He stuffed a few casual clothes into a small carryall, paused when his mobile beeped. He checked it. A text from Tim.
‘Where the hell r u?’
Rhys laughed. He’d forgotten about Tim and the others. He’d just gone after Sienna without thought of anything or anyone else. He was supposed to have helped pack the band’s gear away. He was supposed to be at some barbecue Tim was organising for the new crop of interns this afternoon.
But now he had other plans. Better plans. He was having time out. He pushed at the buttons with his thumb.
‘On holiday.’ He sent the message, waited for the confirmation it had gone. And then, with a broad smile, he hit one last button—‘Off’.
CHAPTER FIVE
TROUSERS were the only option. Together with the obligatory high-necked, long-sleeved top. Hell, Sienna was going to swelter. But she was going to be steaming up anyway—just from being within three feet of Mr Sex God. She took off the note wedged into the straps of her pack. Scanned it.
‘We have lots of questions. We want answers. Later!’
She grinned and grimaced at the same time, then started the rummage through for some suitably unsexy outfit for her ‘date’. She should have said no. She should have been rude. She should have let him think what he liked.
Impossible.
Mouth like that, eyes like those. She didn’t want them frowning at her and looking icy. So she’d go. Have lunch. Do as Rhys suggested and play the game in reverse. But there’d be no re-match, pre-match or after-match frills. No resumption of body contact. But maybe she could give him the kiss goodbye she’d forgotten last night.
She pulled out her quick-dry, billion-pocketed, zip-off-leg, multi-climate, all-terrain, all-purpose pants and stared at them.
Never in a million years. Even if contact was off the menu she wasn’t going looking like such a frump. They’d be great for trekking at altitude. But for a lunch in a hip Sydney café in the middle of summer? Whether accompanied by off-limits sex god or not, it was definitely a no to the trousers. Had to be a skirt. She’d go denim. It was slightly longer than the quick-dry equivalent of the combat travel pants, and no way could she wear the number from last night. Then it was just a matter of selecting which high-neck slim tee she’d team it with.
She tried to blow away the helium floating her hopes. But every breath in had them rising higher. So stupid. This was the finale—the bitter-sweet end to a fantasy come true. She sat on the bunk bed and stared into nothing.
Just go and enjoy the first half of the date that you missed out on last night. Let him see you’re not some scary serial slapper or some desperate-to-get-pregnant wench. Then walk away.
Who was she kidding? It wasn’t about what he thought. It was about what she wanted—more time in his company. And it wasn’t just that he oozed a raw sexuality that had her hot in the ping of a bra strap. She didn’t just want him, she wanted to get to know him. There was more going on in those greeny-grey eyes that she wanted to explore.
Exactly midday she left the room and went downstairs, met his gaze across the foyer. He was over by the reception desk watching as she descended the last few steps. He made her feel as if she were supermodel beautiful, as if the eyes of the world were on her—watching, wanting. No one had ever looked that way at her before. Everyone had always known. For once she was centre-stage, not in the wings—actively involved rather than in the audience.
She walked up to him as with deliberation he looked her up and down and back up again. Ordinarily his mouth held sensual promise; right now, the smile stretching it was utterly carnal. She had no idea if anyone else was around, all she could see was him, all she could sense was the force of his presence, his breadth, the awareness crackling so near the surface. He looked up the length of her legs once more and the desire in his eyes had her wobbling. Deep inside her body was soft and hot and aching with emptiness. But the pounding of her heart reminded her. That look in his eyes would be snuffed out the instant he saw her scar. He might lie, as Neil had, and say it made no difference. But it would make every difference—he wouldn’t treat her as real any more. She broke the eye contact, looked down to the ground, registered the big red chilly bin beside him.
He finally tore his eyes from her legs and nudged the bin with his foot. ‘Tell me you like seafood.’
‘I like seafood.’
‘Really?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Should have asked earlier.’
‘We’re having a picnic?’
‘That OK? I thought it was such a great day…’ He trailed off, attention back on her legs.
She clamped her upper thighs together, halting the warm urge to swing them open, and managed a cool friendly smile. ‘That’s great.’
She took the blanket that rested on top of the container. Hugged it in a protective hold. He took the chilly. They crossed the road and wandered down to the beach. Hunted out a nice spot to park their burdens and themselves.
She was glad of the crowds. Glad of the broadness of the daylight—because she seriously needed to get a grip. When he was with her she had the crazy feeling that anything was possible. And it wasn’t. He didn’t know about her. And when he did, everything would change. Better for him never to know so she didn’t have to witness that change. Better to end it before it began. He’d been right—this was just the beginning, but of a fantasy. She would have to finish it so she could treasure it for ever—before it turned into a nightmare.
He set up the umbrella that had been strapped to the side of the chilly.
‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble in a short time.’
He grinned. ‘Not at all. The umbrella is from the hostel. I bought the chilly bin from the store down the road and the food is from a great seafood market I found. They packed everything.’
She spread the blanket for them to sit. She was glad she’d gone with the skirt option. Even though the umbrella shaded them, the temperature was still hitting hot—her internal heat going way higher.
‘Drink?’ He’d unscrewed the lid off a bottle of sauvignon blanc, deftly holding two glasses in one hand while pouring the wine into them.
She glanced at him, catching his eyes for the first time since leaving the hostel, read the challenge.
‘Thank you.’
Her fingers touched his as he gave her the glass. With more luck than skill, she managed not to drop it. All that raced through her head was the memory of those fingers brushing across her back.
Sensible speech was impossible. So she asked a few meaningless, ice-breaker questions. Barely heard his meaningless, ice-breaker answers. Relief came as he unwrapped the food—a fabulous platter of deep-sea delicacies. He piled a few chunks of French bread on a plate, added a swipe of butter to each.
Cool, tasty, satisfying. The succulent seafood slipped down her throat—mussels, prawns, shredded lobster. He handed her an oyster, artfully sitting in its half shell. He winked.
A spurt of mirth bubbled in her. ‘Are you trying to feed me aphrodisiacs?’
He laughed aloud. ‘I’m doing everything in my power to seduce you.’
He’d already done that. And she’d succumb again this minute if there were any way to maintain the level of excitement and enjoyment evident in his eyes. He was out for a little holiday fun—that was obvious. And if only she was truly able to escape her history, she’d do the same.
They ate, talked a little more, looked a lot more—he was so handsome, she couldn’t help but stare, until she could no longer take the need slicing through her. She concentrated instead on the beach volleyball game a few yards away, amazed the women actually managed to stay decent in the teensy, eensy, weensy minuscule strips of Lycra that they passed off as their bikinis. They must use tape. Had to.
He was watching her, amusement apparent. ‘You want to play?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘No?’
‘I’m not good with ball games.’ Never played. Never allowed. Always on the sidelines whil
e her overprotective mother and brother told her she couldn’t and shouldn’t. Consequently she was hopeless and not about to show him and a beach full of others how bad she was at catching a ball.
His amusement had increased—he wasn’t in on her teen angst.
‘Really?’ His mind seemed to have gone in another direction entirely. ‘You know, if you want, I can give you some help with that.’
She looked at him.
His grin was wicked. ‘Ball skills.’
She cleared her throat, narrowed her eyes at him but ducked the challenge. ‘I didn’t do team sports as a kid.’
‘No?’ He let it slide. ‘What did you do?’
‘I was in the orchestra—percussion.’
‘You were the girl clanging the cymbal, huh?’
She giggled. ‘Yeah, waiting the entire length of the piece for my one moment of glory.’
Much like now. And the satisfaction couldn’t be repeated.
‘So no team sports. Were you a runner or something? Track and field?’
She laughed aloud. Her mirth rather more than the question merited.