Summer Love: The Best Mistake / Impulse

“Thank you, but I don’t want to interfere with your work.”

“Seeing that you’re comfortable is part of my work.” They both glanced over when the door opened. “Stephen. You see, she hasn’t run away.” Taking her glass and her pad, she left them alone.

“You were gone a long time.” He hated the fact that he’d begun to watch the clock and worry. He’d imagined her hurt or abducted. He’d begun to wonder if she would disappear from his life as quickly as she’d appeared in it. Now she was here, her eyes alive with pleasure, her clothes rumpled and her hair windblown.

“I guess I got caught up exploring.” She started to rise, but before she could gain her feet he was pulling her out of the chair, seeking, finding her mouth with his.

His desperation whipped through her. His hunger incited her own. Without thought, without hesitation, she clung to him, answering, accepting. Already seduced, she murmured something, an incoherent sound that caught in her throat.

Good God, he thought, it wasn’t possible, it wasn’t sane, to want like this. Throughout the morning while all the facts and figures and demands of business had been hammering at him, he’d thought of her, of holding her, of tasting her, of being with her. When she had stayed away for so long he’d begun to imagine, then to fear, what his life would be like without her.

It wasn’t going to happen. He scraped his teeth over her bottom lip, and she gasped and opened for him. He wouldn’t let it happen. Where she came from, where she intended to go, no longer mattered. She belonged to him now. And, though he’d only begun to deal with it, he belonged to her.

But he needed some sanity, some logic. Fighting himself, Stephen drew her away from him. Her eyes remained closed, and her lips remained parted. A soft, sultry sound escaped them as her lashes fluttered upward.

“I…” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I should go sightseeing more often.”

Gradually he realized how hard his fingers were pressing into her arms. As if he were afraid she would slip away. Cursing himself, he relaxed. “I would have preferred to go with you.”

“I understand you’re busy. I’d have bored you silly, poking into every shop and staring at every column.”

“No.” If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that she would never bore him. “I’d like to have seen your first impression of Athens.”

“It was like coming home,” she told him, then hurried on because it sounded foolish. “I couldn’t get enough.” Laughing at herself, she gestured toward her bags. “Obviously. It’s so different from anywhere I’ve ever been. At the Acropolis I couldn’t even take any pictures, because I knew they couldn’t capture the feeling. Then I walked along the streets and saw old men withkom—konbou—”She fumbled over the Greek and finally made a helpless gesture.

“Kombouloi,” he murmured. “Worry beads.”

“Yes, and I imagined how they might sit in those shadowy doorways watching the tourists go by, day after day, year after year.” She sat, pleased to share her impressions with him. “I saw a shop with all these costumes, lots of tinsel, and some really dreadful plaster copies of the monuments.”

He grinned and sat beside her. “How many did you buy?”

“Three or four.” She bent down to rattle through her bags. “I bought you a present.”

“A plaster statue of Athena?”

She glanced up, eyes laughing. “Almost. Then I found this tiny antique shop in the old section. It was all dim and dusty and irresistible. The owner had a handful of English phrases, and I had my phrase book. After we’d confused each other completely, I bought this.”

She drew out an S-shaped porcelain pipe decorated with paintings of the wild mountain goats of Greece. Attached to it was a long wooden stem, as smooth as glass, tipped by a tarnished brass mouthpiece.

“I remembered the goats we’d seen on Corfu,” she explained as Stephen examined it. “I thought you might like it, though I’ve never seen you smoke a pipe.”

With a quiet laugh, he looked back at her, balancing the gift in both hands. “No, I don’t—at least not of this nature.”

“Well, it’s more ornamental than functional, I suppose. The man couldn’t tell me much about it—at least not that I could understand.” She reached out to run a finger along the edge of the bowl. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.” When she sent him a puzzled look, he leaned over to brush her lips with his.“Matia mou, this is a hashish pipe.”

“A hashish pipe?” She stared, first in shock, then in fascination. “Really? I mean, did people actually use it?”

“Undoubtedly. Quite a number, I’d say, since it’s at least a hundred and fifty years old.”

“Imagine that.” She pouted, imagining dark, smoky dens. “I guess it’s not a very appropriate souvenir.”

“On the contrary, whenever I see it I’ll think of you.”

She glanced up quickly, unsure, but the amusement in his eyes had her smiling again. “I should have bought you the plaster statue of Athena.”

Taking her hands, he drew her to her feet. “I’m flattered that you bought me anything.” She felt the subtle change as his fingers tightened on hers. “I want time with you, Rebecca. Hours of it. Days. There’s too much I need to know.” When she lowered her gaze, he caught her chin. “What are those secrets of yours?”