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OFF DOWN THE BEACH, Rosemary went with Desmond and, once the sounds of revelry could no longer be heard above the roar of the water against the shore, she stopped and took a deep breath. “It smells amazing out here, doesn’t it?” she said, as much to him as to herself.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling not the scent of the sea, but the scent of Rosemary. “It certainly does.”
“It’s enough to make me dread returning to London.” Desmond made no response other than a hum of agreement. “Are you settling down there, or had you planned to move on? It sounded as though you enjoyed traveling around with your great-aunt. Did you get a taste of wanderlust?” she wanted to know.
“Of course, I had a grand time,” he said, moving a little closer to Rosemary until his arm brushed against hers. “But London has its own draw. My friends are there. You’re there.” All intention of keeping his feelings to himself had evaporated in a rum-soaked haze.
Rosemary didn’t quite know what to say to that, but she felt those blasted butterflies in her stomach take flight and settle in her throat. She swallowed, gathered her considerable courage, and looked him square in the eyes. What she saw there was a smoldering flame, ready to erupt; all she had to do was tilt her head and lower her lashes.
A war raged between Rosemary’s heart and her mind. She knew Andrew was gone; he wasn’t coming back and he would never begrudge her the chance to be happy, to find love with someone else. Over the past year, she’d examined their relationship through the luxury of hindsight, but not with perfect vision. Instead, she found she’d been looking through rose-colored glasses. No, she and Andrew hadn’t been the sort of couple who fought or even disagreed often, and he’d rarely raised his voice to her, but there were still those bumps in the road that every marriage must weather.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like a betrayal to admit that, and so she inclined her head, closed her eyes, and waited.
Desmond didn’t give the invitation a second thought. He didn’t need to know why she had decided to succumb to the tension that had existed between them since he’d come back into her life. When his lips finally met hers, their touch was tender: the kind of kiss she’d imagined as a girl before she’d known to expect passion rather than sweetness.
Breath meeting breath sent a shiver up her spine, but when the two finally parted, she let out an uncontrollable giggle.
“It really doesn’t stroke a man’s ego when a woman he kisses laughs in his face,” Desmond said wryly.
“No,” Rosemary gasped, “I’m not laughing at you. It was a great kiss. Amazing even, just as I’d imagined it.”
Desmond blinked. “Just how often have you imagined kissing me?”
“Every night for years, Des dear. I followed you and Freddie around like a little lost puppy when we were children. You must have known I had a hopeless crush on you.” How he might not have noticed was a mystery to her.
He shrugged. “We were children, and I found you charming even then. You must have known that.”
She thought about that for a moment, wondered if, had either of them been daring enough, they might have had an entirely different life. “I didn’t,” was all she could think of to say.
“It’s funny how things turn out, but I’d hope not so funny as to make you laugh at my best attempt,” he replied, still confused by her reaction to his kiss.
“I wasn’t laughing at your romantic prowess if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just, well, I hate to bring it up, but I haven’t kissed a man other than Andrew in years. I’d been dreading it, if I’m honest, thinking it would be the most painful part of moving on.”
She looked up and into Desmond’s eyes and saw that he was trying to understand but still appeared puzzled. “It wasn’t. Painful, I mean. Just nice. Maybe I’m not explaining it well, but I feel relieved. And lighter, somehow. Thank you.”
“No worries, I guess,” Desmond said. Thank you wasn’t exactly what a man wanted to hear, but it beat a slap in the face. He’d consider it a win and leave it at that.
Rosemary’s heart did feel significantly lighter upon her return to the bar and her friends. She sidestepped Desmond’s attempt to grab her hand on the way back across the beach, for somehow, even though she’d allowed him to kiss her, holding his hand felt even more intimate than having his lips on hers.
She was surprised when neither Frederick nor Vera even glanced in their direction. She’d expected some childish snickering at the minimum, and at least one eyebrow wiggle between the two. Instead, their eyes were fixed on something across the way, on the opposite side of the hut.
“Things are about to get interesting, Rosie,” Vera said without even looking at her. “Those two are getting heated.”
With a glance in Geneviève and Benjamin’s direction, Rosemary sighed. The trip to Cyprus suddenly felt like a misadventure. Not only had she become embroiled in an unintended romance and a depressing murder investigation, but she had also now been reduced to an eavesdropping busybody. What she really wanted to do was nab Vera, retire to their suite, and tell her all about what had just taken place on the beach. Those hopes were fated to be dashed, as there would be no pulling Vera away when a knock-down, drag-out fight appeared poised to occur.
“That’s enough, Vivi, you’re making a scene,” Benjamin bellowed, causing everyone who hadn’t been watching with avid interest to glance in his direction.
“I’m the one making the scene?” Geneviève snapped back. “You’re the one yelling at the top of your lungs!” Her voice rose to an octave higher than his, drawing even more attention, and then lapsed into what sounded like French profanity.
Benjamin’s face grew redder until it looked as though his head might explode, and he was forced to shout, “You know I can only understand half of what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying,” Geneviève said, switching back to English with an effort, “that you’re nothing but a lying, philandering git, and I wish I’d never laid eyes on you!”
Snapping back into work mode, Walter stepped into the fray. “Here now, get hold of yourselves. You’re creating a scene.”
Quite often, the brave man who places himself between two spitting animals finds himself the new target of their ire. This was the case with Walter. For just long enough to announce that they’d take themselves off if they weren’t wanted, Ben and his Vivi joined forces. A détente that lasted mere moments as they moved away from the bar and the fight began again more loudly than ever.
Without a word said between them, Rosemary and her companions rose to follow as a group. Not too close, but close enough to hear Ben and Geneviève going at each other with renewed fervor.
“How dare you accuse me of ill behavior when you’ve been out at all hours of the night, eh? I spend half my time alone while you’re—qu’est-ce que c’est?—catting around.”
“You know it wasn’t like that.”
“Why? Because you say so?” Geneviève let out a loud snort. “Your word is worth nothing. You say you will go and do what needs to be done, but that is a lie. You say you will return in an hour, and it is nearly daybreak before you crawl into bed. You are a vile thing.” Her voice dripped with loathing.
“You are a shrew. A harpy.” Ben matched her tone with similar venom, prompting Geneviève to tell him in great detail what method she’d employ to take his life should he repeat such perfidy.
