Page 69

He grinned. “Closer than this.”

He lunged, swept her into his arms, and spun. Her hands clasped his neck, and her laughter rang in his ear. She felt impossibly good against him, lushly snug. He pushed past his hip’s first rebuke, wresting from the pain one final, dizzy spin.

He set her down, and she swayed into him, face tipped up, mouth seeking his.

He kissed her, smiling against her lips, and tore himself away.

Swimming, not kissing. Swimming.

Three steps, and the grass gave way to liquid, the cold drilling up through his feet. He dove, sluicing down into the lake’s crystal heart, then shooting up to the surface.

In the water, he was fast.

He struck out, swimming until his sluggish blood began to pump; then he went under again and changed direction, heading back toward shore.

This time, when he surfaced, he saw Nina standing ankle-deep in the water.

She’d shed her dress and petticoat and wrapped herself in the banyan he’d included with the linens. It reached down to her shins, a single layer of silk. The breeze molded it to her body.

He swam toward her, his breaststroke Byronic. Only Byron was likely to have swum in such a state of rampant arousal.

His feet touched the mud.

She walked to him with hands held out. “Teach me to fly.”

—

Nina already regretted her boldness. The lake was inky black and cold as January. When she flexed her feet, pain went shooting through the soles. Her veins felt like needles. Had the blood in her toes frozen?

She was still dizzy from whirling in Alan’s arms, and she was drugged from the scent of his banyan, and from the expression on his face when he rose from the water, hungry and determined.

He wanted her.

Here it was at last. Something she might turn to her advantage. A man in lust was easily led.

Nausea bubbled up at the thought.

As he reached her, she made to pull back, too late.

His large wet hands gripped hers. Her heart twinged, and she brushed her thumb over the swollen knuckles of his left hand.

“Ready?” He leaned in, scattering her with droplets. “We’ll start with a leg stroke.”

“Is that wise?” She frowned. “My feet might break off. They’ve turned to ice.”

“Details,” he said. He released her hands and stepped around her, lifting one of the kettles from the bank.

“Follow me.” He brushed past, wading out into the lake. His bathing costume was sleeveless, knee-length, the black fabric suctioned to his broad back, to the curve of his high, round bottom. The water rose up his thighs. He turned to face her. That crooked smile—it hooked her like a fish.

Drat it. If only she were a fish. It would be more apropos. And fish weren’t frauds.

She sucked in her breath and she went to him. Her skin was wincing. She held her arms out stiffly as the water sloshed to her hips. The silk tugged at her shoulders. Her stockings sagged. Clearly, the lake wanted to slurp her down.

“Swimming.” Alan pronounced the word grandly, as though the lake were his lectern. “That special mode of progression that enables a person to derive entire support from the liquid in which he is immersed.” He looked at her with a widening smile.

She yanked at the banyan, tucking the halves more tightly under the knotted belt, narrowing the closure, keenly aware of his gaze. His pale irises had caught some of the night’s wan light. They seemed, suddenly, like chips of the moon.

“You, however, are going to rely on me for partial support as you practice your kick.”