CHAPTER SEVEN
‘THIS ISN’T GOING to happen.’
Tilly stared at him, her mind foggy. The afternoon sun was bright overhead. In fact it was sultry, and the air was thick. The boat lurched as he pulled it towards Prim’amore, slowing to meet the shore.
‘What?’
He stared pointedly at her hand. Without her permission, it had landed on his thigh. No—half on his thigh and embarrassingly close to his arousal.
Wine had made her slow; her mind lagged. ‘I...’
‘You’re drunk,’ he said darkly, and with such arrogant disbelief that she was spurred into denying the accusation.
‘I am absolutely not,’ she snapped, standing up to prove the point.
The boat rocked and, just like the first day they’d met, she began to topple forward. With a muttered curse he caught her, holding her tight around the arms.
‘And you are trouble,’ he said, without a hint of the affection that had warmed her over lunch.
‘You are,’ she retorted childishly.
‘Sit.’
‘“Sit”,’ she mimicked, but she did as he’d said, planting herself back on the seat.
He returned his concentration to the boat, driving it close to the sand and then jumping easily over the front. He used his hands to guide it to the shore and she leaned over the edge, watching him and studying the water at the same time. A school of fish swam beneath them.
The boat thudded as he rolled the tip of it onto the sand before coming around to her side. He held a hand up to Tilly but she stared at it mutinously.
‘I can manage.’
He made a derisive noise. ‘I’ve heard that before. Take my hand.’
‘No way. Not until you apologise for calling me drunk.’ Her demand was somewhat ruined by the hiccough that sliced the sentence in half.
‘You had two glasses of wine. How can you possibly be intoxicated?’ he asked in exasperation.
‘I don’t...’ Don’t drink very often. The admission died on her lips. ‘I don’t know,’ she finished lamely. ‘And I’m fine, thank you very much.’
‘Like hell you are,’ he snapped. ‘Let me help you.’
‘You think I’m going to drown in two inches of water?’
‘If anyone’s capable of it...’
She poked her tongue out and moved to the other side of the boat. He was quick, but she had the advantage, for Rio had water to wade through before he could reach her. She stepped out, nailing the landing.
It was the pirouette that she made in order to gloat that undid her.
She knocked her hip on the edge of the boat and it jolted her backwards—into the water. A brief recognition of his angry expression was the last thing she saw before landing in the water.
Again.
She spluttered, pushing up onto her elbows, but Rio was there, lifting her out of the ocean and hoisting her over his shoulder.
‘Put me down!’ she said crossly, but she didn’t try to wriggle out of his grip. Not when her hands were dangling over his curved rear. Curiously, she let her fingers move towards his waistband, separating it from his shirt until she found skin.
‘And let you fall into a hole or be eaten by a crab? No, Cressida. I think you need to be chained to a bed for a while.’