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There was no peace to be had and if there was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be found in Alma, the capital of boring. Not to mention his father’s presence permeated the entire island, as if Patrick Rowling’s soul lived in the bedrock, sending out vibrations of disapproval on a regularly scheduled basis.
That’s why James was at the beach at Playa Del Onda, soaking up the sun instead of doing whatever it was his father thought he should be doing, which would never happen because James lacked the capacity to do what his father said. It was like a mutated gene: his father spoke and James’s brain refused to obey. He automatically did the opposite.
“Ooof!” Air whooshed from his lungs as something heavy landed square on his chest.
Then his beach chair flipped, tossing him into the sand on top of something. It squealed.
Someone. When his vision cleared, the tangle of supple-bodied woman and blond hair underneath him captured his complete attention.
He gazed down into the bluest set of eyes he’d seen in a while. Something shifted inside as the woman blinked back, her beautiful heart-shaped face reflecting not an iota of remorse over their risqué position. Her body had somehow slid into the grooves of his effortlessly and the slightest incline of his head would fuse his lips to hers.
She’d fully gobsmacked him.
Their breath intermingled. She seemed in no hurry to unstick her skin from his and in about two and a half seconds, his own body would start getting into the moment in a huge and inappropriate way.
Sexy strangers signaled big-time problems and he had enough of those.
Reluctantly, he rolled off her and helped her sit up. “Sorry about that. You okay?”
“Totally.” Her husky voice skittered across his skin and he was hooked on the sound of it instantly. American. His favorite. “My fault. I was focused on this thing instead of where I was going.”
She kicked at a Frisbee he hadn’t noticed lying in the sand two feet away. But who’d pay attention to a piece of plastic when a fit blonde in a tiny bikini landed in your lap? Not him.
“I like a girl who goes for the memorable introduction.”
It was certainly a new one. And he’d experienced his share of inventive ploys for getting his attention. Knickers with cell phone numbers scrawled in marker across the crotch, which he discovered had been shoved into his pocket. Room keys slipped into drinks sent over by a knot of football groupies at a corner table. Once, he’d gone back to his hotel room after a press junket to find two naked women spread out across his bed. How they’d gotten in, he still didn’t know.
The logistics question had sort of slipped his mind after ten minutes in their company.
“Oh, I wasn’t angling for an introduction.” She actually blushed a bit, which was oddly endearing. “I really didn’t see you there. You kind of blend into the sand.”
“Is that a crack about my British complexion?” he teased. “You’re pretty pale yourself, darling.”
She laughed and rearranged her hair, pulling it behind her back so it didn’t conceal her cleavage. A move he thoroughly appreciated. This gorgeous klutz might be the best thing that had happened to him all week. Longer than that. The best thing since arriving in Alma for sure.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be stuck here cooling his heels until a football club whose jersey he could stomach wearing knocked on his door.
“No, not at all. I wouldn’t be so rude as to point out your flaws on our first meeting.” She leaned forward, her vibe full of come-hither as she teased him back.
Intrigued, he angled his head toward her. “But on our second date, all bets are off?”
Glancing down coquettishly, she let loose a small smile. “I’m more of a third-date kind of girl.”
His gut contracted as the full force of that promise hit him crossways. She was a unique breed of woman, the most fascinating one he’d met thus far on this stupid rock he was being forced to call home for the time being. The memory of her hot flesh against his was still fresh—it was enough to drive him mad. And he suspected she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
“I have a feeling you’d be worth the wait.”
She picked that moment to stand and for some reason, the new angle cast her in a different light. It tickled his mind and he recognized her all at once. Pictures of the new princess had graced every news channel for the past couple of weeks, but she’d been clothed. Regardless, he should have recognized her sooner and maybe not disgraced himself by flirting with a woman who probably really had no clue she’d stumbled over a former football player for Real Madrid.
A princess—especially one as fit as Bella Montoro—wasn’t running around the beach at Playa Del Onda looking to meet guys, whether they were semifamous or not. Which was a dirty shame.
