Reckless in Paradise (12 page)

‘Well, all except for Friday night's poker game—we still on for that?'

Daniel looked at Sophie, a frown tugging his brows. ‘Not this week. Maybe next.'

Jo followed his gaze and smirked. Sophie wanted to protest that it was nothing to do with her, but he was already leaving. ‘Later,' he said.

Millie gave a matter-of-fact harrumph and excused herself for the kitchen with the news that dinner was now only ten minutes away.

Daniel leaned one hand against the wall and sighed. Sophie sure was a sight for sore eyes. Her hair was wild and stiff around her face, her damp sarong clinging to every curve, and he applauded the disarray. She looked so much better like this than in that buttoned-up dress he'd seen her in yesterday. She looked more real. More woman. Oh yes; coming home early was the best decision he'd made in a long while.

She looked in the direction where Jo had exited. ‘I don't think I like that man.'

‘Jo? Why? What did he do?'

‘He was just…' She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. ‘I don't know. Creepy—the way he looked at me.'

‘Jo's ex-army. He's tough, but he's a good operator. One of my most loyal employees, in fact.' Still he noticed the
tremor that moved through her, and he wondered if there was more to it than she was letting on. Then again, no man in his right mind wouldn't want to stare at Sophie, given the way she looked right now, still damp from the sea, her cheeks flushed, her hair like he imagined it would look after a long, hot session making love.

Damn. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure he liked the idea of anyone else wanting to stare, not if their thoughts ended up along the same path…

He had to change the subject. ‘How was your day?'

She blinked, and once again he got to appreciate that sweep of impressive lashes against her cheek. Strange, how something so innocent could be so sexy.

‘I got a lot done.'

He smiled. He'd just bet she had; probably lazed around the pool all day. ‘Because I wasn't here?'

‘It helped.'

Her honest reply made his smile grow wider. He'd been right to ditch that meeting early. Debate had been going round and round for hours; ordinarily he would have stopped it long before. Whereas she maintained she'd found his absence productive, he'd been distracted all day by thoughts of her, what she was doing in his house, and whether she was wearing that blue bikini again.

How much more enjoyable to be here, at home, and see that she was.

‘Are you hungry?'

He could swear he saw something in her eyes flare. Desire? He wanted to think so. For he was hungry for more than just food now and it would suit him fine if she felt the same way. There would not be that many opportunities, not once the offer process got under way and Fletcher's plan started to unravel. It would be foolish to waste the few nights they had.

‘Famished,' came her softly spoken response through lips plump and pink—tastier than anything Millie might serve up, he knew. For a moment, he was tempted to dip his head and taste her once again and forget all about dinner. But instead he merely took her hand, ignoring her protest that she needed to shower when she looked ready to serve up on a platter herself.

‘Then we should eat.'

 

He liked watching her eat, he decided through the meal as twilight moved to dark within minutes. He liked watching her, full-stop. Even when she was talking incessantly about the wedding and the arrangements she'd apparently made, as if he was actually interested, he liked watching her. Her face was animated, her eyes bright, whether gilded by the lowering sun's rays or, like now, kissed by the soft pearlescence of the moon; that was all that mattered.

She was beautiful.

She was here.

And tonight he would have her.

Millie was serving up dessert when Sophie finally worked up the courage to ask; he'd glossed over her questions about the guest list earlier. In fact, he'd glossed over anything to do with the wedding, with glib responses that had given her nothing. But if she was going to get these invitations out this week it would help to understand something of Monica's family. Besides, she was curious. And, given Daniel seemed to be in a good mood tonight, there was no time like the present.

‘Your family name is Italian,' she said, ‘But you were born here, weren't you? I know Monica was. Was it your parents who came from Italy?'

He took a sip of his coffee before leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers in his lap. A delaying tactic, she knew, because the coffee was still way too hot to drink. For a while she wondered if he was going to answer her question at all.

‘No,' he said at last. ‘It was my grandfather who came out. He was barely out of his twenties, and desperate to work anywhere. He landed a job on a tobacco farm up at Mareeba.' He pointed to the dark shadow of mountains that loomed above the line of lights along the coast, marking the start of the hinterland. ‘It's an hour or so up from Cairns on the Atherton Tablelands. He worked hard, and in a few years he'd earned enough to buy his own place. Married the daughter of another tobacco-farming family and was probably planning on starting a dynasty. Didn't work out that way. My father happened along late, and they never had any more kids.'

She nodded. So he'd grown up without uncles, aunts and cousins, with the extended family back in Italy? That kind of explained why the guest list was short on family.

‘Did your father take over the farm?'

‘For a while, until he decided that sugar was the way to go and made the switch. He did all right, too, until the bottom dropped out of the sugar market. He made a few bad decisions and was wiped out.'

‘Oh, but I assumed…'

He smiled. ‘That I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth? I was. Only to have it wrenched out when I was barely out of high school. My dad never got over the loss. He felt like he'd betrayed his father's trust and let my mother down. He was never the same after that.'

He was staring at his hands and she knew he was thinking about his parents; Sophie didn't have to ask. Monica had spoken of the car being swept from the road into a swollen creek in the midst of near-cyclonic conditions. She'd told her about the police arriving at the house to give them the grim
news that their parents were never coming home. She'd told her how Daniel had held her while she'd cried that night, and every night for a week, and told her he'd never let anything bad happen to her.

No wonder he was so protective of his little sister.

She was the only family he had.

Strange, how she'd divorced that story from her first impressions of Daniel. It didn't fit the picture she'd had in her mind of the arrogant businessman who got his own way whichever way he could. But it was this man, sitting beside her, who'd cradled his grieving sister in his arms and tried to soothe away her tears. It was this man who'd practically raised her.

‘Your parents would be proud of you with all you've achieved.'

He scoffed. ‘Well, when you've lived in luxury, you know what you're missing when you've not got it. It's a powerful motivator.'

‘I'm sure there's more to it than that. You did it the hard way. You had to drop out of university to look after Monica.'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I got lucky, too. I stumbled into a job in a property-management business and it was a good fit. The property market was just starting to take off when I started dabbling. It paid off.'

Coming from one of Queensland's richest men, it was a massive understatement.

He downed his cooling coffee in one long gulp and stood. ‘This is boring.'

She pushed back her own chair, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. ‘I'm sorry. Dinner was wonderful, thank you. But I should leave you now.'

He was at her side in a heartbeat, his hand curled around her neck. ‘I don't want you to leave me. I just don't want to talk about me.'

‘What would you rather talk about?'

‘Who said anything about talking?'

S
HE
would have laughed. She wanted to laugh, to dispel the tension that had suddenly weighted down the air until it was heavy and thick with anticipation. But the look in his eyes told her it was no accident.

‘All night,' he whispered, his eyes on her mouth, his other hand joining the first behind her neck. ‘All that time we were sitting here, this is really what I wanted to taste.'

He dipped his head, his mouth brushing hers, his tongue flicking over her lips. ‘Mmm, salt,' he said, licking her taste from his lips.

‘I was swimming,' she said. ‘At the beach.'

‘I like it,' he said, already making another pass. ‘And coffee, and something sweet.'

His kisses grew deeper, his lips coaxing hers apart, his tongue tasting her, exploring, inviting her into the dance.

The breeze whispered through the leaves, a bird called out its final goodnight and the moon hung low and turned the sea into a silver ribbon. But none of it mattered. Not now, not with his lips upon hers, his taste in her mouth and the feel of his hard body pressed up against her.

He was unrelenting; his kisses intensified. He ravaged her mouth, plundered its depths with his tongue and tipped her head back so he could turn his hot mouth to her throat until she was gasping with the heat, the pleasure and the need.

And when he took one breast in one hand her knees went weak.

‘Make love to me,' he said as he nuzzled her ear. A wave of pleasure rolled through her, so intense and so huge that she thought it might carry her away. Instead it passed, leaving her skin alive and tingling and with a heavy pooling heat between her thighs.

‘We barely know each other,' she whispered, amazed and impressed that with a body screaming ‘yes' she'd managed to find at least some kind of defence.
Not that she'd actually said no.

She didn't do casual sex; she didn't do one-night stands. She didn't need any man. And yet ‘we barely know each other' was the best she could do?

‘We know that we want each other.'

Unfair!
Then she gasped, her protest forgotten as his thumb stroked a nipple, sending arrows of exquisite pleasure straight to her core. ‘You want me.' It was true, but surely that wasn't the only point?

‘I can't,' she said, shaking her head, finding him harder to shake. ‘This is crazy. Jake and Monica…'

‘Are in Hawaii.' His lips found hers again. Coaxing. Persuading.

She pulled away. ‘But I'm supposed to be here planning their wedding.'

His hand kept her head close to his mouth even while she voiced her argument, returning to her lips as soon as she'd uttered her words. ‘And meanwhile,' he asked, ‘you should live like a nun?'

‘But it doesn't mean anything.'

‘It means we want each other.'

‘I don't do this sort of thing.'

‘Have you ever wanted to before?'

She shook her head, her teeth troubling lips already exquisitely sensitised as he took her head between his hands and looked at her. ‘Then maybe it's time you did.'

She was drowning in his eyes, falling hopelessly and helplessly in the direction she knew she should not go. And there was nothing, no will or thought or crumb of hope to save her.

Except for…

‘Millie!' she whispered, looking around, stiffening in his arms as she suddenly remembered where they were.

‘Has taken herself off to her apartment for the night. We're alone, Sophie. Just you, me and the moon.' His hands skimmed down her back, collecting up the hem of her sarong and easing it upwards, his hands curving around her behind, skimming over the small of her back as his mouth continued to weave magic on hers. Grit rolled under his fingertips, and she flinched as she remembered the forgotten shower.

‘This is crazy. I'm covered in sand.'

His face drew back, just enough so he could rest his forehead on hers and look into her eyes. ‘Something that is easily remedied.' And she felt herself swept from her feet and into his arms as if she weighed nothing.

He moved with the certainty of a man who knew what he wanted, but beyond that with the certainty of a man who knew what she wanted too. She
did
want this. It might be crazy; it might be a type of madness. He eased open a sliding door with a foot, kissing her until she felt faint, breathless and giddy with desire. It
had
to be madness, she told herself. One short day ago she couldn't wait to get away from this man, had sought to flee from his dangerous acquaintance, and yet now she was trembling at the prospect of making love with him.

No wonder she'd felt compelled to run. For even then, underlying the hostile emotions and bitter words of yesterday's
torrid meeting, she'd sensed he'd connected with her on some deep, elemental level. A level she'd shied away from. A level she'd feared to explore.

It was too late for fear now, as he pushed open a door and kicked it shut with his foot. His room, she figured. It was wide and high and with a bed the size of a minor principality. He didn't bother with the lights. The silvery glow from the moon slanting through the windows was enough to light his way past the bed, where he lingered only long enough to kick off his sandals and rid himself of his phone, before heading to the generous
en suite
turned magical by the same warm lunar glow.

Still he kept her in his arms, even when he entered the spacious shower cubicle, even as he turned the taps on full.

She gasped as the first burst of water hit, the torrent from a showerhead the size of a dinner plate cool against her super-heated flesh. Then her vision and her senses cleared enough for her to realise the insanity of what he'd done. ‘You're drenched!' But he only laughed and, keeping her so close to him that she could not miss the press of his arousal, lowered her slowly to the floor.

‘Does it matter if they're wet when they're coming off anyway?'

His kiss was deep and filled with longing, filled with need, and she drank him in as the water poured around them, as he untied the knot of the sarong at her chest. The sodden fabric fell to the floor with a smack and she trembled, feeling exposed in just her bikini. ‘You're beautiful,' he said as he looked at her, his eyes dark with desire, his hands skimming her sides, drinking in her curves. She trembled again because being exposed when someone she wanted wanted her suddenly felt good.

But not half as good as he felt.

The wet shirt clung to his skin, moulded to his shape, but it wasn't damp cotton she wanted under her fingertips right now, it was the skin he'd worn last night in the pool. The skin he'd held next to her when she'd tried to run away. She wasn't trying to run away now. This time all bets were off. She wanted that skin under her fingers. She wanted it next to her own.

She fumbled with a button as his mouth fused once more with hers, but her hands were trembling with need, the buttonhole was waterlogged and resistant, and fine motor-skills eluded her. The next button proved equally uncooperative, and with a burst of frustration she wrenched the sides of his shirt apart and his glorious chest was hers to explore. Her nails raked over his skin, her fingers relishing the feel of his hard, packed flesh and the tight nub of nipple.

He growled with approval into her mouth and let her go long enough to peel the shredded garment from his shoulders. Then he was back, his fingers busy at her back until she felt the strap of her bikini-top go.

He paused then, his hands at her sides, his brow upon hers, almost as if he was catching his breath. Then his hands scooped around and pushed the bikini top up from below, his hands capturing her breasts, his thumbs rolling her nipples so that she arched into his hands. Then he peeled the top over her head and kissed a hot path to her breast, and she wanted to sag when he drew her nipple in deep.

Something shorted inside her. She was sure she must have blacked out in that instant, in that moment of utter pleasure that had consumed her world. But then she was back, to find him performing equivalent magic on her other breast.

Oh God. Suddenly his shoulders and chest were not enough for her hands. She fought with his belt, wanting to release the bucking power she felt straining beneath, the power she ached to feel. The power she knew was intended for her.

Desperation ruled her actions as the water rained down, beating against her sensitised skin, pulsing down in time with her heartbeat—washing away the salt of her swim but, more than that, washing away the last of her inhibitions.

When had she become a woman who initiated anything sexually? she pondered vaguely as his mouth left her breasts long enough for her to wonder. When had she decided for once to embrace the dangerous, instead of the safe and solid path? His mouth moved south down her belly, his tongue circling her naval before darting inside, hot, hard and insistent, his fingers tugging at her bikini bottoms; she forgot how to think, only how to feel.

He pressed her against the tiled wall, one hand at her breast, the other at her thigh. His mouth—oh God!—his mouth was there, hot, wet and urgent, parting her and finding that slick, sweet spot that ached with primal need.

Her hands tangled in his hair as his tongue flicked a fiery trail around that tight nub of nerve endings; his fingers circled her very core and the sweet, perfect agony of expectation was almost so much that she cried out with the injustice of it all. Then he sensed her need and sucked her tight into his mouth, his fingers plunging deep inside her.

She came in an explosion of sensation and a rainbow of colours, vivid colours, she recognised vaguely as they splashed around her. Colours bright and beautiful, the colours of the tropics. Vivid, potent and alive.

The colour of Daniel.

He scooped what was left of her into his arms before she sagged to the floor, then he snapped off the tap and snatched up a towel in his fingers, splaying it out on the bed next door before he put her down on it.

‘Wow,' she said, her senses still humming. ‘Amazing.'

Her words were enough to make his erection buck under the sodden trousers she'd never quite managed to get off. The sight of her on his bed with the moonlight turning her skin pearlescent was another thing altogether.

God, he wanted her! She'd come apart so spectacularly it had been all he could do to resist lunging into her to share the moment.

But there would be other moments—as many other moments as he could manage before she discovered the truth.

He finished the job she'd started and unzipped his trousers, letting the weight of the water drag them to the floor, stepping out of them as he freed his aching self from the band of his underwear. ‘
You're
amazing,' she said, her eyes wide, her voice a blend of awe and wonder.

He knelt on one knee beside her, coiling one finger through her damp hair, taking a corner of the plush towel and gently blotting away the droplets of water that beaded on her satin skin. ‘It's you who are amazing,' he said, leaning over, his lips unable to resist the kiss-plumped allure of hers. ‘And I want to be inside you next time you come.'

She looked up at him, her dark lashes blinking against her cheeks, and smiled. ‘I want you inside me.'

He groaned, her words ratcheting up his desire and his need. He'd been at the razor's edge of release before, gratified beyond anything he'd known before at the power of the orgasm he'd driven her to with his mouth. But nothing would beat the heady sensation of being, and coming, inside her.

Their eyes caught, their mouths meshed and their bodies tangled on the bed, mouth to mouth, mouth to nipple, hand to naked flesh.

He groaned with pleasure as her fingers coaxed him, teased him, led him to her entrance.

Then she gasped as he found that place, and bucked involuntarily beneath him as he settled himself between her legs.

His body pulsed at her core; her body was already willing him deeper, but as much as he wanted her, somehow he still had the sense to drag a foil from the bedside table.

‘Let me,' she said, her eyes shy, her long lashes sweeping her cheek as if she was too embarrassed to look at him. He realised what courage she possessed to ask that even as he handed it over. For this was not a woman who moved with practised ease. This was a woman out of her depth, caught in deep water and eager to learn how to swim. He groaned through teeth clenched tight as she rolled protection down his length; even while her look of concentration at doing the job right was almost endearing, he knew that her innocent handling might just be his undoing.

All of it was his undoing: the touch of her fingers. The invitation of her parted legs as she lowered herself back down. The heady scent of desire from a woman whose skin turned to pearl in the silvery lunar glow.

He held himself poised over her, a moment of calm before the storm, a moment to savour, a brief moment to wonder what he had done to deserve such a feast for the senses.

‘Please!' she said, desperate now, driven, and prepared to beg as her body once again screamed for release that only he could give. ‘Now, please!'

And he lunged inside her in one fluid stroke that buried him to the hilt. Her head dug deep into the bed, her eyes wide with wonder, her gasp strangled before it was given birth.

He could stay there, he decided, held hostage by those exquisite, tight walls for ever, and it would not be long enough.

But he could no more stay still than hold the moon captive to glow on her skin for ever. He eased himself back, felt rather than heard her tiny whimper of loss, and made up for
it one-thousand-fold as he lunged home again. This time she did cry out and he captured her ecstasy in his mouth, tasting her pleasure as he built the rhythm of their joining.

She matched him, tilting her hips to change the angle, using her muscles to hold him just a moment longer even as the pace turned frenetic and uncontrolled.