What Kit really wanted to know was whether Savannah was really unaware of who he was, what he did for a living. She seemed to have no idea that he was Christopher Pace, award-winning novelist and screenwriter. He’d suspected last night that she didn’t have a clue about his identity, and he’d found that refreshing, especially after the hectic pace of the past couple of years. It was nice to be with someone who didn’t seem to want anything from him, who seemed more interested in what he had to say than in who he knew or how much money he made.
It was nice to be with Savannah.
“I like them sometimes,” she replied, bringing his attention back to their conversation. “As long as they don’t get too blatantly gory. And especially if the two-fisted hero falls for an equally dashing heroine during the escapade. But I tend to watch more of the old movies on TV than the newer releases. I always seem to be too busy to get to a theater, but I often have the television set on while I do other things in the evenings.”
“What do you do?” he asked, wondering why she stayed so busy. He’d already pegged her as a successful, professional woman. He assumed she was taking a solitary vacation for the same reason he was—because she’d needed a quiet break to ward off total exhaustion.
“I make a living,” she answered with a shrug. “But I don’t want to think about work right now.”
“Neither do I,” he seconded immediately, a little relieved.
There was plenty of time to talk about real life, he thought in satisfaction. For now, he was simply enjoying being with her.
SAVANNAH FOUND Kit’s total attention to her both flattering and unnerving. Every time she glanced up from her meal, she found him looking at her. He listened closely to every word she said, making her feel that her words were interesting, important.
A striking redhead in a microscopic bikini passed by just on the other side of the glass wall, and Kit didn’t even seem to notice, though every other male head in the vicinity swiveled to follow her. Savannah couldn’t help remembering the way Vince had always watched every other girl around, making her feel slighted, unimportant. Other men she’d dated had behaved the same way. But not Kit.
No man had ever made Savannah feel so special. She found herself falling a little harder for him each moment they were together, but her reckless side insisted it was okay. Last night, after Kit had gone, she’d decided she could handle this…as long as she kept reminding herself that it wouldn’t last. She could enjoy being with Kit, even fall a little in love with him—as long as she didn’t let herself start to believe in the fantasy.
This vacation would be a memory she could treasure, that she could pull out and savor when she found herself alone and lonely, nights in the future, she promised herself. She wouldn’t lament the inevitable ending, but would rejoice, instead, that she’d had this experience just once before she settled comfortably into her thirties, directing all her energy into the hairraising task of raising two active teenagers.
I deserve this, she thought with just a touch of the old defiance. After thirteen years of being cautious and dependable and utterly predictable, she deserved this time just for herself. A chance to feel young again, and pretty, and desirable, and daring.
All the things she felt when Kit smiled at her.
AFTER BREAKFAST, as they stepped outside the restaurant, Savannah turned her face upward and closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the sun and fresh air like a tropical plant that had been confined indoors all winter.
She opened her eyes to find Kit standing close, looking at her again. She smiled.
“It’s so beautiful here.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he agreed without taking his gaze from her face.
She felt a blush stain her cheeks.
Kit reached out to take her hand. “Walk with me.”
Even as Savannah wound her fingers with his and fell into step beside him, she wondered if anyone ever turned this man down. He had a way of making requests that didn’t leave a lot of room for discussion.
Savannah had been very careful to avoid arrogant and overbearing men since Vince Hankins. She wondered if those tendencies didn’t lurk behind Kit’s charming, attractive exterior. It occurred to her that even in fiction, gentlemen pirates could be ruthless when crossed, relentless when in pursuit of something they wanted.
But then she shook those nervous, fanciful thoughts away, telling herself she was being ridiculous.
“Where are we going?” she asked, as Kit led her around the main compound and along a flower-lined path that led upward toward the high center of the island.
He smiled down at her. “Does it matter?”
When he looked at her like that, she would willingly follow him anywhere, she realized dazedly. “No. It doesn’t matter.”
His smile deepened. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and matched his steps to hers on the well-worn path. She couldn’t resist spreading her fingers over his bare arm, testing the muscles beneath his skin, feeling the brush of hair against her palm. She couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to run her hand over all his skin, or wondering if his chest was sleek or hairy.
How could she care where he led her as long as they were walking this closely together? She lifted her eyes to his face, and found he was watching her again. She could almost imagine that he was reading her thoughts.
He seemed to know where he was going, so she paid little attention to the twists and turns the path took. She did notice, however, when they reached a low chain across the path, and a sign that clearly said Do Not Enter—in several languages.
Kit stepped over the chain and held his hand out to Savannah, silently inviting her to follow him.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t read English? Or French, or Spanish, or—”