If ever there was a time for girding one’s loins this was it.
Rafael Fabrizio squared his shoulders and pushed open the patio door ready for battle. He stepped into the summer night and came to an abrupt halt when he saw Sarika in the pool, wearing that old, striped bikini he remembered so well. The bathing suit had been tiny when she was seventeen, causing him to break into a cold sweat and curse his pervy mind every time she sauntered past—hips swaying, eyes sparkling, as if she knew his racy thoughts. Now the damn thing was more than tiny, it was miniscule against her womanly curves and he was still sweating and cursing…even though he knew exactly what was underneath.
The Gateway To Heaven.
Closing his eyes, he melted into the shadows of his family’s mountain-side chalet on Big Bear Lake in Southern California. It didn’t help, he could still see her undulating through the water in his mind’s eye—a siren who wanted to drown him in a sea of emotions.
Shoving his hand through his hair, he looked out over the patio to the lake beyond. The full moon hung low in the sky, and light glinted off the water as it spread beneath the cliff like a swathe of black velvet streaked with diamonds.
He couldn’t allow himself to be tempted into a relationship again—she deserved better than him. Sarika was a forever kind of girl, while he was a temporary kind of man. He’d known that before getting involved with her, yet he’d done it anyway.
And what a mess he’d made of things, especially as she was practically family—his grandmother Ana Lisa’s Goddaughter. He couldn’t have made a worse choice.
Still, it killed him to know she was dating again.
Holding back another curse, he returned his gaze to her—dark hair streamed down her back, the curve of her ass crested the water, long legs propelled her forward. He couldn’t just retreat, he had to speak to her about Ana Lisa and ask Sarika to come home. Ask her to pretend again that nothing had happened between them. And he would, just as soon as his heart stopped thumping like it was making a break from his chest.
He knew exactly when she sensed she wasn’t alone. The way she stilled at the opposite end of the pool, how her hand spasmed on the metal hand rail. She swirled toward him, sending out waves in the water as she peered into the shadows. Her hair spread out behind her as she let go and floated closer to the house. His gaze dropped below the surface of the lit water and feasted on the curves of her body that had once been his to touch, to take.
He reached out for her without thinking before bringing his arm back down with a silent reprimand.
She. Was. Not. His.
He had to rebuild his walls, barricade the door to his feelings with crisscrossed two-by-fours, and put on that slick suit of invulnerability he’d worn so well for so many years—in control, immune, impermeable.
He squared his shoulders for a second time and stepped out of the darkened doorway.
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Alyson McLayne