Summer Love: The Best Mistake / Impulse

“You’re very responsive, Rebecca.” He lowered her hand but kept it in his. He could feel the heat, but he wasn’t sure whether it had sprung to her skin or to his own. “If there’s no one, the men in your Philadelphia must be very slow.”

“I’ve been too… busy.”

His lips curved at that. There was a tremor in her voice, and there was passion in her eyes. “Busy?”

“Yes.” Afraid she’d make a fool of herself, she drew her hand back. “This was wonderful.” Trying to calm herself, she pushed a hand through her hair. “You know what I need?”

“No. Tell me.”

“Another picture.” She sprang to her feet and, steadier, grinned. “A memento of my first picnic in an olive grove. Let’s see… you can stand right over there. The sun’s good in front of that tree, and I should be able to frame in that section of the grove.”

Amused, Stephen tapped out his cigar. “How much more film do you have?”

“This is the last roll—but I have scads back at the hotel.” She flicked him a quick laughing glance. “I warned you.”

“So you did.” Competent hands, he thought as he watched her focus and adjust. He hadn’t realized he could be as attracted to competence as he was to beauty. She mumbled to herself, tossing her head back so that her hair swung, then settled. His stomach tightened without warning.

Good God, he wanted her. She’d done nothing to make him burn and strain this way. He couldn’t accuse her of taunting or teasing, and yet… he felt taunted. He felt teased. For the first time in his life he felt totally seduced by a woman who had done nothing more than give him a few smiles and a little companionship.

Even now she was chattering away as she secured her camera to the limb of a tree. Talking easily, as though they were just friends, as though she felt nothing more than a light, unimportant affection. But he’d seen it. Stephen felt his blood heat as he remembered the quick flash of arousal he’d seen on her face. He’d see it again. And more.

“I’m going to set the timer,” Rebecca went on, blissfully unaware of Stephen’s thoughts. “All you have to do is stand there. Once I get this damn thing set, I’m going to run over so it’ll take one of both—There.” She interrupted herself, crossed her fingers and ran to Stephen’s side in a dash. “Unless I messed up, it’ll snap all by itself in—”

The rest of the words slid down her throat as he crushed her against him and captured her mouth.

Chapter 3

Heat. Light. Speed. Rebecca felt them, felt each separate, distinct sensation. Urgency. Demand. Impatience. She tasted them, as clearly as wild honey, on his lips. Though she’d never experienced it, she had known exactly what it would be like to be with him, mouth to mouth and need to need.

In an instant the world had narrowed from what could be seen and understood to a pure, seamless blanket of emotion. It cloaked her, not softly, not in comfort, but tightly, hotly, irresistibly. Caught between fear and delight, she lifted a hand to his cheek.

God, she was sweet. Even as he dragged her closer, aroused by the simplicity of her acceptance, he was struck by—disarmed by—her sweetness. There had been a hesitation, almost too brief to be measured, before her lips had parted beneath his. Parted, invited, accepted.

There was a sigh, so soft it could barely be heard, as she stroked her hands up his back to his shoulders. Curious, simple, generous. A man could drown in such sweetness, fall prisoner to such pliancy. And be saved by it. Beneath the patterned shade of the olive tree, she gave him more than passion. She gave him hope.

Charmed, he murmured some careless Greek phrase lovers might exchange. The words meant nothing to her, but the sound of them on the still air, the feel of them stroking across her lips… seduction. Glorious seduction.

Pleasure burst in her blood, in her head, in her heart, thousands of tiny bubbles of it, until she was straining against him.

The quiet explosion rocked him. It tightened his chest, fuddled his mind. She fitted into his arms as if she’d been born for him. As if, somehow, they had known each other before, loved before, hungered before. Something seemed to erupt between them, something molten, powerful, dangerous. But it wasn’t new. It was ancient, a whispering echo of ageless passions.

She began to tremble. How could this be so right, so familiar? It wasn’t possible to feel safe and threatened at the same time. But she did. She clung to him while a dim, floating image danced through her head. She had kissed him before. Just like this. As her mind spun, she heard her own mindless murmurs answer his. As freely, as inescapably as the sun poured light, response flowed from her. She couldn’t stop it. Frightened by her sudden loss of control, she struggled against him, against herself.

He slipped his hands up to her shoulders, but not to free her, to look at her. To look at how their coming together had changed her. It had changed him. Passion had made her eyes heavy, seductive. Fear had clouded them. Her lips were full, softened and parted by his. Her breath shivered through them. Under his hands he could feel the heat of her skin and the quick, involuntary trembling of her muscles.

No pretense here, he decided as he studied her. He was holding both innocence and delight in his hands.

“Stephen, I—”

“Again.”

Then his face filled her vision and she was lost.

Differently. Should she have known that one man could hold one woman in so many different ways? That one man could kiss one woman with such stunning variety? There was gentleness now, as familiar and as novel as the urgency. His lips persuaded rather than demanded. They savored instead of devouring. Her surrender came as quietly, and as unmistakably, as her earlier passion. The trembling stopped; the fear vanished. With a complete trust that surprised them both, she leaned against him, giving.

More aroused by her serenity than by the storm that had come before, Stephen pulled back. He had to, or what had begun would finish without either of them saying a word. As he swore and pulled out a cigar, Rebecca placed a hand on the olive tree for support.

Moments, she thought. It had been only moments, and yet she felt as though years had passed, racing backward or forward, perhaps spinning in circles. In a place like this, with a man like this, what difference did it make what year it was? What century?