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It had been too long since he’d been laid. That was all. For a man used to indulging his virile libido whenever he wanted—a man who had any number of women lining up to join him in his bed—a month of abstinence had been a spectacular feat. Being in close proximity to a woman like Cressida, with her body men would go to war for, was like pouring gasoline into a room and leaving a packet of matches by the door.
He just had to move the matches.
* * *
‘Oh! You’re up.’
She smiled as she breezed into the kitchen, smelling like sand and sunshine, and looking like a water nymph who’d risen from the depths of the sea, her long hair tangling down her back as he’d imagined it the first time they’d met.
He reached for his coffee and sipped it without dropping his eyes from her face. ‘It’s almost nine,’ he pointed out.
‘Right.’ Her cheeks were pink, as though she’d been running. ‘I’ve been exploring.’
It was such a conspiratorial confession that he almost laughed. The urge to chastise her for going on her own, without him to save her from plummeting off cliff faces, died in the face of her obvious joy.
‘Have you? And what have you found?’
‘Just the most beautiful island,’ she said, with a smile that was lit from inside.
The gasoline dripped closer to the matches.
‘I can’t believe how lovely it is here.’ She eyed his coffee thoughtfully and then walked, barefoot, into the kitchen. She left little drifts of sand in her wake. ‘Mind if I make a coffee?’
He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
‘Would you like another one?’
Surprise at the simple courtesy flared. ‘No. Thank you.’
The machine made its tell-tale groaning noise as she brought it to life and waited for coffee to fill the cup she’d selected.
‘Do you have those plans? I’d love to take a look at what the architect came up with.’
His expression gave little away. ‘They are somewhere here.’
Mischief danced in her eyes. ‘Is that like a clue? Am I to hunt them out, à la The Secret Seven or The Famous Five?’
He stared at her blankly and she rolled her eyes.
‘Please tell me you’ve read them?’
‘Read what?’ He was lost.
‘The books! Enid Blyton mysteries.’
He shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘No.’
‘How deprived your childhood must have been!’ She laughed, and then sobered as she recalled his claim that he’d had nothing growing up. ‘I didn’t mean... I meant... Oh, crap.’
She clamped a hand over her mouth and speared him with a
look of such bewilderment that he burst out laughing.
‘You think you have hurt my feelings? That I am crying inside?’
She dropped her hand and looked away, back to the coffee. How ridiculous she was being! Talking to him as though they were old friends, teasing him about not having read Enid Blyton books and reacting as though she, Tilly Morgan, had the power to hurt him! Rio Mastrangelo! The man who was renowned for his ruthless cold temperament.
With effort, she shoved her enthusiasm and delight deep inside her and assumed her best mask of casual arrogance—just as she’d seen Cressida do a thousand times.
