She’d spent her life learningnotto be impulsive, overcoming her natural spontaneity and thinking before she acted. But he was so close, and she’d resisted so long.
And she’d been so worried about him since last night.
Suddenly she couldn’t find the willpower to hold back any longer.
She lifted her hand, feeling the scrape of his close-shaved beard, the heat of his flesh and the strength of his powerful jaw. Her breath hitched as pleasure spread from her sensitive palm. Her nipples budded against her dress, more sensitive without a bra, and her breath escaped on a rush of reckless excitement.
Rosamund raised her head and brushed her lips against his, and the world disappeared.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE IT WAS, the jolt of connection, the instant hunger. Heat and fire and a whole maelstrom of feelings rushing inside him as her mouth touched his.
He’d seen the kiss coming. He’d had plenty of time to stop it and hadn’t. It was like last time, when an accidental meeting of mouths had undone him.
This time he’d had a choice. But how could there be a choice when his craving for her grew so great it kept him from sleep? From concentrating on work, from everything but thoughts of her?
Fotis looped his arms around her, hauling her in, slicking the open seam of her lips and pushing in to taste her.
She tasted like chocolate, courtesy of the handmade truffle she’d had instead of dessert. And of warm, luscious woman. He angled his head, delving deep, drawing her closer, repressing a sigh of satisfaction at the feel of her breasts crushed against his body and her hands slipping around his neck, pulling his head down to hers.
She smelt of cinnamon, vanilla and needy female.
Her low hum of pleasure tickled his tongue. It pulled his skin tight and weighted his hands as they slid around to grasp her hips and hold her close.
He drew her tongue into his mouth, sucking hard as blood pooled in his groin. He wanted…
Sounds intruded. For a second he couldn’t even identify it as a sound, just in awareness of something else, something beyond the pair of them. Then, finally he heard a voice calling their names.
The world crashed back. Even then, knowing they weren’t alone, it took everything he had to lift his mouth from hers. And more again to withstand temptation when he saw her, eyes closed and lips parted, rising on her toes to follow his retreat as if sheneededhis kisses.
Another shout destroyed the illusion of intimacy.
From the corner of his eye he saw, on the road below them, a photographer with a massive telephoto lens trained on them. Instinctively, Fotis swung around, shielding Rosamund from view.
Was that why she’d wandered over here? To give the press fodder for their stories?
At least they were screened from the other diners in the restaurant by a collection of large, potted oleanders.
His fingers tightened on her hips. Had she used him to make her point that she was unfazed by last night’s threat? To feed the story they were lovers? His lips twisted as a sour tang filled his mouth. But then she opened her eyes, looking dazed and undone. Unguarded. And the beginnings of anger clenching his belly dissipated.
Anyway, what did any photos matter? He didn’t care what the press printed about him. A photo of them kissing was hardly a disaster. It only rankled momentarily because of his inveterate disgust at being used.
But looking down into those slumbrous eyes, he couldn’t believe she was anything like the woman who’d used him as a convenient puppet time and again. Rosamund was complex and not easy to read but she wasn’t like his mother who’d brought out her sons only when she needed them, then shunted them off and forgotten them as soon as she had what she wanted.
He remembered Rosamund in Paris with those eager teens. Her interest in them had been genuine. She’d stayed late at the awards ceremony, alight with enthusiasm as they talked about their aspirations.
‘Fotis?’
‘Did you know about the photographer?’
Rosamund frowned. ‘Photographer?’ She swung around towards the restaurant, dislodging his hold, and he had his answer. She looked baffled as she surveyed the thick foliage between them and the other diners. ‘They’ll be at the entrance, waiting for us to come out. Is that what you mean?’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
It was a lie. Itdidmatter. Not the photographer, but Fotis’ reaction to that kiss. The mere touch of her lips and he’d dropped all pretence of staying alert to protect her from danger. What had happened to his laser-sharp focus? The instincts he’d always relied on? His need for caution while responsible for her safety?
The barrier separating him from others that had become innate over the years.
