Summer Love: The Best Mistake / Impulse

Half terrified, she lifted a hand to her lips. Despite her fear, they curved under her touch. She could still taste him. Still feel him. And nothing, nothing, would ever be quite the same again.

He stared out at the rough and dusty land he’d known as a boy, and beyond, to the stark, tumbling rocks where he and other wild things had climbed.

What was he doing with her? Furious with himself, he drew on the cigar. What was he feeling? It was new, and far from comfortable. And it was comfort he preferred, he reminded himself. Comfort and freedom. Bringing himself under control, he turned to her again, determined to treat what had happened as a man should—lightly.

She just stood there, with the sun and the shade falling over her. There was neither recrimination nor invitation in her eyes. She didn’t flinch or step forward, but merely stood, watching him with the faintest of smiles, as if… As if, Stephen realized, she knew what questions he was asking himself—and the answers.

“It grows late.”

She felt the ache and fought not to let it show on her face. “I guess you’re right.” She dragged a hand through her hair—it was the first sign of her agitation—then walked over to pick up her camera. “I should have a picture to remember all this by,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. Her breath caught when his fingers closed over her arm and whirled her around.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” The emotion burst out before she could stop it. “I don’t know what you want.”

With one jerk he had her tumbling against him. “You know what I want.”

Her heart was in her throat, beating wildly. She found it strange that it was not fear but desire that she felt. She hadn’t known she was capable of feeling a need that was so unreasonable, so reckless. It was almost purifying to experience it, and to see it mirrored in his eyes.

“It takes more than one afternoon.” Didn’t it? Her voice rose as she tried to convince herself. “It takes more than a picnic and a walk in the moonlight for me.”

“One moment the temptress, the next the outraged innocent. Do you do it to intrigue me, Rebecca?” She shook her head, and his fingers tightened. “It works,” he murmured. “You’ve hardly been out of my mind since I first saw you. I want to make love with you, here, in the sun.”

Color flooded her face, not because she was embarrassed, but because she could imagine it, perfectly. And then what? Carefully she leveled her breathing. Whatever impulses she had followed, whatever bridges she had burned, she still needed answers.

“No.” It cost her to go against her own needs and say it. “Not when I’m unsure and you’re angry.” She took a deep breath and kept her eyes on him. “You’re hurting me, Stephen. I don’t think you mean to.”

Slowly he released her arm. He was angry, furious, but not at her refusal. The anger stemmed from the need she pulled from him, a need that had come too fast and too strong for him to channel. “We’ll go back.”

Rebecca merely nodded, then knelt to gather the remains of the picnic.

***

He was a busy man, much too busy to brood about a woman he barely knew and didn’t understand at all. That was what Stephen told himself. He had reports to read, calls to make and paperwork—which he had both a talent and a distaste for—to deal with. A couple of simple kisses weren’t enough to take a man’s mind off his work.

But there hadn’t been anything simple about them. Disgusted, Stephen pushed away from his desk and wandered to the terrace doors. He’d left them open because the breeze, and the fragrances it brought, helped him forget he was obligated to be inside.

For days he’d worked his way through his responsibilities, trying to ignore the nagging itch at the back of his mind—the itch that was Rebecca. There was no reason for him to stay on Corfu. He could have handled his business in Athens, or Crete, or in London, for that matter. Still, he’d made no plans to leave, though he’d also made no attempt to approach her.

She… concerned him, he decided. To be drawn to an attractive woman was as natural as breathing. To have the attraction cause discomfort, confusion, even annoyance was anything but natural. A taste of her hadn’t been enough. Yet he hesitated.

She was… mysterious. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t push her from his mind. On the surface she appeared to be an attractive, free-spirited woman who grabbed life with both hands. Yet there were undercurrents. The hints of innocence, of shyness. The sweetness. The complexity of her kept him wondering, thinking, imagining.

Perhaps that was her trick. Women had them… were entitled to them. It was a waste of time to begrudge them their illusions and their feminine magic. More than a waste of time, it was foolish, when a man could enjoy the benefits. But there was more, and somehow less, to Rebecca than innate feminine magic.

When he had kissed her, though it had been the first time, it had been like coming back to a lover, to a love, after a painful separation. When his lips had found hers, something had filled him. A heat, an impatience, a knowledge.

He knew her, knew more than her name and her background and the color of her eyes. He knew all of her. Yet he knew nothing.

Fantasies, he told himself. He didn’t have time for them. Leaning a hip against the railing, he lit a cigar and watched the sea.

As always, it pulled at him, bringing back memories of a childhood that had been careless and too short. There were times, rare times, when he allowed himself to regret. Times when the sun was a white flash of heat and the water was blue and endless. His father had taught him a great deal. How to fish, how to see both beauty and excitement in new places, how to drink like a man.

Fifteen years, Stephen thought, a smile ghosting around his mouth. He still missed him, missed the companionship, the robust laughter. They had been friends, as well as parent and child, with a bond as easy, and as strong, as any Stephen had ever known. But his father had died as he would have wanted to—at sea and in his prime.

He would have taken one look at Rebecca, rolled his eyes, kissed his fingers and urged his son to enjoy. But Stephen wasn’t the boy he had once been. He was more cautious, more aware of consequences. If a man dived into the sea, he should know the depth and the currents.

Then he saw her, coming from the sea. Water ran down her body, glistening in the strong sun, sparkling against skin that had warmed in the last few days to a dusky gold. As he looked, as he wanted, he felt his muscles clench, one by one, shoulders, stomach, thighs. Without his being aware, his fingers tightened, snapping the cigar in two. He hadn’t known that desire could arouse a reaction so akin to anger.