Now, she was at a fantasy resort. She’d cashed in the savings bonds her mother had left her, emptied her meager savings account, and come here for the fantasy of a lifetime. Not responsible, not reasonable, but something she had to do.
With a sigh, she ran her fingers through her hair. Right now, she wanted passion. Weak-kneed, heart-pounding, scream-inducing passion. And not just sex, but a passion for life. She wanted to feel the blood pulsing in her veins. Wanted a week of adventures—sun,sea and sex. An entire week to really experience being alive.
Thatwas her fantasy. And she wanted it so badly she could taste it. So desperately, she sometimes cried herself to sleep.
She blinked back an unexpected tear, frustrated that her control could slip so easily. A balmy breeze drifted in from the water’s edge, caressing her bare arms, evaporating the tiny beads of sweat on her collarbone. With a light finger, she traced the swell of her breast under the designer silk shell. Her impractical city-girl clothes would be the first to go.
With a jerk, she grabbed the hem and yanked the shirt over her head. She tossed it in the corner with the rest of her suit, then unclipped her bra.
“Chic-a-boom, chic-a-boom, chic-a-boom, boom, boom!” She twirled it above her head and then, with one final jut of her hip, she let it sail across the room, where it landed on top of a pink lamp with a conch-shell base.
Delighted, she laughed out loud, then realized she was standing almost naked in a doorway for all the world to see.
She stepped behind the wall and poked her head outside, trying to decide if the beach was as secluded as Ms. Weston had promised. Not a soul in sight, and not a sound except for the rhythmic lap of waves against the sand.
“Kyra,” she whispered, “it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.”
She slipped her finger under the elastic of her panties, wiggled a bit, and let them drop to the ground. Then she stepped out of her sandals and tried to judge the distance from her doorway to the ocean, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she worked up her nerve.
On the pro side, these kind of wild excursions were exactly what she was on the island for: adventure, unpredictability, thrills. On the con side, she’d be royally embarrassed if anybody saw her.
On the pro side, the water would feel wonderful. On the con side, she had no idea if the Florida waters were home to jellyfish.
On the pro side, Stuart had pointed out the cabana’s first aid kit. On the con side—
“Just do it already!” Before she could stop herself, she tore out of the cabana at a full run, buck naked, sprinted across the dunes, then ran straight into the ocean. The water felt glorious against her skin, and she waded out further, finally treading water when it became too deep for her to stand.
She stayed like that for a while, enjoying the decadent sensation of the water against naked flesh. She leaned her head back, soaking her hair as she listened to the rhythm of the ocean, her mind drifting. She ought to find a giant shell for a souvenir. Then, whenever she wanted, she could press it to her ear and remember this week.
Eyes closed, she moved her arms in slow, languid movements. Just enough to keep afloat. The beach was silent. She was alone and free. Just her and nature.
Nature? She opened her eyes, looking down into the clear water to her feet and the grayish-blue blur beyond that. Was that the ocean floor? Or something else? With a sudden blinding memory, she recalled the opening scene ofJaws. A girl, naked, in the ocean. A shark. One heck of a creepy theme song.
Faster than she would have thought possible, she half-swam, half-ran back to the shallows, then climbed out of the water and collapsed onto the beach, inhaling gulps of air.
That was sonotthe kind of adrenaline rush she’d planned on. Closing her eyes, she let the warm sun go to work drying her wet skin. There was no one else around. No reason she couldn’t lie there and enjoy the afternoon.
She bit back a self-satisfied smile. Yesterday she would never have been caught dead skinny-dipping. And lying in the sand—getting all those itchy grains all over her—well, she’d end up tracking the stuff all over the cabana.
Very messy. Very impractical.
Stifling a laugh, she picked up a handful of sand and dribbled it on her belly. For years, she’d been the responsible one—good, old, dependable Kyra.
Not anymore.
Over the next week, she was going to wear impracticalclothes and let her long hair tangle in the ocean breeze. She was going to play in the surf and wear revealing bathing suits and drink fruity bar drinks with exotic names. She’d sleep until noon and dance with strangers and let someone else shoulder all the burdens for a while.
But most importantly, she was going to have adventures. Sailing. Windsurfing. Maybe even searching for sunken treasure.
And sex.
The chance to finally,fully, experience primitive, hot, wild sex. To succumb to a man’s erotic touch. To feel that sensual trill as his fingers stroked and played her. That, perhaps, was the biggest adventure of all.
She was going to do all that and more, and she didn’t feel even a tiny bit selfish. Well, maybe a little, but she was working really hard to quash the feeling. This was her fantasy, after all. She’d come to this island to lose herself…and, hopefully, to find herself, too.
She’d told Ms. Weston she wanted the sun, the sea and sex. If that combination didn’t make her feel alive, then nothing would.
Next week, when her fantasy was over, she’d return to Dallas—to Harold, and to her obligations. But this week… This week, she was going to make enough memories to last her the rest of her life.
