But her cowardly hopes were dashed by the pointedly enquiring look in his dark eyes and the mordant expression in them.
She lifted her chin. ‘It’s about Philip—’ she blurted out.
One eyebrow rose quizzically. She became crushingly conscious of his bared torso, tanned and muscular, and his still damp hip-hugging swim shorts. Of the way his wet hair was slicked back, accentuating the sculpted line of his cheekbones and jaw.
‘I... I think it might be a good idea if he went...went somewhere else to complete his essays.’ The words came out in a rush.
Something changed in Bastiaan’s eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked bluntly.
She felt colour run into her cheeks, which were already hot from exposure to the sun. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she returned. Her voice was husky, her words reluctant to come, resonating with the awkwardness she felt.
Long lashes dipped over deep-set eyes, and suddenly his expression was veiled.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said slowly. He inclined his head minutely towards her. ‘Well, I shall see what I can do to accomplish what I can in that respect.’ His eyes met hers. ‘It may take a day or two, but I think I can see a way.’
His eyes were still holding hers, and his expression was still veiled. For a moment—just a fraction of a moment—she wondered whether she’d made her predicament plain to him.
Then he was speaking again. His tone of voice had changed
. ‘The bedroom you changed in is the third along the landing,’ he informed her. ‘Please make use of the en suite bathroom to shower and wash your hair if you wish.’ Then he’d turned away and was heading back outside.
Sarah mounted the staircase with a sense of relief. It was done—she’d given Bastiaan Karavalas the warning about Philip that she’d needed to, and now she could leave him to it. Whatever plan he came up with to remove Philip from his villa and her vicinity, he would, she was pretty sure, do it effectively. Everything about him told her that he was a man who achieved everything he set himself to do. Of that she had no doubt whatsoever.
* * *
Bastiaan stood in the night-dark garden of his villa, contemplating the dim vista of the sea beyond. It was way gone midnight, but he was not tired. After Philip had driven Sabine back to the ville, openly thrilled to be let loose with his cousin’s Ferrari again, even on the tame roads of the Cap, they’d both headed out to dine in Villefranche. It had been a relaxed meal, and their conversation mostly about cars, with Philip grilling him on competing makes and models and which was the absolute best amongst them all.
Bastiaan had been glad to indulge him, even though he knew that his aunt lived in terror of her son’s eager enthusiasm for such powerful and potentially deadly machines—but anything that took Philip’s mind off the siren charms of Sabine Sablon was to be welcomed.
Well, Philip would not be available for very much longer. Bastiaan was setting his plans in place.
He was refining them now as he stood in the cool night, with stars pricking out in the heavens and catching the swell of the sea with their trickles of light. Across the bay he could hear faint music, coming from one of the restaurants along the harbour. On his island in the Ionian there was no sound from any source other than nature.
A slight frown drew his brows together. Sabine had said how relaxing his remote island sounded—had she meant it? It was unlikely—nothing about Sabine Sablon indicated that her natural habitat was anything that resembled a small, unpopulated island where the nearest night-life was a fast speedboat away.
And yet today at the villa she had seemed happy to while away the afternoon swimming and sunbathing, openly enjoying the easy-going, lazy relaxation of it all. She had been admiring of the gardens and the sea views, appreciative of the peace and quiet, content to do nothing but let the time pass.
Confounding his expectations of her.
His expression changed. Until, of course, the very end of the afternoon. When she’d made her move on him...changing her allegiance from Philip to himself.
Bastiaan’s mouth twisted. That request of hers to speak to him privately had been transparent in its objective. As transparent as her suggestion, made in an intimate husky voice, that their path would be smoother without young Philip to get in their way. Well, in that he would oblige her—and be glad to do so. For she was, of course, playing right into his hands with her suggestion.
The twist at his mouth turned into a smile. A smile of satisfaction.
Of anticipation.
Soon—very soon now—his cousin would be safe from her charms, and he would be enjoying them to the hilt.
* * *
Sarah’s voice was low, throaty, as she finished the last number of her final set of the evening. It had been days since she’d spent the afternoon at Bastiaan Karavalas’s villa, and Philip had been noticeable by his absence. He hadn’t shown up at the next morning’s rehearsal, and she’d picked up an apologetic text from him mid-morning, saying that he was working on his essays, then heading off with Bastiaan in the Ferrari. Nor had he turned up at the club in the evening—another apologetic text had said he was staying at Bastiaan’s Monte Carlo apartment. Since then there’d been silence.
Sarah knew why—Bastiaan was doing his best to keep Philip preoccupied and away from her. She could only be grateful: it was, after all, what she’d asked him to do, and what she knew was best for Philip. For herself too.
And not just because it was keeping the disturbing impact of Bastiaan himself away from her—essential though that was for her fractured peace of mind. More than ever she needed to focus on her work. She could afford no distraction at all—not now. Least of all now.
Anxiety bit at her. She was hitting a wall—a wall that was holding her back, holding them all back, and making Max tear into her mercilessly.