Swept Away (11 page)

What do you want, kitten? He knew the answer, even if she refused to admit or give in to it.

He dropped his gaze to her lips, full and slightly parted. Let me, kitten. Just let me. And since
she’d finally stopped arguing, he leaned in ever so slowly, drawn to her like a magnet, bringing
their faces closer, their mouths closer still, until heaven was a mere inch away. She’d kissed him once, ten years ago, and they were long overdue for a repeat performance. In that moment, he needed her mouth beneath his like he needed to breathe.

She turned her head at the last second, leaving his kiss to land on her cheek.

The sound of her heated sigh wafted over him as he held in a groan of frustration. So near but
yet so far.

When he drew back, her eyes were shut, her lower lip between her teeth. “Go,” she whispered,
pointing again toward the floor.

His heart beat too hard in his chest. He couldn’t quite believe she still had the strength to resist.
Waiting until she opened her eyes once more, he met them with his own, then backed very slowly across the bed, saying, “If you change your mind, kitten, I’m just a heartbeat away.”

“Go to sleep, Brock,” she said softly. But her eyes sparkled with a healthy dose of shared lust, so that would have to be enough for now.

Settling back down on the floor, he laced his fingers behind his head, peered at the ceiling, and listened to Kat breathe. It was a nice sound—like the hum of the boat engine earlier today,
gradually starting to relax him. To his surprise, despite his lingering arousal, the gentle
feminine breathing even brought an odd sense of peace over him.

Practically speaking, putting the moves on her was probably the last thing he should be doing
—not just because she was getting married in less than a week but because he was technically
on a mission here and should stay alert. Practically speaking, he should never feel completely at
peace.

But for all intents and purposes, the mission was scrapped—he’d blown it. Which really
sucked, yet once you blew it, you might as well take a few days and relax. And as luck would have it, he’d ended up on an island with a beautiful girl from his past who didn’t have many
clothes.

So maybe he shouldn’t be trying to seduce Kat—but the truth was, he just didn’t think he could
help himself. And she might have resisted him tonight—but they had four more nights to go,
and he planned to make the most of them.

“Sweet dreams, kitten,” he whispered.

Chapter Four

Kat yawned, stretched, eased her eyes open—and spotted Brock standing with his back to her
at the little kitchen counter across the room. He still wore only a pair of shorts, and the sight of
that smooth tan male back made the juncture of her thighs tingle. How had this happened? How had Brock Denton, of all people, ended up back in her life, threatening to ruin her

transformation into an upper-class Carol Brady?

Dinner with him last night, not to mention their little bedtime discussion and near kiss, had
been pure torture. It had been as if her body were suddenly wired differently—or maybe she’d
been wired this way all along and his unexpected presence had sort of plugged her in and
started the electricity flowing in a jarringly intense way.

So she’d made sure not to drink too much wine—despite the fact that she’d really wanted to
guzzle. Because the tipsy, giggly version of herself she’d been ruminating on yesterday at the
beach was not always the most reverent or in-control version. God knew what she’d have done
last night if she’d gotten even remotely intoxicated. So she was impressed with her restraint.

And she’d thought of Ian. And her dad. And her mom. She’d thought of her bridesmaids, all
of them in their pale yellow gowns and the too-expensive shoes she’d insisted they have. Then she’d jumped ahead in time and thought of her little children in their pastel beachwear. She’d reminded herself over and over that everything would be ruined if she made a reckless decision
here.

Yet she’d kept being hammered with the inescapable notion that if the timing were different, if
this had happened six months ago, last year sometime, she could have done whatever she’d had
the urge to do with him. She could have gotten as tipsy and giggly as she wanted and fulfilled a long-ago dream whose lack of a conclusion had always left her feeling a little incomplete.

And despite what her friends probably thought, she didn’t sleep with just any guy who flipped her trigger. But this was Brock. The Brock. Of her youth. Of her fantasies. Of her heart.

The uncensored truth was—she’d wanted to. Really bad. And right now, her body ached just lying here watching him from behind.

The only thing keeping her clothes—what few she had—on her at the moment was knowing
she simply couldn’t be that kind of a person. Because even if her engagement to Ian hadn’t set
off bells and whistles inside her, even if his kisses failed to do the same, she wanted a good
marriage. It was all that mattered.

And, of course, every time she traveled this trail of thought in her head, she inevitably arrived at the big “guilty” sign pointing toward Naples and Ian, reminding her how devastated he would be if he had any idea she wanted another guy so much.

“Found the donuts.” Brock turned toward her, an open bakery box in his hand. A light stubble
dusted his cheeks, reminding her of touching his face so many years ago, and of being so close to him, bringing their bodies together, their mouths, their crotches.

She caught her breath, prayed her thoughts weren’t written all over her face, and said, “Don’t
eat the ones with the sprinkles.”

A marginally remorseful look crossed his face as he licked his lips. “Sorry.”

Damn him. One more bit of torture—no sprinkles. She let out a disgusted sigh, then noticed
that her nipples were pointing tautly through her thin top. She reached to flip the sheet over her
—and he cast another of his provocative little smiles. “Going shy on me again, kitten?”

The words irritated her so badly that something inside her snapped—she flung the covers back
and bounded out of bed in her thin top and matching cotton shorts with pale green cartoon
frogs on them, striding toward the kitchen area where he stood. “Fine, you want to see? Look
all you like! You’ve seen it all anyway.”

She plopped down in a chair at the small table near the counter, reaching up to snatch the donut
box from his hand. She peered inside, harboring a tiny bit of hope that he’d just been teasing
her. “Damn it, you really did eat all the ones with sprinkles. Hog.”

“I was hungry. And I didn’t know certain donuts were special. You’re not the only one in the world who likes sprinkles, you know.” Amusement laced his voice. “Tell me what I can do to
make it up to you, kitten.”

She rolled her eyes, flashing a look designed to let him know he was on her blacklist. “Pour me a glass of milk.”

He turned toward the refrigerator. “This rich guy you’re marrying, does he have servants?”

Damn, his butt looked good through those shorts when he bent over, and his thigh muscles
flexed a little, too. She bit her lower lip, and when he turned back around, milk carton in hand,
jerked her eyes up to his. “Someone who cleans once a week and makes a few meals. Why?”

“Thought maybe you’d been practicing. You’ve got that ‘lady of the manor’ thing down.”

She decided to ignore that comment altogether, since it struck at the heart of every conceivable
difference between them. Her family had had money, his had been poor. Now, she was poised
to be a wealthy wife and, even if his circumstances were much improved from his youth, there
was still that certain earthy, gritty quality about him that reminded her they were worlds apart—
and which drew her to him all the more.

After he found two glasses in a cabinet above the sink, then lowered himself into the seat
across from her to start pouring, she found herself focusing on his upper body again—because she couldn’t quite stop it, because his muscles looked so good shifting beneath all that smooth
skin with every move he made.

It was when she felt his warm gaze that she, again, yanked her eyes to his face, and his look
made it all too clear he knew exactly where her mind was. Not exactly in the gutter, but well on
its way. Time to make conversation, before he accused her of wanting him.

“Didn’t you used to have your name tattooed there?” She pointed toward his right biceps.

He took a drink from his glass, nodding. “Had it removed. Can’t go undercover very well with your name on your arm. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a work of art.”

Yeah, she recalled that. As tattoos went, it had been beyond plain—very simple letters in a
straight line. “Did you have an amateur do it or something?” She didn’t mean it as an insult, but it had looked amateurish and she’d figured that was all he could afford.

“No, he was a professional. Just not a very good one. And he was drunk at the time.”
She flinched and raised her eyebrows in question.

“It was my twenty-first birthday—we were all drunk,” he explained. “Guy was a friend, so
said he’d give me a free tattoo for my birthday. All things considered, though, I can’t
complain.” He lowered his chin, as if about to confide in her. “Because my brother, on the other hand...”

She’d only met his older brother Bruno once—he’d struck her as a rougher version of Brock,
and whereas the aura of danger surrounding Brock had lured her, with Bruno, it had left her
instantly wary. “What? Did he get a bad tattoo?”

Brock met her gaze and the corners of his mouth quirked upward, although he was clearly
trying not to smile. “Guy misspelled his name.”

She blinked in disbelief. “What?”
“His arm says Burno. B-U-R-N-O.”

Kat slapped her hand over her mouth, but a laugh leaked through. “Oh my God, are you
serious? That’s awful.”

Brock finally let out a grin. “Yeah, I’m serious. And yeah, it’s awful.” Then his expression
turned a little sad, almost wistful. “He beat the pulp out of the guy when he saw it the next day. It wasn’t pretty.”

She wondered where his thoughts had gone, since—suddenly—there was more taking place
behind his eyes. What have you been through, Brock? She’d never asked about his family
when they were young—their time around each other had been about attraction and flirtation and little else—but she’d always wondered, knowing instinctively that something had been terribly wrong in that area of his life.

“What ever happened to Bruno?” she asked softly. By the time Brock had left town, Bruno had
been in jail and she’d never heard anything more about him.

“He’s in prison.” He said it matter-of-factly, but his eyes contradicted his easy tone.
“Still? After all this time?”

Brock sighed, sounded tired. “Every time he gets out, he steals a car or holds up a liquor store
and goes right back in. He doesn’t really know how to function outside jail anymore, I don’t
think.”