Swept Away (16 page)

After eating her sandwich while standing at the kitchen counter listening to those seventies
tunes that were starting to drive her crazy, Kat went into the bathroom and locked the door. The
tiny room, it seemed, was becoming her spot of retreat. Odd, she’d come to this island to be
alone, but could only seem to manage that by hiding in this miniscule space done in badly
chipping Florida pink tile.

She showered and washed her hair, then conditioned it, rinsing for a long, long time. Turning
the knob to redirect the flow of water from the upper nozzle to the lower, she sat down in the
tub and shaved her legs. Finally getting out, mainly due to pruning concerns, she stood in front
of the sink and blew her hair dry. Then worked lotion into her hands, where clay resided in the
pores. Then sat down on the closed toilet seat and moisturized all over. And moisturized again.

She tried to think about useful, practical things. The idea that had hit her today on the beach—
about firing sand onto her pots, transforming them from smooth to gritty, making her art a
more rugged expression. And about the last few things she had left to do when she got home—
a final visit to the florist to make sure the special roses she’d ordered were the exact shade she
wanted; a call to the country club, reminding them someone needed to be there on Saturday when the ice sculpture arrived. Her mom was handling the rest of the last-minute details, but
only she could check the flowers, and she’d forgotten about the country club call until getting
here.

She tried to continue thinking about practical things—How was the gallery running without
her? Had the kids missed her at The Kiln on Saturday? Had her mom remembered to stop by
for cat-sitting duty?—but the truth was, her mind kept traveling back to the moment when
she’d been straddling Brock on that car seat, and she’d realized that being with her was only
about sex for him, nothing more.

Because, apparently, that was still the case.

Not that it came as a surprise.

And not that she’d never had sex for the mere sake of sex. Only maybe sometimes she regretted that once it was over.

The truth was—sex generally disappointed her. She had always known desire, deep passion, a
yearning for everything she thought sex could and should be. But it never quite seemed to live
up to the hype in her own mind.

She’d never told anyone that—hell, maybe this moment, as she smeared globs of green aloe gel
across her still slightly pink breasts, was the first time she’d even admitted it to herself.

But maybe that was the reason she’d waited to have sex with Ian. Because in her heart, sex was
supposed to be a special thing. She’d never actually succeeded in making it very special, but
she intended to. Wedding-night sex, sex for the first time with Ian, had to be special. It just had to.

She peered in the mirror, bit her lip, and wished the notion excited her more. Then she pushed
the thought away. You’re just feeling glum because Brock Denton is driving you out of your
mind. Playing head games. And sex games.

Sadly, though, sex with Brock still sounded pretty darn good. That excited her.

Easing down against the hard-on hidden in his blue jeans that night ten years ago had excited
her. And she wasn’t sure anything had excited her as much since.

Which was a bad, bad thought—so she tried to push that one away, too, and concentrate on
rubbing in the aloe. But even that brought thoughts of him rushing back—thoughts of wanting
the hands on her breasts to be his.

You are doomed. Just doomed.

But wait, no. She stood up a little straighter and looked at herself again in the glass. You are
strong. You are woman, hear you roar.

Clearly, she’d been listening to too much seventies music if she was bolstering herself with
Helen Reddy lyrics, but at least she’d held Brock off this long—so she could keep right on
doing it.

Just focus on the “selfish son of a bitch” part and the “only wants sex” part. Yeah, that should help. Because as much as she’d wanted sex from Brock when they were young deep inside,
she’d wanted a whole lot more. Sex would have merely been the icing.

After she finally put back on her pale green shorty pajamas—which, frogs aside, seemed
risqu, but a safer choice than the panty-and-cami set she’d brought—she quietly turned the
lock on the bathroom door, hoping to slip silently out and find Brock fast asleep on the floor. It
was quiet out there, after all—she could tell he’d clicked off the radio—so hopefully he’d tired of harassing her for the day and turned in.

Exiting the little room, she found the space only dimly lit, most of the lights extinguished, and
assumed he’d left the last one on for her. Which was kind of polite, under the circumstances.
And as always with him, it took only the tiniest act of kindness to make her decide maybe he
wasn’t really so horrible. Well ready to call it a day herself, she rounded the corner toward the bed—to find him lying in it with his hands propped behind his head.

She gasped—and her pulse raced, particularly between her thighs. He wore no shirt, and the
covers were pulled to his waist, so she didn’t know if he was wearing anything underneath,
either. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to sleep—what’s it look like?”

“It looks like you might not have any clothes on under there, that’s what.” She pointed
vaguely toward the sheet draped just below his well-muscled stomach.

He offered not even a hint of a smile, but his eyes dripped with the usual sin. “Come and find
out, kitten.”

She drew in her breath and planted her hands on her hips. “You can’t sleep in my bed.”

He gave his head a matter-of-fact tilt, looking almost like a reasonable man—if she didn’t know
better. “It’s like this, honey. That damn floor killed my back last night. So I’m not sleeping
there again when there’s a perfectly good bed here built for two. You can join me, or not. Your
choice.”

Kat pulled in another nervous gulp of air and hoped he didn’t see. She had no idea what would
happen if she got into that bed with him. Or maybe she did. She swallowed back the massive
lump of desire in her throat. “You’re a big, rude interloper,” she informed him.

He shrugged, arms still behind his head, biceps bulging. “Way I see it is—we’re in this
together. Not your fault or mine I ended up here, but we have to make the best of it.”

Yeah, he was trying to make the best of it, all right.

She considered her options. The bed, with Brock. Or the hard floor, alone.

On the surface, it seemed a really easy answer. She wasn’t a “roughing it” sort of girl—she’d
never even seen the inside of a tent, and she’d certainly never slept on a floor. But my God,
what would Ian think if he could see her sharing a bed with another guy? Even if nothing
happened.

Still and all, Ian couldn’t see her. And this wasn’t cheating on him. Hell, the lusty thoughts in
her head for Brock were probably a way worse offense than just sharing the same space with
him, even if that space happened to be of the horizontal variety.

She crossed her arms and tried to look like a woman not to be trifled with. “If I get in that bed,
do you promise to stay on your side?”

“Sure, kitten,” he said far too easily, same old unmistakably sexual gleam in his eye. Then he
scooted over, vacating the space where she’d slept last night, and patted the mattress. “Here
you go.”

Kat took a deep breath and moved cautiously toward the bed. She climbed in without looking at
him, finding the spot delectably warm from his body, and reached to pull the sheet up—then
realized she still didn’t know if he was naked or not. She darted her glance to him, his utter
nearness reminding her that—oh God!—they were actually in a bed together. “You’re not
naked, are you?”

He met her gaze, then lifted the covers.

She didn’t have to look underneath, but she bit her lip and did anyway—and found the same
pair of gray shorts he’d worn last night. Which was a relief—except for the enormous bulge in front that nearly melted her on the spot. Her eyes stuck there like two magnets that couldn’t pull
away.

When finally they did, she found him flashing the most wicked look she’d ever seen on his handsome, unshaven face. She suffered all the guilt and shock that surely painted her own.
“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” he replied, looking annoyingly satisfied.

“Shut up,” she snapped. “I’m going to sleep.” With that, she turned away and brusquely switched off the lamp on the bedside table, drowning them both in darkness except for the
beam from the security light outside.

She lay with her back to him, thinking—Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.
But her heart raced, her skin tingled, and her whole being ached.

And she imagined him curling into her from behind, spooning her so that she could feel that
marvelous erection pressing into her, full and stiff.

It would be so easy, so dreadfully easy, to turn over, into his arms to sink into hot, spine-
tingling kisses to slip her leg between his and feel his hardness to let their bodies mingle in
the dark shadows while a crisp, salty breeze wafted through the window to bathe their bodies
in sweet tropical air.

Stop this. But she couldn’t. God help her, she wanted him. Like she’d always wanted him.
Time and distance and growing up hadn’t changed that, much as she wished it had.

She quietly rolled over, just to look at him, study his face in shadow, watch him sleep.

She flinched when she found him peering back, dangerously near, only a mere pillow away.
“What’s wrong, kitten? Can’t sleep?”

A jagged sensation of desire zigzagged through her chest and belly—but she flopped back over in bed to face away from him again. “I can sleep just fine, thanks.” Yeah, sure I can.

His voice came as warm as the night, deep as sin itself. “Seize the night with me, kitten. I dare
you.”

The hot invitation hung in the air, sultry and sweet. She didn’t answer as fast as she should
have, darn it—but finally managed to say, “No.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.” And so will I.

He said nothing more, but she could feel him in the bed next to her—she could smell him,
sense his presence, his very maleness.

She’d always been weak with him, always. Even when she knew no good could come of it. He was her greatest temptation and her worst mistake. Hadn’t she learned her lesson by now?

She let out a sigh, tried to breathe evenly, tried to think of sleep.

But no matter how she sliced it, it was going to be a very long night.