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"And what if your idea of love doesn't exist?"
Her eyes burned and she blinked hard. "You're so cynical."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just a realist." Maybe.
She blinked again, thinking that maybe it was possible to see life from two different perspectives, and have both be equally right. And if that was the case, while they'd never see eye to eye, it didn't mean they couldn't enjoy the moment and, let's face it, they were in the middle of paradise.
St. Jermaine’s was the most beautiful place she'd ever been and from the looks of it, there'd be a gorgeous sunset later tonight. She was drinking her first banana daiquiri and soon she'd be sitting down to dinner with the love of her life.
Dinner was served on the veranda, white gardenias in a bowl, the glass table glowing with the flicker of a dozen white candles. It was the most romantic table she'd ever seen.
The service was discreet. Mr. Foley uncorked a bottle of red wine and disappeared. Morgan was being his charming best. Winnie leaned back in her chair and listened to the soft lap of waves against the sand.
I could get used to this, she thought, picking up her goblet, admiring the wine's ruby sheen. This is definitely the good life. Wouldn't it be something to really live like this? What would it be like to be Morgan's girlfriend ... or his mistress?
"You're smiling," Morgan said, topping off her glass with more wine before refilling his own.
"I am," she agreed, stretching a little, very relaxed.
She lifted her glass in front of one candle and let the flame glow through the goblet, marveling at the warm garnet glow, red symbolizing love ... passion.
Sex.
Maybe it was the Merlot in her veins, or the balmy evening, but she felt really lazy and really happy, and swirling her glass, Winnie thought she'd like to feel this way more often.
To feel like this not just now, but always.
"What are you thinking?" Morgan asked, his dark hair gleaming in the candlelight, his teeth flashing.
She looked at him from beneath her lashes. "That you're not bad company when you're not worrying about the stock market."
He grimaced. "I don't worry about the stock market."
"No, you obsess about it."
Lines deepened near his mouth. He was trying not to laugh. "I'd never obsess about anything."
Her eyebrows arched.
He laughed out loud. "I must say, you're not bad company when you let your hair down." His dark blue gaze met hers, held. "I like your hair down."
"Literally or figuratively?"
His eyes were doing something crazy to her insides.
Her heart raced and her arms felt weak, as if the bones had turned to butter. She slipped her hands to her lap and balled her fingers together.
"Both," he answered. "Don't pin it up anymore. I like it down. I like you like this. You're an interesting woman, Winnie. You're constantly surprising me."
His compliment touched her. She felt a lump grow in her throat. "You like interesting women?" she asked, voice suddenly husky.
"Of course. Why, do you prefer boring men?"
She was feeling so much intense emotion she didn't think she had a laugh in her just then, but he'd found it and she chuckled. "Boring men, please."
"Good. I'm just your type. I'm very boring. Incredibly dull. You'll yawn yourself silly with me."
Her eyes locked with his, and his eyes were saying he wanted her. His eyes were making her feel hot and hungry again.
Blood rushed through her, from her middle up her neck, into her cheeks.
"We could have fun boring each other, Winnie." His voice was pitched so low it felt like velvet sliding across her skin.
"Yes."
"There's a lot of ways I could bore you."
Heat flooded her limbs yet again, and Winnie grabbed her water glass, took a big gulp. She'd like to be bored, if that's what he wanted to call it. She'd love to be bored as a matter of fact. "But I'm really not your type."
"What's my type?"
Winnie slowly looked up into his face. His eyes, so blue, so intense, were looking straight into hers. "Annika, Brigit, Hannah-"
"Oh, yes, my blond Scandinavian supermodel type."
"It's true. It's your preference. You're attracted to tall, slender, sexy and that's certainly not me."
"No, you're not tall, and blond, but I'm still very attracted to you."
"Morgan, I don't think you understand me. I'm talking attracted as in sex."
Creases fanned from his eyes. "Winnie, I understand you perfectly. I'm talking about sex, too, and I think we'd have great sex together."
The warmth in her tummy did a sinuous dance through her middle, along her tense spine, flooding her qui very limbs with heat. Part of her brain told her she should drop the subject, back away from it now, but another part wouldn't let her. She was fascinated, intrigued by all that she didn't know and had never done. "You do? And how do you know?"
He shrugged. "I can tell from the way you kiss."
She felt hot all the way through, her skin scorching, pulse racing. She drew a breath but she wasn't getting much air. She was thinking about sex. Thinking about his mouth on her skin. "You liked the way I kiss?"
"And taste."
Winnie sagged against the back of her teak dining chair, heart thumping, belly clenching, aching in places she didn't think could ache.
His words made her want and his voice made her need and she thought she'd do just about anything if he'd teach her a few things about sex and passion and love. Or just sex and passion because she already had the love part figured out.
If he didn't insist on marriage, she could almost imagine a life with him. There'd be dates, dinners, evenings out and evenings in.
Winnie could see herself riding down Park Avenue in his stretch limo, stepping out at one of the hot clubs, treated to a private box at the opera. He'd have seats behind home plate at Yankee Stadium. There'd be ice skating at Rockefeller Square
. She'd receive invitations to all the fashion premieres.
Stylish haircuts, waxed eyebrows, year-round tan. The fantasy came to an abrupt end. Because even tan and waxed and wearing a stylish new do, she'd never feel complete, it'd never be enough if he didn't love her.
"It wouldn't work," she said after a moment, the lovely vision bursting like a bubble inside her head. "We wouldn't survive a week."
"Why not?"
"Look at us. You're ... you ... and I'm ... me."
He laughed softly. "Very insightful."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. There's a lot of chemistry here, Winnie, more chemistry than I ever felt with Brigit, or Hannah, or Annika."
Her head jerked up. She stared at him wide-eyed.
"Really?' '
"Really." He pushed aside his wineglass and stood up. "Let's head down to the beach to catch the sunset."
The sun was just setting when they reached the cove and the colors at dusk were incredibly intense red, bright orange, purple and turquoise water.
Winnie slipped off her sandals to walk barefoot through the surf and when Morgan threw himself down on the beach, she sat down next to him, burying her feet beneath the still-warm sand.
It was so quiet on his island. The birds she'd heard earlier were silent and unlike New York, which was never still, here there was nothing of civilization to disturb the peace. No voices, no cars, no traffic, nothing but the gentle lap of waves against the creamy edge of sand.
