‘Good. Thank you.’ She huffed to stop her sweaty hair sticking to her forehead as Coop paid the driver and waved him off.
The truth was it had been better than good, when she’d arrived at Gatwick Airport to discover the economy class ticket she’d insisted on purchasing herself, despite several terse emails from Coop before she left London, had been upgraded to first class. The added benefits of a three-course cordon bleu meal and a fold-down bed had made the eight-hour flight pass in a haze of anticipation. But now she was here, the impact of seeing him again was making the crows of doubt swoop like vultures in her stomach.
‘I appreciated the upgrade, but you really didn’t need to do that.’ She wanted to make it absolutely clear she did not expect him to bankroll her.
Picking up her suitcase, he slung her carry-on bag under his arm. ‘Sure I did.’ His gaze skimmed down to her midriff before he sent her an assured grin. ‘No baby of mine travels coach.’
The vultures in her stomach soared upward to flap around her heart and she stood like a dummy, stupidly touched by the reference to their child.
‘Come here.’ Resting his hand on her waist, he directed her towards the wooden steps that led out of the carport and into the back of the house. ‘Let’s get you out of this heat.’
The stairs led to the wide veranda of a white, wood-framed house that rose from the grove of palms to stand on a rocky outcropping. She’d admired the modern, two-storey colonial structure as they wound down the drive from the main gate. Up close, the building was dominated by the large windows covered by louvred shutters. The house appeared cool and airy even before they stepped off the veranda into a palatial, high-ceilinged living area that opened onto a wraparound porch, which looked down onto the cove below.
Dumping her bag and suitcase at the base of a curving staircase that led to the second level, Coop leaned against the balustrade and smiled. In a faded red and black Bermuda College T-shirt and ragged jeans, his bare feet bronze against the oak flooring, he looked more like the beach bum she remembered than the suited executive she’d found so intimidating in London.
‘So what do you think? Better than the hut, right?’
She swung round to take in the view and give herself a moment to regain the power of speech. Expensive, luxury furnishings—including a couple of deep-seated leather sofas, a huge flatscreen TV, a bar framed in glass bricks and a walled fireplace—adorned the tidy, minimalist living area. She stepped through the open doors onto the deck, hoping that the sea breeze would cool the heat rising up her neck. And spotted
the edge of an infinity pool, sparkling on the terrace below the house. Steps carved into the stone led down through the grove of palms and banana trees, probably to the beach at Half-Moon Cove.
The cosy, ramshackle beach hut where they’d conceived their child had to be down there somewhere—but felt light years away from the elegance of his real home.
‘It’s incredibly beautiful. You must have worked very hard to earn all this in under a decade.’
He joined her on the deck, resting his elbows on the rail beside her hip and making her heartbeat spike.
‘So you’ve been checking up on me?’
She studied the sun-bleached hair on his muscular forearms—lost for words again.
She’d expected to be a little intimidated by his wealth—especially after the first class travel over. She hadn’t expected to feel completely overwhelmed. Not just by the staggering beauty of his home, but by him too. And the staggering effect he still had on her.
‘The Internet is a glorious thing,’ she murmured.
Unfortunately all the articles and news clippings about the meteoric rise of his business had contained virtually no information about his personal life. Or his past—bar a few photos of him escorting model-perfect women to island events. And once she’d discovered those, her enthusiasm for playing Nancy Drew had waned considerably.
‘The journalist from Investment magazine said you were the Rags-to-Riches King of the Islands,’ she said. ‘She seemed very impressed with your business model.’ And not just his business model, Ella had decided, from all the detailed prose about his muscular physique and sparklingly intelligent gaze.
The grin as he glanced her way was quick and boyish. ‘Yeah, I remember her. As I recall she hit on me.’
‘I’m not sure I needed to know that,’ she blurted, before getting control of the sting of jealousy.
He straightened away from the rail. ‘Just so you know, I didn’t hit on her back.’ He skimmed a knuckle down her cheek. ‘I like to be the one doing the chasing.’ He tucked his finger under her chin. ‘Except when it comes to pretty little English cougars who go trawling in beach bars.’
Her pulse sped up to thud against her neck, and the spot between her thighs melted. ‘I didn’t come back to Bermuda to hit on you again,’ she said, trying hard to sound as if she meant it. Sleeping with him would only distract her from the real reason she was here.
He clasped the rail on either side of her hips, boxing her in.
‘Then how about I hit on you?’
She gasped as he pressed warm, firm lips to her neck. Lust shot through her like a jolt of electricity—connecting the soft tissue under her chin to the bundle of nerves that lay dormant in her sex.
Except, it wasn’t dormant any more.
The sensations spread like molten lava, incinerating everything they touched as he explored her mouth in bold, determined strokes.
She sucked on his tongue, savouring the tangy flavour of him, the groan of desperation. Her fingers flexed against the lean muscles of his abdomen as roughened palms stroked under her blouse. His fingers wrapped around her waist to yank her closer. She shuddered, her sensitive, pregnancy-engorged breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest.