briefest treacherous second, if it was truly necessary to escape him … But of course it was. She could stay with him, or she could have her self-respect, whatever was left of it. She couldn’t have both. Today had certainly proved that.
There were so many things she wanted to say, but the way he looked at her made Dru suspect that if she said any of them, he would leave her in the water. She knew exactly how ruthless he could be. So she only held on to the side of the small motorboat, bobbing gently along with it in the rise and fall of the waves, and watched him.
“I’m cold,” she said crisply, because there were minefields in every other thing she might have thought to say. “Are you going to help me into the boat?”
There was a brief, intense sort of moment, and then he leaned over, slid his hands beneath her arms, and hoisted her up and out of the water as if she weighed no more than a child. Water sluiced from her wet clothes as her feet came down against the slippery bottom of the small boat, and she was suddenly aware of too many things. The sodden fabric of her skirt, ten times heavier than it should have been, wrapped much too tightly around her hips and thighs. The slick wetness of her blouse as it flattened against her skin in the seabreeze. The heavy tangle of her wet hair, tumbling this way and that in a disastrous mess. All of which made her feel much too cold, and, oddly, something very much like vulnerable.
But then she looked up, and the air seemed to empty out of her lungs. And she did not have to see his eyes to know that he was staring at the way her soaking-wet clothes molded to her curves, and, a quick glance down confirmed, left nothing at all to the imagination. Her blouse had been a soft gray when dry, but wet it was nearly translucent, and showed off the bright magenta bra she’d worn beneath.
Dru couldn’t process the kaleidoscope of emotion that shifted through her then: chagrin, embarrassment, that horrible vulnerability, those underwater sobs threatening to spill out once again. She looked longingly at the sea once more, and if she hadn’t been so cold she might well have tossed herself right back into it.
“Don’t even think about it,” he gritted out, and then several things happened simultaneously.
The boat lurched forward, no doubt in response to some signal of Cayo’s, and Dru would have toppled against him had he not grabbed her around the waist and deposited her on the pristine white cushions next to him. She had the impression of his strength and heat, and there was that wild, desperate surge of desire inside of her that made her hate herself anew, and then she was sitting beside him as the boat headed toward the boarding deck of the great yacht, wet skirt itchy and awful against her and her hair flying madly in the wind.
Cayo did not speak again until they were safely back on board, and one of his silent and expressionless crewmembers had draped a very warm, very large towel over her shoulders. She aimed a grateful smile at the head steward as she wrapped the soft towel tight around her, and then felt very much like the poster child for
Les Misérables
when she directed her attention back toward her former employer
.
Pathetic and bedraggled whilst Cayo, naturally, gazed down at her like some kind of untouchable Spanish god, all of his dangerous beauty gleaming in the last of the day’s sun.
The crew members disappeared as if they could see the coming storm closing in on them. If she had had any sense at all, she would have done the same. Instead she stood there and waited, her back straight as a ruler and her expression, she hoped, as serene as possible when she was still so wet and wrecked. Cayo slid his sunglasses down his haughty blade of a nose and regarded her with a glint in those dark gold eyes that should have cowed her at fifty paces—and he was much closer than that.
“I’m sure you know precisely where there are extra clothes on this yacht,” he
There were so many things she wanted to say, but the way he looked at her made Dru suspect that if she said any of them, he would leave her in the water. She knew exactly how ruthless he could be. So she only held on to the side of the small motorboat, bobbing gently along with it in the rise and fall of the waves, and watched him.
“I’m cold,” she said crisply, because there were minefields in every other thing she might have thought to say. “Are you going to help me into the boat?”
There was a brief, intense sort of moment, and then he leaned over, slid his hands beneath her arms, and hoisted her up and out of the water as if she weighed no more than a child. Water sluiced from her wet clothes as her feet came down against the slippery bottom of the small boat, and she was suddenly aware of too many things. The sodden fabric of her skirt, ten times heavier than it should have been, wrapped much too tightly around her hips and thighs. The slick wetness of her blouse as it flattened against her skin in the seabreeze. The heavy tangle of her wet hair, tumbling this way and that in a disastrous mess. All of which made her feel much too cold, and, oddly, something very much like vulnerable.
But then she looked up, and the air seemed to empty out of her lungs. And she did not have to see his eyes to know that he was staring at the way her soaking-wet clothes molded to her curves, and, a quick glance down confirmed, left nothing at all to the imagination. Her blouse had been a soft gray when dry, but wet it was nearly translucent, and showed off the bright magenta bra she’d worn beneath.
Dru couldn’t process the kaleidoscope of emotion that shifted through her then: chagrin, embarrassment, that horrible vulnerability, those underwater sobs threatening to spill out once again. She looked longingly at the sea once more, and if she hadn’t been so cold she might well have tossed herself right back into it.
“Don’t even think about it,” he gritted out, and then several things happened simultaneously.
The boat lurched forward, no doubt in response to some signal of Cayo’s, and Dru would have toppled against him had he not grabbed her around the waist and deposited her on the pristine white cushions next to him. She had the impression of his strength and heat, and there was that wild, desperate surge of desire inside of her that made her hate herself anew, and then she was sitting beside him as the boat headed toward the boarding deck of the great yacht, wet skirt itchy and awful against her and her hair flying madly in the wind.
Cayo did not speak again until they were safely back on board, and one of his silent and expressionless crewmembers had draped a very warm, very large towel over her shoulders. She aimed a grateful smile at the head steward as she wrapped the soft towel tight around her, and then felt very much like the poster child for
Les Misérables
when she directed her attention back toward her former employer
.
Pathetic and bedraggled whilst Cayo, naturally, gazed down at her like some kind of untouchable Spanish god, all of his dangerous beauty gleaming in the last of the day’s sun.
The crew members disappeared as if they could see the coming storm closing in on them. If she had had any sense at all, she would have done the same. Instead she stood there and waited, her back straight as a ruler and her expression, she hoped, as serene as possible when she was still so wet and wrecked. Cayo slid his sunglasses down his haughty blade of a nose and regarded her with a glint in those dark gold eyes that should have cowed her at fifty paces—and he was much closer than that.
“I’m sure you know precisely where there are extra clothes on this yacht,” he
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