He parked the car as near the bungalow as possible. The cessation of the motor's throb sent a blanketing silence over them. “And you were free. The day after the funeral I told Laura I couldn't marry her. I thought she was entitled to an explanation. I didn't identify you, but I guess she figured it out.”
He turned toward Megan, his clothes rustling against the car seat. His fingers sifted through the windblown hair lying against her cheek. “I knew it would take a long time, Megan, for you to accept me as anything but an interloper, a womanizer, an opportunist.”
He shook his head in wry amusement. “That kiss we shared in the gazebo was one of the high points of my life, yet I cursed myself daily for it. You pegged me as a man who would dally with his friend's fiancée; you couldn't see me in any other light. You let your low opinion of me be known all too well each time I tried to contact you after the funeral. I finally realized that the harder I tried to see you, the more stubborn you were going to be.”
He kissed her swiftly on the brow. “That's not an indictment, only a statement of fact. So, as hard as it was, I backed off and waited. I granted you three years. I was willing to wait.”
Conflicting emotions battled inside Megan. She didn't know whether to rail against him, tell him he was accurate about her unaltered opinion of him, or succumb to the persuasive touch of his fingers trailing the lacy border of her sundress, which plunged seductively between her breasts. His lips at the corner of her mouth were relentless in their persuasion.
She never made a conscious decision. When he turned her toward him, she melted against his heated length. As much as the confinement of the car would allow, she molded her body along his, feeling his passion against her thigh and knowing that hers was just as strong.
“Don't make me wait any longer, Megan,” he urged in a horse whisper.
He helped her out of the car and hurried her across the stretch of lawn. His arm was around her waist, cupping her breast lightly where it lay bare beneath the navy-and-white dotted swiss. They stumbled across the yard, laughing nervously at their eagerness.
They pulled up short when they saw two shadows sitting on lawn chairs at the front of the quadraplex. One of the shadows stood up, and Terry Bishop's voice called out to them. “There you are. Gayla and I were just about to give up on you. We thought a game of bridge would be fun.”
The Bishops thought it would be fun until three-thirty in the morning, when a gloating Gayla gathered up the penny winnings for
her and her partner, Megan. Looking at each other wistfully, she and Josh said a chaste good night.
They got a late start the next morning, sleeping in after their long evening. Since it was their last full day on Hilton Head, they wanted to cram in as many activities as possible but not wear themselves out before the grand formal banquet that night.
Josh called room service and had breakfast catered to Megan's patio. They wanted to take advantage of the amenities of Seascape, yet remain as private as possible. “What should we do first?” he asked, his teeth sinking into a crisp, cool slice of honeydew melon.
“I haven't tried out that mammoth pool,” she said. His shirt was open, and the morning breeze stirred the hair on his chest. She envisioned her own breath blowing on it softly to see what tantalizing displacements she could make. It was an enchanting daydream.
“The pool it is, but I hope the suit you wore yesterday isn't the only one you brought.”
“No, why?”
Without releasing her eyes from his, he rose from his chair and came around to her side of the small glass-topped table. Without the least compunction, he placed his hands over her breasts, which were unfettered under the loose caftan of rainbow-striped muslin. He leaned over her until his mouth was at the back of her ear. “It's all right for you to entice my baser instincts, but I don't want you enticing anyone else's. I don't intend to share these with anyone.”
Hours later, blushingly reflecting on his words, she wondered why she hadn't taken exception to his propriety air, as she once would have done. Formerly her back would have bowed and her hackles would have risen and in dressing him down her tongue would have been as quick and as deadly as a viper's. Instead she had basked in the heat of his possessive claim.
After lounging at the pool and soaking up a couple hours’ of sun, they toured the tennis courts. But rather than opting for a match, they checked out a bicycle built for two and struck out along one of the myriad bike trails that crisscrossed Hilton Head.
After several hilarious minutes while they tried to match each other's timing on the pedals, they got the hang of it. Beneath the trees, the bike path was shady and the breeze cool.
“You're not nearly as uncoordinated as I thought you were at first,” Josh told Megan over his shoulder. He had taken the front seat, bragging that he knew better how to steer.
“Watch out for that dip!” she shouted. He whipped his head around in time to avoid catastrophe, but their recklessness set off another round of playfully insulting banter. At a secluded spot on the trail, Josh braked the bicycle and hauled her off. He propped the bike against a tree. “Let's take a walk.”
“Isn't that what one gangster says to another gangster when he parks the car beside the woods?” she teased. Despite her suspicions, she thrashed along behind him through the forest of trees and undergrowth.
“Yeah. Prepare yourself for the kiss of death.”
He braced her against a tree and secured her there with his own body. One arm closed around her waist while the other hand supported her jaw. His mouth came down on her firmly, completely, hotly.
His tongue probed her mouth with delicious thrusts, alternately forceful and gentle. When hers joined the play, boldly investigating the inside of his lips, his groan of satisfaction was like a sweet symphony in her ears. Her fingers traveled up and down the muscles of his back and, after several expeditions, her hands rested at his waist.
He had placed their feet so that one of his knees was snuggled between her thighs and one of hers between his. They both were wearing shorts, and static crackled along Megan's nerves, shocking her, electrifying her. Josh moved his knee slightly, and the soft hair sprinkling it tickled her sensitized skin. When she slid her thigh upward, he moaned her name and buried his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder.
“Megan, that feels so good. Do it again. Higher.” When she obliged him, his mouth opened ardently over her throat and his tongue stroked a message of love. “Your skin is so soft against mine,” he rasped. “I can't wait to have all of you naked beneath me.”
He pulled back to look at her, and his eyes went straight to her chest. She had pulled on a pair of shorts over her maillot, and the peacock-blue nylon did not conceal the shape of her breasts and their impudent crowns. Josh ducked his head and kissed one button-like nipple. His lips turned inward, and he plucked at it gently.
“Oh, Josh, please.” She didn't know if she was begging him to stop now or never. Perhaps her action spoke more eloquently. Her hands slid down to grip hard die flexing muscles of his buttocks as his hips rotated over her. He pumped against her rhythmically. She found a bare patch of skin on the back of his thigh and squeezed tightly.