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The familiar phrase caught at Daisy’s consciousness and she didn’t like the pang her heart gave, or the way her eyes seemed determined to feed on the big lean body and hard, handsome face. And then, as Slade glanced at her over Francesco’s wet curls, another problem presented itself.
She was wearing nothing but a swimming costume—a very modest, high-necked one-piece which she had bought specifically for its demure cut, admittedly, but a swimming costume nevertheless—and Slade was fully clothed. Normally it wouldn’t have mattered—Daisy had never been a prude and neither was she ashamed of her figure or her femininity—but with Slade… She felt naked, stark naked; she couldn’t help it. She had never been so aware of the response of her breasts to the fresh air as she followed Francesco out of the pool, or the way her nipples became hard and pointed as they strained against the midnight-blue material which was clinging to her shape like a second skin.
And Slade was looking; he wasn’t even bothering to pretend he hadn’t noticed, she thought feverishly, her cheeks hot. She almost forgot how to walk as she made for the chair where she had carelessly slung her wrap half an hour before, and it wasn’t until she had slipped into its concealing folds that she found the nerve to turn and say, her voice very steady, ‘Hello, Slade.’
‘Hello, Daisy.’ His voice was deep and husky and the accent was very strong. Her toes curled on the sun-warmed terracotta tiles and she jerked the belt of the robe even tighter, stitching a smile on her face by sheer will-power.
‘I can’t believe all this.’ He waved his free hand, his other arm holding Francesco who was perched on his father’s hip. ‘Your idea?’
She nodded carefully. Isabella had confided that Slade had spent hour after frustrating hour trying to persuade his son to forget his fear of the water, and Daisy wasn’t sure how Slade would react to a relative stranger accomplishing what he had failed to do.
‘I can’t thank you enough.’ And he meant it; she could see that. Perversely she found herself wishing he had been peeved and that shocked her, because with the knowledge came the understanding that she needed to find some weakness in him, and small-mindedness would have been as good as anything else.
She didn’t have the courage to ask herself why—not with him standing in front of her and the magnetic power of his dark sensuality so real it was interfering with her breathing—and she brushed the confusion away with the excuse that she had lived for years with a man who would have reacted to such a situation with pique and hidden displeasure.
‘So you have turned into a little fish, eh?’ Slade had turned his attention back to the exhilarated, wriggling child in his arms, and as Francesco’s proud face beamed at him he hugged his son tight again before placing him on the ground. ‘Show me how you swim, little fish,’ he invited tenderly.
‘You come too, Papà?’ Francesco took Slade’s hand as he added, ‘Please?’
She had foreseen that something like this might happen—it was obvious, wasn’t it, and perfectly natural?—but as Slade nodded, his voice easy and amused as he said, ‘I will go and change and come straight back, Francesco. Does that suit?’ Daisy felt a warmth that was nothing to do with the bright June sun.
He smiled at her once before he turned and went back to the house—a lazy, comfortable smile that made her pounding heart and suddenly dry mouth even more ridiculous—and then Francesco tugged at her hands. ‘Come on, Daisy, let’s play before Papà comes back and then I will show him how I can swim.’
You are a grown woman of twenty-four years of age so behave like one. You can do this, you can; it’s simple. Just act naturally; he will be concentrating on Francesco, not you. This is not important. The words were tumbling about in Daisy’s mind but they only increased her inner turmoil as she quickly slipped out of the wrap and followed Francesco back into the glinting blue water.
However, it was nothing to how she felt some minutes later when Francesco’s shriek of, ‘Papà! Papà! Hurry!’ turned her head towards the house.
Slade was walking slowly, indolently, and he was clearly quite at ease with his body and the world in general, Daisy thought weakly, and he was quite, quite magnificent. There was just no other word for it.
He was lithe and tanned and flagrantly male, his smooth shoulders broad and muscled and the dusting of black curly hair on his chest narrowing to a thin line which jutted down his taut belly and into the concealing fabric of his brief black swimming trunks. His body looked big and hard and powerful, and in that moment Daisy acknowledged the physical hunger which had begun the day she had first set eyes on him—shattered as she had been—and which had grown stronger every hour since.
She fancied him. In fact she fancied him rotten, she conceded feverishly, but it was just a physical thing, a sexual response to his overwhelming maleness, and as such could be controlled. It was perfectly natural—healthy in fact, she assured herself fervently—and as long as she did nothing about it everything would be fine. She ought to be relieved she could still feel like this about a man after the trauma and heartache of the last eighteen months; she really should. Until Slade had walked into her life she had thought her libido had been damaged along with her emotions. Yes, this was good—positive—and now she had admitted it half the danger was gone. She could be fully on her guard. No problem.
As the pep talk ended Slade dived into the water, his perfectly honed body scarcely making a splash, which caused Francesco to shout his delight and splash excitedly.
And then he surfaced just beside her, a brilliantly dark and powerful god from another world, and Daisy knew a moment of paralysing fear as the beautiful black eyes, their thick lashes diamond-bright with crystallised water, stared hard into hers before they roamed over the creamy, sun-touched skin of her face and throat. ‘I didn’t know you could swim,’ he said softly.
‘You never asked,’ she managed shakily.
‘No, this is true. I never did.’
And then Francesco reached them, leaping at his father with a squeal of delight, and things were normal again—or as normal as they could be when Slade Eastwood was anywhere near, Daisy acknowledged ruefully.
The next hour was full of fun and laughter and exuberance, and Francesco was beside himself with joy at having his father home again. After twenty minutes or so, and after an energetic game of piggy-in-the-middle—Daisy had been the piggy and had never once succeeded in catching the ball, much to Francesco’s gratification—Daisy left father and son in the cool water and retreated to her towelling robe and a lounger in the sun.
But even with her eyes shut she continued to see the perfect male body—the smooth, taut muscles, the hard, lean buttocks and strong legs. He must work out, she told herself silently. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the whole of that powerful frame, and he would never have kept in such superb shape sitting behind a desk.
The thoughts continued to ebb and flow—all of them acutely disturbing—and when she found herself speculating on what it would feel like to be held close to that virile body, to have his hands run over her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs, she told herself the fantasising would have to stop. More to the point, it shouldn’t have started
! Speculating about such things in a safe, distant way—and with someone unreal or a star of the silver screen—was one thing, but Slade wasn’t safe or distant. He was six foot plus of lean, hard, virile male and she was living in his house and taking care of his son. And—Daisy took several long, silent pulls of air deep into her lungs—he was going to be very much around for the next four weeks.
‘He is a different child; you have worked a miracle.’ The dark, husky voice brought her eyes opening wide in time to see Slade fling himself on to the lounger at her side. ‘A few weeks ago it would have been impossible to even get him in the water, let alone begging to stay in for a few minutes more.’ He was looking across at Francesco as he spoke which gave Daisy much needed seconds to compose herself all over again at the sight of his brazen magnificence stretched out beside her.
‘It was the toys and slides that did it.’ Amazingly her voice sounded quite steady.
‘No, it was you.’ His eyes turned to look at her then and he smiled slowly. ‘You understand him, don’t you? Do you have this insight with all children?’
‘I don’t know about insight,’ she said carefully, willing her eyes not to leave his and wander downwards where acres and acres of dark, tanned male flesh were waiting to make her cheeks hot. ‘Most of the time it’s common sense that’s needed in dealing with children, and appreciating they need plenty of reassurance and love however tough and brash they might appear to be. It’s the naughty ones, the unlovable ones, that cry out the most often but usually in ways that adults find unacceptable. Then they get punished and, worse, labelled as naughty, difficult children, and so the problems perpetuate.’
