with a clean conscience.

The endorphins fired through her system again, like toddlers on a sugar rush.

She wanted someone who knew what they were doing for her first time—but she did not want to risk making the classic mistake of thinking great sex meant emotional intimacy.

This could never be more than a one-off. They knew next to nothing about each other. But one thing she did know, they came from totally different worlds. After all, he moved in the same circles as her brother-in-law. And those were circles where she had never belonged.

He had opened her eyes, though, to what she had been missing for so long. One of the things she had been searching for.

She grinned up at him, determined to fake a confidence she didn't have.

‘I suppose I could give you a rain check,' she said. ‘If you ask me nicely.'

He tilted his head to one side, rueful amusement making him look even more gorgeous. Her heart bobbled in her chest when he smiled.

‘I suppose I can ask you nicely,' he said, the goading tone not exactly conciliatory. ‘Given that you begged me for release so nicely a moment ago.'

She clasped her arm across her bare breasts. Aware of the light breeze on her over-sensitive nipples, still damp from his kisses.

‘I didn't beg...' she said, indignant. ‘Precisely.'

He clasped her chin, then leaned down to press a provocative kiss to her lips. She groaned, the molten need throbbing at her core again, when he finally released her.

‘Sure, you did,' he said. ‘But I promise not to hold it against you.'

She wanted to be outraged at the hint of condescension in his tone. The man was nothing if not full of himself. But she felt too good to be annoyed. And too excited.

So she sat and watched, with what she was sure was a hopelessly smug smile on her face, as he strode back across the beach to collect her clothing.

He flung the garments to her, before pushing the boat into the surf.

‘You better cover up. I wouldn't want you getting sunburnt nipples on the journey back, because I have all sorts of plans for those later.'

She chuckled, she couldn't help it, his over-confidence as attractive as his wicked sense of humour. She scrambled into her vest and shorts, the pulse of excitement and anticipation flooding into her chest as he jumped aboard the boat and wedged himself behind her on the bench seat.

The canvas sail caught the breeze, as he tugged her securely into his lap, before steering the boat into the wind. Her heart bounced with the boat as it bobbed over the incoming surf.

She caught sight of the word Blackbeard inscribed on his wrist, in an ornate piratical font, and wondered about the significance of all the pirate-themed tattoos...

She'd have to examine him once she got to see him naked. And find out how many others he had.

Potent desire unfurled in her abdomen, and she ignored the clutch in her heart, to drive away any lingering doubts. She might be a virgin but, thank goodness, she'd never been a romantic. And she certainly had no illusions about men.

Seeing her mother struggle with cancer when she was still a teenager—while their dad had ignored them to concentrate on his new family—had seen to that.

Spending a few glorious hours in bed with Roman Garner to finish what they had started on the beach was reckless and impulsive. Just like her decision to leave the safety of her family and find her own way a year ago now had been... But at least this experience promised to be fun.

And she'd had precious little of that in the past twelve months.

She turned into the wind, lifted her arms and whooped as the boat gathered speed.

‘Hold that thought,' he shouted above the rush of the sea, his rough chuckle a vindication. Then he tightened the arm he had banded around her waist. ‘But don't fall out of the damn boat!'