‘I’m going to need another shower,’ Tilly said as she opened the doors to their terrace and garden.
But Angus was looking at the pool. ‘I have a much better idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s swim.’
‘I have nothing to swim in,’ Tilly protested.
‘That’s exactly what you need,’ he told her. ‘Nothing.’
Her eyes widened in shock. ‘Angus McLeod – are you saying we should swimnaked?’
‘Why not? No one can see us. And… when did you last go skinny dipping?’
‘I never have,’ Tilly responded.
‘Then you don’t know what you’re missing,’ Angus said. ‘Not that I’ve done it in more than thirty years but I remember it as a kid. If I was out roaming with Robbie on a hot day and we were near the loch, I’d just take everything off and jump in.’ He was unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke. ‘I’ve never forgotten how good it was to feel the water on my skin like that. I want to feel it again.’
His shirt was completely unbuttoned now and Tilly could see the fine hairs on his chest between small nipples and she itched to touch his skin herself.
He stepped closer and put a single finger under her chin to lift it. She liked the way he paused as their eyes met, like he had at the lake this afternoon when he was asking permission to kiss her. She liked that he could see that it was given. And then she stopped thinking coherently at all when he lowered his mouth to hers.
Their first kiss – standing in that stream in the sunshine, with the water tumbling over their feet and the orchestra of cicadas playing in the background – had been a revelation for Tilly. Something so different it had opened a whole new world, and taking the huge step of going deeper into that world last night, in the olive grove, had been almost overwhelming.
But it was changing now. It wasn’t losing any of the scorching heat of desire but it had notes that already felt familiar.
Safe.
Tilly was absolutely confident that she could trust this man.
And that was as sexy as anything else about this. It took this intimacy to a whole new level because it felt as if there was asolid foundation beneath her. As if Tilly could push against it and suddenly discover she had the ability to fly.
Angus had been unbuttoning her dress as he kissed her and she felt it slither to her feet.
They both broke the kiss, caught each other’s gaze for a heartbeat and then shed the rest of their clothing. Angus took her hand and they sat on the edge of the small pool. The look he gave her then made Tilly wonder if he, like her, would probably never be able to put his feet into cool water without remembering that kiss in the stream. And the one at the lake when they were standing in water again. Summer, with all the opportunities to paddle or swim, was never going to be quite the same, was it?
Angus slipped into the pool first and he caught Tilly as she followed his example. Her feet touched the bottom and then she floated up to bump gently against his body and the warmth of his skin was like human sunshine against the delicious chill of the water.
They didn’t have sex in the pool. That would come later, when they were dry and warm and in the cocoon of the huge bed in the villa, shut away from the world. This was playtime. To move enough to feel the ripples of water over every inch of their bodies and the delightful effervescence of the bubbles created by skimming their hands over each other’s skin. To kiss with runnels of water cascading down their faces as they came up from a dive or to feel the fire of their tongues touching, with their fingers laced so that they could stay that close to each other underwater.
Who knew that the man Tilly had originally dubbed ‘Angry Angus’ could play like this?
That there was such a gentle, humorous side to someone who gave the impression of such control and strength?
And how often was she going to think that sex couldn’t get any better, only to find out how wrong she had been?
14
Angus was very familiar with the pull of history.
He’d grown up with people who were fiercely proud of the past, their culture and their ability to withstand whatever adversities life threw at them. He had played in ruined castles as a child and appreciated the historic stone house he’d grown up in, despite how bitterly cold it could be in the depths of winter.
The history went back even further on this side of the channel but the contrast between the South of France and Scotland was enough to make Angus see everything in a new light.
Literally.
There was something softer about the light here. The air felt different, as if you could actually breathe in a sense of calm. A gentle peace, even. As one of the top tourist destinations in this part of the country and at the peak of the season, Saint-Paul-de-Vence was crowded, but that didn’t detract from his enjoyment of this tour that Tilly was providing.
They’d parked Alfie in an underground car park and walked past a large gravelled area overlooked by a café to go up to thearchway in the high stone ramparts. The Porte de Vence, Tilly told him.
This medieval village was a maze of narrow cobbled streets, often with steps, which made the stone buildings on either side seem taller. The stone was nothing like the grey granite or basalt used so often in Scotland and it was quite different to the sandstone he was used to seeing in Glasgow and Edinburgh. The blocks weren’t evenly cut like sandstone and didn’t have the chiselled planes of granite, either. These were more haphazard shapes and sizes, tumbled, pitted and rough to touch but sunbaked and soft-looking, in tones of pale gold and cream and long-faded terracotta, like the huge pots that anchored the vines scrambling up the walls and softening the effect even more with the vibrant pink of bougainvillea, the sky blue of plumbago and the deep, cool green of ivy.
