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Emerged to enjoy his triumph over her.
She’d stuck in her room, body aching, trembling with over-stimulation, wanting only to sink into permanent oblivion—anything other than face up to what she had done.
But there had been no oblivion—only a maid, insistent, not once but twice, that Mr Makarios was waiting for her on the terrace.
So she had put her armour on. Like one going into battle. Her exercise outfit was hardly the thing to wear in the Caribbean, but it was the only daywear she had brought with her that was not designed for the Alps in winter. She’d tied up her hair, put on the concealing veil of her dark glasses, and gone down to face up to what she had done.
Taking refuge from it the only way she knew how.
And she’d nearly cracked.
So very nearly.
As she’d walked up to him and seen him sitting there, lounging back, the strength of his body exposed in a close-hugging polo shirt, in hip-lean shorts, seen the long, strong sinews of his thighs, the smooth, muscled forearms, seen him watching her approach through lazy, heavy-lidded eyes, she had felt her insides start to dissolve.
He had just looked so devastating!
Something had turned over inside her, melting through her.
And then another emotion had taken its place. A familiar one—a safe one. The safest she could ever have in his company.
Anger.
That was what she had to feel in his presence—nothing but anger. It was the only way she could endure what lay ahead.
In the night, she knew, with bitter self-hatred, she would succumb—could do nothing else, was helpless to resist.
But in the day—
In the day the object of her hatred could be someone other than herself. It could be the man who had done to her the thing she could never, ever forgive herself for.
Leo Makarios—the man she both hated and desired.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LEO slewed the Jeep to a halt in front of the villa in the golden light of the westering sun. His muscles ached, but at least his black mood had gone. He’d spent the day on the island’s eastern coast, punishing it out of him by wave-sailing the rough Atlantic swell. He’d thought of doing what he’d done yesterday—inspecting his property developments taking shape on the southern shores—but everything was going to schedule and there was nothing more there to occupy him. Besides, he hadn’t come here to work. He’d come here to relax.
Unwind.
Enjoy some well-earned R&R with a beautiful woman to warm his bed…
His face darkened momentarily as he tossed the Jeep’s keys at one of the outdoor staff and headed indoors. All day he’d deliberately kept Anna Delane out of his head. He didn’t want to think about her.
Now he wondered idly how she’d spent the day. Still sulking?
A smile twisted at his mouth as he sprinted lithely upstairs.
She wouldn’t be sulking for long. He’d make sure of it.
There was no way a thieving piece like Anna Delane was going to get the better of him. His smile deepened.
He would start again on her, right now.
He’d just thought of an excellent way to do so.
A massage, personally administered, was exactly what he wanted.
And after the massage…
Anna lay in Leo Makarios’s arms. She was facing away from him, drawn back against his body by his heavy, restraining arm. His thigh was heavy across hers.
She stared out across the room.
It had happened again.
The fire had burnt through her, burnt away every last vestige of her self-control, her self-respect.
A massage. She had been summoned to give him a massage.
Like a slave girl!
She’d done it, too. Because what would have been the point of objecting? She’d been brought here for this purpose—the price of keeping her out of jail, keeping Jenny safe. And if a massage was what the man who thought her a thief wanted, then a massage was what he would have.
And what came after.
It had taken very, very little time for her kneading hands to be caught, stilled. For him to turn over with lithe, muscled grace onto his back, for him to draw her down on him again and then, with sudden avid hunger, to tip her over until he was over her. His mouth had been on hers, his hands on her body, peeling the clothes from her as if he were peeling a ripe, luscious fruit for his delectation.
And she had let him. Once more she had let him. Helpless to resist, helpless to do anything except let her body ignite from his, catch the hunger of his kisses, the ardency of his caressing.
Until she had burned with him in the same hot, fierce flame, crying out, her hair whipping, consumed absolutely by the sensation obliterating all sense from her, obliterating everything but its own desperate, urgent need for satiation.
Then afterwards, as the tumult had died, draining away like an inferno that had consumed its own fuel, he had lifted himself from her, rolling to his side, drawing her back against him, smoothing her hair, murmuring to her words she did not understand, his breath warm on her neck, his hands warm on her body.
