One Summer At The Beach: Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire / Not-So-Perfect Princess / Wedding at Pelican Beach

She walked up to him as with deliberation he looked her up and down and back up again. Ordinarily his mouth held sensual promise; right now, the smile stretching it was utterly carnal. She had no idea if anyone else was around, all she could see was him, all she could sense was the force of his presence, his breadth, the awareness crackling so near the surface. He looked up the length of her legs once more and the desire in his eyes had her wobbling. Deep inside her body was soft and hot and aching with emptiness. But the pounding of her heart reminded her. That look in his eyes would be snuffed out the instant he saw her scar. He might lie, as Neil had, and say it made no difference. But it would make every difference—he wouldn’t treat her as real any more. She broke the eye contact, looked down to the ground, registered the big red chilly bin beside him.

He finally tore his eyes from her legs and nudged the bin with his foot. ‘Tell me you like seafood.’

‘I like seafood.’

‘Really?’

She nodded.

‘Good. Should have asked earlier.’

‘We’re having a picnic?’

‘That OK? I thought it was such a great day…’ He trailed off, attention back on her legs.

She clamped her upper thighs together, halting the warm urge to swing them open, and managed a cool friendly smile. ‘That’s great.’

She took the blanket that rested on top of the container. Hugged it in a protective hold. He took the chilly. They crossed the road and wandered down to the beach. Hunted out a nice spot to park their burdens and themselves.

She was glad of the crowds. Glad of the broadness of the daylight—because she seriously needed to get a grip. When he was with her she had the crazy feeling that anything was possible. And it wasn’t. He didn’t know about her. And when he did, everything would change. Better for him never to know so she didn’t have to witness that change. Better to end it before it began. He’d been right—this was just the beginning, but of a fantasy. She would have to finish it so she could treasure it for ever—before it turned into a nightmare.

He set up the umbrella that had been strapped to the side of the chilly.

‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble in a short time.’

He grinned. ‘Not at all. The umbrella is from the hostel. I bought the chilly bin from the store down the road and the food is from a great seafood market I found. They packed everything.’

She spread the blanket for them to sit. She was glad she’d gone with the skirt option. Even though the umbrella shaded them, the temperature was still hitting hot—her internal heat going way higher.

‘Drink?’ He’d unscrewed the lid off a bottle of sauvignon blanc, deftly holding two glasses in one hand while pouring the wine into them.

She glanced at him, catching his eyes for the first time since leaving the hostel, read the challenge.

‘Thank you.’

Her fingers touched his as he gave her the glass. With more luck than skill, she managed not to drop it. All that raced through her head was the memory of those fingers brushing across her back.

Sensible speech was impossible. So she asked a few meaningless, ice-breaker questions. Barely heard his meaningless, ice-breaker answers. Relief came as he unwrapped the food—a fabulous platter of deep-sea delicacies. He piled a few chunks of French bread on a plate, added a swipe of butter to each.

Cool, tasty, satisfying. The succulent seafood slipped down her throat—mussels, prawns, shredded lobster. He handed her an oyster, artfully sitting in its half shell. He winked.

A spurt of mirth bubbled in her. ‘Are you trying to feed me aphrodisiacs?’

He laughed aloud. ‘I’m doing everything in my power to seduce you.’

He’d already done that. And she’d succumb again this minute if there were any way to maintain the level of excitement and enjoyment evident in his eyes. He was out for a little holiday fun—that was obvious. And if only she was truly able to escape her history, she’d do the same.

They ate, talked a little more, looked a lot more—he was so handsome, she couldn’t help but stare, until she could no longer take the need slicing through her. She concentrated instead on the beach volleyball game a few yards away, amazed the women actually managed to stay decent in the teensy, eensy, weensy minuscule strips of Lycra that they passed off as their bikinis. They must use tape. Had to.

He was watching her, amusement apparent. ‘You want to play?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘No?’

‘I’m not good with ball games.’ Never played. Never allowed. Always on the sidelines while her overprotective mother and brother told her she couldn’t and shouldn’t. Consequently she was hopeless and not about to show him and a beach full of others how bad she was at catching a ball.

His amusement had increased—he wasn’t in on her teen angst.

‘Really?’ His mind seemed to have gone in another direction entirely. ‘You know, if you want, I can give you some help with that.’

She looked at him.

His grin was wicked. ‘Ball skills.’

She cleared her throat, narrowed her eyes at him but ducked the challenge. ‘I didn’t do team sports as a kid.’

‘No?’ He let it slide. ‘What did you do?’

‘I was in the orchestra—percussion.’

‘You were the girl clanging the cymbal, huh?’

She giggled. ‘Yeah, waiting the entire length of the piece for my one moment of glory.’

Much like now. And the satisfaction couldn’t be repeated.

‘So no team sports. Were you a runner or something? Track and field?’

She laughed aloud. Her mirth rather more than the question merited.

‘I’m guessing no, then. But you’re fit. You’re very fit.’

She nodded. She liked feeling strong. She’d taken years to get strong. ‘Yoga.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. And Pilates, Thai Chi. All sorts, really. Anything good for strength and flexibility.’

‘Flexibility?’ He drew in an audible breath. ‘Interesting.’

She paused, aware of the extra charge in the already electric air. He was looking at her legs again. She could almost see into his mind. See the mental movie he was playing there.

The atmosphere was so humid and heavy not even a scimitar sword would slice it. Breathing utterly impossible. With great deliberation, and sheer force of will, she turned and stared at the volleyball players some more.

This had been a terrible idea. How had she thought she could seriously sit and lunch with the sexiest guy ever to walk the earth and rein in temptation? Especially when he was making it more than clear that he wanted to tempt.

But he started chatting again. Asking idle questions that had her answering, soft laughter ensuing, relaxing. God, she needed to find a reason not to like him. And fast. But he was making it impossible with his warm eyes, attentive, listening close. Quite some time passed before she realised she wasn’t getting to know anything much about him—other than that he looked fantastic in long shorts. He was all questions, all ears, not offering up a lot of himself in return. Usually she was the listener, the one steering the conversation with questions and open-ended comments. She liked it, liked learning about other people, what made them tick, what made them the way they were. She decided to ask a few questions of her own.

‘What are you doing on holiday here?’

He shrugged. ‘I needed a complete change.’

‘Catching up with old friends?’

He looked confused for a moment. ‘Oh, Tim. Yeah. A mate from school.’

The book titled Rhys was closed again. Still not much info to process. She looked at him, trying to read more from his expression. But, although friendly, he was guarded. There were secrets in there. Well, OK, she had a few too, but this was simply the conclusion to a wonderful night—she wasn’t asking for his deepest thoughts or fears. Couldn’t he be a little more forthcoming?

And then he smiled. She couldn’t help but notice his mouth again. He had such an advantage. That smile, those lips. The green in his eyes sharpened. She ran a light hand over her forehead, tried to remember what she’d been going to ask him.

He leant towards her. ‘Feeling the heat?’

Just a tad.

‘Want to go for a swim?’

Yeah, right. Splashing with him in the waves? Visions of them lying in the surf at the shore, limbs entwined like in some old Hollywood movie, rolled in her head. But there was a huge crowd at the beach now. And sand itched. And she’d have to reveal the very thing she wanted to conceal.

‘I don’t have my swimsuit on.’

‘Damn, I was hoping to get you in your bikini.’

Definitely not going there. ‘I don’t wear a bikini. Don’t want to get too much sun.’

He looked at her tanned legs, brows slightly raised.

Doh. She blandly stared him out.

Finally he shrugged. ‘Well, as it can’t be a swim, I’m going to go get us an ice cream.’

He rose, long limbs lazily moving with innate grace. She watched him walk towards the vendor over on the footpath, then lay back on the blanket, absurdly at ease in spite of the insane awareness. She enjoyed the faint scent of him left in the air, glanced down at the dent in the sand where his legs had rested. The warmth of the sun, the satisfaction from that delicious lunch, had a soporific effect. The sleeplessness of the night before had its after-effect now. Drowsy, she closed her eyes. Relaxed. She thought of him, of what could have been if things were different. Dreamed dangerously pleasant dreams.

‘Hey, sleepy.’

He’d returned. She smiled. Kept her eyes closed. Wanting to extend the fantasy for a few more moments. She heard the scrunch of sand as he sat. She felt something cold touch her mouth. She licked her lips, tasted the creamy ice.

‘Nice?’ His voice sounded very near, very low, very husky.

‘Yes.’ Her tongue traversed her lower lip again.

‘More?’ Even lower, even huskier.

‘Yes.’

His warm finger daubed cold ice on her mouth.

He muttered. ‘You mind sharing?’

She didn’t get the chance to reply. Only to sigh faintly as his tongue flicked the sweetness from her. She sent her tongue out to meet his. She couldn’t resist his kiss. Just a little more of a man who wanted her in a way she’d never been wanted before. His fingers went to her jaw, turning her face towards his. She opened her mouth. Let him in. Their tongues met and mated and a tempting touch became total turn-on. Deep, hungry kisses that felt divine and promised even greater pleasure could come. She didn’t want him ever to stop kissing her, didn’t want to stop kissing him. The sensual caresses drove everything from her mind. Only this, only him. She lifted her hand, combing fingers into his hair, holding him so she could kiss him back as fiercely as he was kissing her.

Her curves melted into his hard planes, her body instinctively recognising his muscles. The way they felt around her, their strength at holding her. Making her his prisoner and his keeper. His hot body lay close; he threw his knee across hers. Teasingly heavy. She wanted the rest of his weight over her. She couldn’t prevent the parting of her legs, couldn’t stop the arch of her pelvis towards him. She moaned into his mouth.

She wanted. Wanted, wanted, wanted…

His hand came to rest on her lower belly, pressing on her, the weight a tiny taste of the delight of having his whole body over hers. His fingers spread on the flat of her stomach. Smoothing upwards. Skin on…skin.

She pulled back sharply. Flashed open her eyes. Stared up at him in horror as she saw him looking down the length of her body. No, no and no again.

She wrenched out of his hold, sitting up and scooting away. His surprise was total.

‘Sienna?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m really sorry.’ Her heart thudded. Her eyes threatened to spill tears of apology and frustration. ‘I really am sorry.’

Rhys watched her run across the sand and swore sharply enough for the family group several feet away to turn around and frown at him. He felt a vague flush, slid back under the shade of the umbrella and strove for control. Anger, frustration and plain shock hit him. She’d done it again. Run out on him. Hell, was she some kind of warped tease?

Instinct told him no. She’d felt genuine desire, genuine regret. Well, damn if she didn’t owe him an explanation—again. He packed away the remnants of the picnic with precise movements, then headed for the hostel.

He walked straight into the dorm room he now knew to be hers. There seemed to be a mass of women hanging there. They turned and stared at him as if he were an invading Martian. But Rhys was well used to walking into a room full of women—at the nurses’ stations, or the new interns. Addressing a bunch of women who were sending a variety of looks from under their lashes wasn’t something that intimidated or really even interested him. What interested him was that one woman.

‘Is Sienna here?’ He addressed them collectively.

‘Sure is.’ He recognised the speaker as one of the friends at the bar the night before.

It was like the parting of the Red Sea. He looked where they separated and to where she sat on a bottom bunk, quiet and red-faced. Her annoyance and embarrassment were obvious and, yes, her upset. What was she afraid of? Surely not him?

She stood. ‘Rhys, you can’t come in here.’

‘Bet you want to, though, don’t you?’ The South African again. Caustic delivery.

Rhys ignored the stifled giggles. Time to turn on the charm. He was a Maitland—had the genes, the upbringing. He might loathe it but public speaking was a skill he could call on.

‘I’m sorry to butt in on you ladies, but I need to explain something to my friend here.’ He didn’t take his eyes off Sienna, but sensed the slight hostility in the room. It was as clear to them as it was to him that she was feeling edgy and that he was the cause. He needed to claim back some points—penitent man would be a good start. ‘You see—’ he gave a small shrug ‘—I owe her an apology.’ He didn’t know what for yet but they didn’t need to know that.

All seven heads swivelled to Sienna. He felt the atmosphere soften.

‘You want to say sorry?’

‘Yeah. I’d say it all right now but I need some time with her to explain things properly. Alone.’

He swallowed his smile at her obvious discomfort. Her big blues were fixed on him and the incredulity warring with anger was unbelievably amusing.

‘This is way better than any movie.’ A different South African this time, she got a low murmur of agreement.

Sienna’s cheeks were redder than a fire engine. ‘Stop it, Rhys.’ She addressed the girls. ‘It’s me who owes the apology. Again.’ Contrite eyes pleaded with him and the rest of the room. Hmm. She was good. A little honesty mixed in with a sidestep.

She turned back to him. ‘I’m sorry, Rhys.’

He heard the finality she was striving for and tensed. He wasn’t about to let her go. ‘Let’s get coffee and talk.’

‘I can’t now. I’ve promised to go to an art gallery with Brooke this afternoon.’

He was not letting her slip away a third time—he’d have his answers. ‘That’s OK. You can make it up to me later.’ He studied the now silent audience. They could be more of a help to him than her if he played it right. ‘Don’t you think she should?’ He cast a soulful gaze around; it wasn’t much of a stretch to play the part of crushed suitor—not hard at all given he actually felt it.

‘Oh, yeah, Sienna. You must.’

He had them now, eating out of his palm.

‘Give the guy a break.’

‘She’ll see you later at that bar.’ Caustic South African again. More on his side than he’d realised. ‘We’ll make sure she’s there. Six p.m. Have her drink waiting.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

He didn’t stick around to let Sienna try to argue, but her eyes flashed her thoughts in the final moment he met them. Anxiety, anger, reluctance—and, at the bottom of it all, desire.

CHAPTER SIX

SIENNA didn’t go to the gallery. She went shopping. She was pathetic. But she wanted him again so badly and she wanted it to be as good as the night before. So she was on a mission for a new top—anything that might work. She stopped at the make-up counter. Stage make-up could create a fabulous scar—couldn’t it hide one too? She tried on a variety of in-season style tops. There was none with a polo neck. Everything was summery—low-cut and revealing. Exactly what she didn’t want.

In despair she went to the lingerie section of the department store. New frillies were supposed to help with confidence, weren’t they?

‘How was the gallery?’ Rhys was waiting. Clad in jeans and a different shirt. Cool beer in a glass, half empty already. Steely eyes lanced her with questions that she knew he wouldn’t hold back on. That she knew she was going to have to answer. Honestly.

‘I didn’t go. Went shopping instead.’

‘Buy anything interesting?’

‘No.’ A new bra. She was wearing it now. Figured if she was going to go down she might as well do it in a hot outfit. And her sensible travel numbers didn’t have the requisite lace ratio. This one did. She could feel her budded nipples pressing against the slightly scratchy stitching even now.

‘Sienna—’

She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want the pretence. Didn’t want the girls from the hostel, whom she hardly knew, watching and wondering. This was going to end in tears—for her anyway. She might as well just get it over with right now.

She grabbed him by the hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

He let her lead, walking beside her but in the direction of her choice. She marched down the street not having a clue where she was headed. Just wanting away from eyes and those memories only recently made but that were going to be the best of a lifetime. Right now she was going to ruin them.

The contact of his hand around hers meant her blood was travelling at high speed to every outlying inch. Making her feel more aware of her body, making her feel more alive than she ever had. It didn’t frighten her. It seduced her. Frustration and want and bitterness forced her. She wanted him enough to risk it.

She went into the alleyway a shop down from the hostel. Ducked into a doorway partly along. Turned to face him. He was right behind her.

‘Sienna?’

She shut him up with her mouth, passionately pressing against him. His arms clamped around her. He pivoted to lean against the door, taking her weight with him. Hot, intense, searing kisses—as if the moment on the beach had never been interrupted, only intensified. Burning, aching, she swept her hands across his shoulders, rotated against him, driving her hips against his. Wanting to reconnect, taking his mouth with a depth of passion she relished and wanted to relive again and again.

He jerked his head back. ‘What the hell is going on, Sienna?’

She pulled him back to her. Not wanting to think. Not wanting to admit to anything just yet. Wanting to drown her doubts for moments longer in his kiss.

‘You want this?’ He groaned against her. ‘You want me? Say it.’

‘Yes.’ She clawed him closer. ‘I want you.’

His fingers pulled in her hair, holding her still so he could plunder, pressing a hard kiss that left her in no doubt of the frustration he’d been feeling all afternoon. A kiss that left her utterly without breath.

The lack of oxygen, the fever, sent her crazy. She reached for him. Reckless. If she’d been able to get away with it once, couldn’t she do it again? If she could somehow keep his hands occupied—like the way she had last night, forcing him to take her weight, to take her. God, she wanted that again. His strength. His glorious width. Frantic, furious and fast. She fought with his belt. Once more. Just once.

He pulled back sharply, grabbing her hands, stopping them with his. ‘No.’

She looked up at him in surprise. Stepped back when she saw the anger in his eyes.

He shook his head at her. ‘Too fast.’ A savage whisper.

She tried to get her hands back but he tightened his grip. ‘If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this properly.’ He eyeballed her, stepping closer. ‘My room or yours?’

She looked away. Damn. Honestly she wanted nothing more than to lie in a comfortable bed and be able to explore him freely and at leisure, but it wouldn’t be the same. He’d be like Neil—freeze, then run a mile. Or he’d treat her like some fragile piece of glass and she hated being wrapped in cotton wool.

He stepped even closer, so his body pressed against hers. His erection teased her. His question terrified her. ‘Why won’t you let me see you naked?’

She tried to pull away but he moved closer still—pushing her back against the wall, keeping hold of her hands, his body leaning into hers.

Her breathing shallowed—half from fear, half from desire.

‘You’re willing to let me kiss you. You’re willing to let me inside you. But you won’t take your clothes off.’

‘Rhys…’ Amazed at his acuteness, she pleaded with him not to go there despite knowing it had been inevitable—from the moment he’d strode onto the sand beside her this morning. She’d been kidding herself to think she could get away with not telling him. But it was exactly what she didn’t want to have happened. Exactly why she’d run into the night after their encounter.

‘Why?’

She stared into his searching eyes, at his sensual mouth now pulled into a hard line. She reached up on tiptoe, pressed her hand to his lips. Finally felt them soften and part. He kissed the tip of her fingers—his mouth moving slowly, warm and teasing.

Desire raged through her veins, coupled with painful anger over what was to come. But she knew no matter what happened, no matter how things would change, she couldn’t walk away from him a third time. She was as human as the next person and the temptation was too strong. She had to run the risk so she could have the chance of feeling his erotic intensity again.

She pulled her hand away. He straightened, watching her, waiting for her answer.

She stared at his shirt buttons. ‘I have a scar.’

There was a bit of a silence.

‘So do I.’

She jerked her head up.

He looked down at her. Mouth twitching. ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’

She stared back at him and watched his humorous touch fade. His brows lifted. ‘Big scar?’

‘Pretty big.’ Actually it wasn’t. More like hairline, it was what it represented that was huge.

‘It can’t be as big as mine.’ He firmed his grip on her.

He still wasn’t getting it. Unable to handle it any more, she grabbed the neckline of her tee in a tight fist. Pulled it down so it exposed the vee of skin all the way from her neck down to the dainty bow decorating the point where the cups of her bra met in the middle. The scar ran from the base of her throat. A straight line right down the centre of her body. Defining her.

She saw the shock register in his face. And recognition. And then she saw it. The look she’d known was unavoidable. Fear. He hid it quickly. Shutting down. Closing off. But it had been there. She tensed.

He said nothing. Just stood frozen. Staring at her chest. His mouth opened a fraction and the buttons on his shirt jumped about as she heard the sharp intake of breath.

Anger and pride held her head high. Her chin lifted higher—underlining the challenge he’d already failed. As she’d predicted, as she’d known, the flame of desire was snuffed out in a flash.

She pushed him back against the wall. Met no resistance, almost as if he’d stepped back at the moment she pushed. She ran, feet light in her sandals. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. He didn’t come after her. Didn’t call out. Didn’t seem to stir even.

She dragged in deep breaths, pushing the sobs back deep into her chest. Forget it, forget it, forget it.

She scurried past Curtis on Reception, raced into the telly room, knowing at this time on a Saturday night it was bound to be empty, everyone would be out partying. She chose a big chair on the far side of the room, curled into it like a cat, hiding from the world. She reached into her small day pack and pulled out her journal.