SARAH HEADED STRAIGHT for the rock fall. Sunset Beach was her sanctuary on this island and the sooner she got there the sooner she might be able to work out why she’d suddenly taken leave of her senses.
Calmly telling that man she wouldn’t mind an affair!
That was what she’d said, wasn’t it?
And from what part of her obviously impaired brain had those words sprung?
Although, remembering the heat of that one long kiss, she doubted her brain had had anything to do with it.
Even so...
She was clambering over the rocks now as the tide was in, but her mind raced to find an explanation for her behaviour.
Once on the beach she sat in the shade of the rocks—it was really far too early for her to be out here—and let the beauty of that special place calm her racing heart.
In the beginning, all she’d had room for in her heart and mind had been her grief, the grieving process isolating her from others, so she’d barely noticed that the sensual part of her nature had died along with David and her unborn child.
But seeing Rahman al-Taraq—Harry—again at the cocktail party had not only brought back memories of that dreadful day but, contrarily, had reawoken her senses. She’d been so startled by the unmistakable surge of attraction she’d felt towards him that she’d denied ever having met him and fled the party.
Yet, once reawoken and stirred, those parts of her that had lain dormant would no longer be denied, and over the following weeks she’d dreamt, at times, not particularly of Harry but of the pleasant, teasing sex she’d shared with David, although sometimes in the dreams he wasn’t David, and sometimes in the dreams she’d wanted more...
She shook her head, sighed, and stared out at the translucent water that ran over the reef through the lagoon and splashed on the beach near her feet.
Was it because she’d finally got her life back in order—had put herself together again, albeit like a jigsaw with more than a few pieces missing—that her libido had returned?
Whatever!
It wasn’t the whys and wherefores of her returning hormonal rush that she had to consider but what she was going to do about it.
Have a brief affair?
A fling?
Get it out of her system?
But could that happen?
Might she not want more?
She sighed again then reminded herself that if she did there were other men out there—for companionship, a bit of fun and pleasant, perhaps even exciting, sex.
She glanced up at the sky, hoping that wherever David’s spirit was he wasn’t privy to her thoughts.
Then she smiled!
It was David who’d taught her it was okay to enjoy sex—more than okay. David who’d taught her it could be fun as well as unbelievably intense.
David...
* * *
Harry felt as if he’d been pacing his room for hours. The woman—Sarah—had calmly told him she wouldn’t mind having an affair then, equally calmly, had walked away.
Well, probably not as calmly—that kiss had been hot!
What made it worse was that she hadn’t actually said it was him she wouldn’t mind having an affair with!
No, she’d just wandered off as if the whole almost clinical discussion had never happened.
He had to find out.
Would she be at the beach?
He’d been told she went there at sunset every day when she was on the island, but today?
His body was so taut with wanting her he felt the slightest bump might shatter it. He’d been okay until she’d more or less said yes.
He tried to analyse his feelings.
Attracted, yes.
Desire spiralling within him, definitely.
But strung tight like this?
This was new and he was unsure what it meant.
Best not to think about it. Go around to the beach—with something on his feet—and see if she was there.
He saw her as he reached the rock fall, long white arms stroking rhythmically through the water, little splashes as her feet kicked, her wet hair appearing almost black against her pale skin.
He crossed the small sandy area to where her clothes were piled under a pandanus palm and picked up her towel, carrying it down to the water’s edge and waiting for her to come out.
She rose like Venus from her shell, shaking her head to clear the water from her hair, the paleness of her skin seeming lighter against the black swimsuit that moulded a perfect body with full breasts, a narrow waist drawing the eye to her hips and from there to her long, long legs...
She looked up, saw him—and smiled.
The tightness in his body zeroed downwards, and his hands trembled as he draped the towel around her shoulders, holding it closed beneath her chin.
‘You’re shaking,’ she murmured, looking up into his face, perhaps reading the naked need he was feeling.
‘You’ve bewitched me,’ he muttered, his reaction to this woman so strong he wondered if maybe the encephalitis had returned and he was delirious.
He breathed deeply, calming himself, then wrapped the towel completely around her, leaving his hands at the back of her waist, easing her body closer.
Kissing was close, but for now it was enough to hold her, more than enough that she didn’t push away...
Sea-green eyes looked up into his and her pink lips widened into a shy smile.
‘This is weird.’
The words were little more than a breath of air, but her face told him so much more. She was uncertain, vulnerable...
And he wanted to hold her forever.
‘You wanted something?’
She’d shifted slightly and her lost look had been replaced by a mischievous grin.
‘You!’ he muttered gruffly, although he knew he was rushing things.
This woman wasn’t one of the career-focussed businesswomen with whom he usually dallied, and he, for certain, wasn’t, right now, the attentive, caring, casual lover he usually was.
That man had romance and seduction down pat, while the man on the beach right now, the man in his skin, was so damned uncertain he was shaking.
She’d eased away from him, dried herself—hell, he should have done that, not stood there holding her. He should have been running that towel down her legs, over her curves, drying the pale skin between her shoulder blades.
For the first time in his life he understood the phrase ‘pull yourself together’. It had always seemed asinine to him, but right now it was what he needed to do.
As she dropped the towel on the beach he recovered sufficiently to reach down for the shirt he knew she wore over her swimsuit, then hold it for her, watching her slide long, slim arms into the sleeves, turning her gently so he could button the shirt, right there above the swell of her breasts.
He could barely breathe as his fingers brushed against her skin, and felt her tension as she stood, statue-still beneath his touch.
‘Have dinner with me.’
He’d meant it to be a request but it had come out as a demand.
Expecting her to be offended, he was surprised when she relaxed and moved just a little away from him, smiling as she said, ‘Minions do dinner, too?’
He hoped the wild swoop of pleasure he felt wasn’t making him look like an idiot as he smiled in turn.
‘It’s that kind of resort. I can order anything. What do you fancy? The crayfish is particularly good at the moment.’
‘I’ll try it,’ she said, then she bent down to spread the towel on the sand, slapped the huge hat she wore onto her head, and straightened to look at him again.
‘What time?’
There was a challenge in the words and he guessed it was aimed more at herself than at him. It had been a while, she’d said, and now she was obviously nervous.
But game!
He liked that, liked it a lot.
But then, there were so many things he was beginning to like about this woman...
* * *
‘Will you stay and watch the sunset with me?’
As soon as Sarah had said the words she regretted them. As an invitation they weren’t in the same league as ‘Have dinner with me’, but on top of that, didn’t she usually enjoy the splendour of the sunset on her own?
Wasn’t it her special moment of the day?
‘I’d like that.’
Her gut twisted. Things were really getting out of hand when she was having physical reactions to three simple words.
And now she’d asked him, would she have to share the towel?
He solved that problem by dropping to the ground beside her towel and picking up a handful of the coarse coral sand.
‘So white,’ he murmured, as she settled beside him. ‘Not as fine as the sand back home, but beautiful in its own way.’
He’d turned to look at her as he’d said the last phrase but she refused to take the words personally.
‘For real beauty we have to wait,’ she said, nodding to where the sun seemed to be almost diving towards the horizon, the sky around it a brilliant red and gold. ‘As it drops lower the colours in the sky reflect not only on the water but on crystals in the sand, as well. I’ve seen it pink and red and even purple at times. A painted world!’
He nodded, and she wondered about his country, about his apparent exile from it, and whether the sunset painted the desert sand with colour...
And for the first time since the accident she felt curious about a place—felt an urge to travel, see a desert at sunset, maybe other wonders the world had to offer.
‘Oh, yes,’ he murmured, and she set her wayward thoughts aside.
Thin bands of cloud made the explosion of colour even more dramatic, the western sky alive with fire.
He took her hand and somehow that was okay.
Comfortable even, for they were sharing something special.
The colours faded to beautiful, hazy pinks and mauves, and Sarah stood reluctantly.
‘Night falls swiftly,’ she reminded him. ‘I need to go so I can navigate the path safely.’
For some reason she was still holding his hand.
He had taken it to help her to her feet, so had her hand just decided to stay there in his—warm and comfortable?
Seeking a distraction, she looked towards the now dark shadow of the rock fall.
‘You shouldn’t go back that way,’ she told him. ‘Come up the path and walk back down to the resort.’
He didn’t answer, but walked with her to the foot of the path.
‘I’d have walked you up anyway,’ he said. ‘I do have some manners.’
She paused on the first step on the path and looked down at him.
‘You realise the jungle drums will be beating before long?’
He laughed, a rich, unexpectedly joyful sound that made her smile.
‘So let them beat.’ He came abreast of her and turned towards her, his voice softer as he added, ‘Is that all right with you? Or will it make you uncomfortable?’
She smiled at his concern.
‘I think I’ve been uncomfortable for years,’ she told him, and took a deep breath to steel herself before continuing. ‘They died, my husband and unborn son, in an accident, that same night I met you at GOSH. We were on our way home. Seeing you again—at the cocktail party—it brought it all back.’
‘Oh, Sarah, what can I say?’ He stepped up onto the narrow step, and put his arms around her. ‘Nothing that would help, I do know that. I cannot even imagine such a loss, or the pain it must have caused you.’
She allowed herself to be held, perhaps even snuggled closer, the physical contact, the security of being held healing another bit of her that had been lost.
He kissed the top of her head, then asked gruffly, ‘And since then?’
‘People tiptoed around me, thought carefully about what they’d say, or didn’t say much at all, which suited me just fine because I had no time for anything but grief.’
She eased away and climbed again, but this time with him in the lead and her hand still in his.
It had been too dark to see his face as she’d blurted out the past, but his voice had been so deep and understanding she caught up with him and stopped beside him.
Looked at him as she tried to find the words she needed.
‘I’ve been busy putting myself back together—like a jigsaw, or a broken vase. Coming to Australia—as far as I could get from where my life had been—gave me the base, then slowly, bit by bit, I’ve got it just about done.’
‘But pieces are still missing?’ he asked, resting his hand on her cheek, his thumb wiping at a tear she hadn’t realised was there.
‘Oh, yes, pieces are missing.’
She smiled although she knew it was probably a weak effort, so she, in turn, laid her palm on his cheek.
‘Even if nothing happens between us, you have given me another piece—the bit of me that can be stirred by a man—the bit that feels desire and lust. And it being a fling, well, that’s right, too...’
She hesitated, unsure how to go on, surprised when he finished the words for her.
‘Because losing love was too hurtful? Because you don’t want to be hurt like that again?’
She pressed against him, silently acknowledging that truth, feeling his arms around her, holding her safe from hurt for what seemed like a long time.
He kissed her then, just gently on the lips, demanding nothing but somehow making a promise of the kiss.
They turned and walked again.
‘We’re there now,’ she said, and hoped he didn’t hear the hoarseness of desire in her voice.
The man seemed to have unleashed a monster...
‘My villa’s second from the bottom. What time tonight?’
She was talking too fast, rattling out the words because she’d suddenly realised she had no idea how she would react to those jungle drums. Her private life had been private for so long, and now, inevitably, there would be talk.
Could she handle it?
‘Eight o’clock?’ she suggested, when he didn’t answer. That would give her time to be alone, to think things through.
So many things...
‘No, no, come earlier. We’ll have a drink, talk. Come as soon as you’re ready.’
He spoke quickly and Sarah realised he was as uncertain as she was about whatever it was that was happening between them, and somehow that made her like him more.
Not that she knew him, or anything much about him, apart from his illness and opting out of surgery.
‘I’ll just shower and change and walk down.’
He opened his mouth and she knew he was going to offer to come for her, to drive her down, but she put her finger to his lips and said, ‘I’ll walk. Jungle drums, remember?’
‘And you think no one will notice you walking down to the resort?’
‘They will, but I walk a lot, all over the place. “There goes Sarah again” is all they’re likely to say.’
‘And dinner? They won’t miss you at dinner?’
Was he holding her here with fairly meaningless conversation because he didn’t want them to part?
‘I usually eat in my villa—I like simple meals and I’m in the habit of preparing them myself. Anything I can eat with a fork and keep reading whatever I happen to be reading while I eat.’
She knew it was time to turn away again, get inside to think, but she was enjoying standing there, looking at him, taking in the little details of this man she didn’t know.
A faint white scar, like a crescent moon, on his cheek by his right ear, the little lines that played around the corners of his mouth as he smiled, the dark lashes that could hood his eyes in a split second, hiding any hint of emotion.
‘Come soon,’ he said quietly, and every nerve in her body ran with fire.
* * *
Harry wasn’t sure how he felt as he headed back down past the laboratories and kitchens to go through the resort to his bure.
Hearing the bare bones of Sarah’s story had probably cut into him more than if he’d had the details.
Not that he needed more information when he’d heard the pain still echoing in her words as she’d laid them matter-of-factly before him.
It made him want her more, yet warned him to be careful—to take this pursuit more slowly than he usually did, for, like a skittish horse, Sarah could, at any time, back away from him.
Which only made him want, even more, to hold her in his arms.
Hold her in his arms?
When had he ever wanted to do that with a woman?
Apart from during foreplay or sex...
So he had to pull back, cool off, treat this as just another attraction, a fling for their mutual enjoyment.
Not get too involved...
He never got too involved, mainly because he knew he couldn’t offer more than an affair. Eventually he’d have to give up his nomadic lifestyle—was he a modern-day throwback to his ancestors who’d roamed the desert on camels?—and return home, to duties and to a woman his family had chosen for him to marry...
‘You and Sarah made up your differences?’
Sam had emerged from the shadows of the gardens around the laboratories, and Harry could only shake his head that the message of the jungle drums had spread so quickly.
Not that he intended to respond to Sam. Whatever it was that lay between himself and any woman was private. With Sarah, it felt even more intensely private.
‘How’s the research going?’ he asked Sam instead, and his friend laughed.
‘Well fielded,’ he said, patting Harry’s shoulder. ‘But since you asked, like any research—slowly!’
‘Yet you keep at it?’ Harry persisted, thinking now of Sarah’s accusation that he had simply given up on the career he’d lived for.
‘I love it,’ Sam said simply, and Harry felt his gut tense.
He, too, had loved his job.
Could Sarah possibly be right?
Could he continue to work in the field, even if he couldn’t operate?
The realisation that the encephalitis had left him with a tremor had been shattering, especially, he realised now, because it had also left him so weak.
So he’d backed away as quickly as he could—found new challenges...
Sam was saying something about the hospital, how they intended to use his donation, but he was no longer listening, his mind too busy denying that he could have stayed on in his field of work.
Making excuses?
They parted on the path, but the joy he usually felt walking through the beautiful resort he’d created—an oasis of peace for people harried by the busy world—was missing.
Better to think about Sarah, about courtship—well, sex if truth be told.
And that thought brought a degree of discomfort somewhere inside him. She was obviously vulnerable. Nothing like the strong, focussed women he usually dallied with.
So could she handle a short affair?
Well, that was all she wanted and he could understand that now. Understand her shying away from emotional involvement, understand her fear of loss...
For her this would be a kind of trial run before moving on with life.
Which, for some unfathomable reason, made him feel even more uncomfortable.
He ignored it.
They’d keep it simple, nothing too intense—keep it light and fun, so it would be nothing more than the holiday romance, as Sarah had suggested...
* * *
Sarah sat in front of the meagre assortment of clothes in the villa wardrobe and sighed.
After the accident, she’d insisted her mother give all her clothes to charity, unable to bear the thought of wearing things that David had touched.
‘So what shall I get you to wear?’ her practical mother had asked.
Sarah hadn’t been able to answer, burrowed down under the duvet, where she’d been since her release from hospital.
‘I’ll sort something,’ her mother had said, and she had.
‘I just got black and white,’ she’d announced, returning to Sarah’s flat loaded down with bags. ‘Black, or white, or black and white. That way everything will go with everything else and you won’t have to make choices.’
After a week of asking what Sarah might fancy for breakfast, her mother had realised her daughter couldn’t make even the simplest of decisions so she’d just provided a variety of meals, most of which had remained, at best, half-eaten.
Hence the poor selection of clothes Sarah still owned—black, white or black and white!
For the first time since the accident she longed for colour—for a bright emerald scarf or a red shirt...
‘Nonsense,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You’re going down there for—well, for sex, to put it bluntly. The holiday romance thing was just a way of making it sound better. As if it matters what you wear!’
She pulled a black shirt out of the cupboard—soft and silky, it felt wonderful against her skin, and even without an emerald scarf it did suit her colouring.
Loose white linen trousers came out next. They looked good with the shirt—they’d do.
She waved a mascara brush at her eyelashes, a touch of blusher on her cheeks, and added lipstick—bright red.
That was something she hadn’t given up, defiantly sticking to the same brand and colour because someone had once told her redheads shouldn’t wear red lipstick.
David had laughed and dared her to wear it always—so she did.
Oh, David, is this okay?
Stupid question! He’d be jealous as hell, but beyond that he’d probably understand that it was the next part of moving on and he’d pat her shoulder and tell her to go for it.
Pushing David very firmly to the back of her mind, she picked up her beach bag, threw a hairbrush, the lipstick and her phone into it, took a final look at herself in the mirror and headed out, her heart thudding so hard it was a wonder it wasn’t bursting out of her chest.
* * *
She slipped down across the airstrip and into the shadows at the gate to the resort. During the rebuilding, the gate had been guarded but the area was now open to hospital staff either using the laboratories or deciding to get a meal in the small restaurant near the kitchens.
Sarah smiled to herself.
Restaurant meals prepared by Harry’s ‘minions’!
As she walked down towards his bure she felt a sense of peace—serenity—wrap around her, and could understand why people in stressful jobs or those in the public eye would enjoy the resort.
Here they could be totally private, each bure carefully concealed in a bountiful display of tropical plants.
And right at the end, Harry’s bure. He had apparently sensed her approach for he was out his door and walking towards her, taking her hands in his, looking her up and down, nodding.
‘Very stylish!’ he said, then, as if they’d been lifelong friends, he kissed her on the cheek.
‘Come in.’
Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly! For the first time since she’d agreed to dinner, Sarah felt a shiver of apprehension.
Or was it doubt?
Was she ready for this?
She shook it off. Of course she was, and, anyway, it wasn’t as if he was going to rip her clothes off right then and there, and she could leave at any time.
He had lights burning on the deck outside, some kind of scented oil throwing flames towards the sky and casting shadows on the greenery around them.
Inside the lights had been dimmed and soft music played, music that she didn’t recognise but that was soothing to her suddenly tightened nerves.
A platter of fruit, cheese and biscuits had been set on a low table in front of a divan—the jug, water beading on its sides, stood beside the platter.
‘I do have wine,’ he said, ‘but try this juice first. It is a mix of pomegranate and rosewater, my mother’s special recipe.’
‘No wine, thanks,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t drink much and never when I’m on the island. Who knows when I’ll get a call to the hospital?’
‘Do you get many night calls?’ Harry asked as he waited for her to be seated, then poured a long glass of the brightly coloured juice, adding ice blocks from a matching bucket beside the jug.
‘Very rarely, but I’d hate to get one and find I couldn’t operate.’
The words were no sooner out than she regretted them. Harry couldn’t operate and she could only imagine the loss that must’ve been to him.
But he said nothing, pouring himself a juice, settling beside her on the divan, and raising his glass.
‘To no callouts tonight,’ he said, the words and the slight huskiness of his voice causing a shiver to run down Sarah’s spine.
She clicked glasses with him and for the first time actually noticed the slight tremor in his hand.
She wanted to touch it, to set down their glasses and hold it in both of her hands, not exactly regulation behaviour for someone embarking on an uncomplicated holiday romance.
Except she’d told him about David and the baby, so couldn’t she...?
She did put down her drink, and took his hand in both of hers.
‘I imagine your loss was probably as bad as mine. I lost beloved people, but you lost your life’s work.’
She looked into his eyes, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the lips.
‘I do apologise for what I said! Was it only yesterday?’
‘Yesterday or a lifetime ago,’ he said quietly, retrieving his hand and using it to touch her cheek. ‘But tonight is about new beginnings, not the past, so raise your drink in a toast.’
He waited until she’d lifted her glass.
‘To us and our fling. May the memories we make here on Wildfire help draw a curtain across the past.’
Sarah raised her glass to touch his, and as he clinked he added, ‘We’re big on curtains in my country, I think because we were nomadic people originally and lived in tents, divided, to a certain extent, by curtains. And gauzy curtains soften even the harshest of landscapes.’
The curtain idea was lovely, Sarah decided as she sipped her drink, but it was forgotten as she was tantalised by the tastes she could and couldn’t identify. Yes, rosewater was there—just—and the pomegranate of course, but there were hints of spices less easy to discern.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, giving up on her analysis. ‘A truly exquisite, refreshing drink.’
‘For a truly exquisite woman.’
He raised his glass again, toasting her, and Sarah felt the blush start somewhere in her toes and race through her body to heat her throat and cheeks.
‘Hardly exquisite,’ she managed to mutter, then she took too big a sip of drink and promptly choked, coughing into a hastily grabbed handkerchief.
Much to her embarrassment, he slid closer, patting her gently on the back, his thigh against hers, his heat generating even more confusion in her body.
The hand that had been patting her back somehow seemed to settle around her shoulders, and although she told herself she was turning her head to thank him for the help, deep down she knew she was waiting for a kiss.
Inviting one?
Not quite, but close!
So his mouth settling on hers wasn’t altogether surprising, but the effect of it galvanised nerves in parts of her body she had forgotten existed.
The kiss was gentle, explorative, persuasive rather than demanding, yet her heart rate accelerated, her breathing became unsteady, and she clung to his shoulders to anchor herself to some kind of reality.
But even that was lost when his tongue slipped inside her mouth. She gave in to desire, or need, or whatever it was that had her pulse racing and her body burning with a heat she hadn’t felt for what seemed like far too long.
They were lying on the couch now, lips still joined, although his hands were inside her shirt, her fingers in his hair, holding his head, his lips, to hers with a desperation she had never felt before.
A discreet cough broke them apart.
‘Minion?’ she whispered, as she dragged her lips away from his, and checked the buttons on her shirt before sitting up.
‘Minion!’ Harry muttered back at her, hastily adjusting his own clothing.
‘You stay here,’ he said, as he stood up and strode to the kitchen area, where a local worker was standing with a trolley laden with silver-covered dishes, rising steam suggesting the trolley was well heated.
Harry spoke quietly to the man, who disappeared through a rear door, while the man she’d been so busy kissing on the couch pushed the trolley towards her.
She studied him, this man she’d just been kissing, trying to work out how and why she’d felt such a strong attraction to him.
Yes, he was good-looking—strongly moulded features, clear olive skin, dark eyebrows arched above his surprising grey eyes. But there was something else that drew her to him.
Then his wry shrug, and his muttered ‘Jungle drums beating wildly now’ gave her at least part of the answer. As well as being possibly the sexiest man alive, he was thoughtful and considerate, worried how gossip might affect her.
‘Not to worry,’ she assured him. ‘It’s time the islands had something new to talk about. Your friend Luke’s romance with Anahera had them buzzing for a while, but it’s old news now.’
He pushed the trolley over to a table already set for two, before turning around to face her, the mobile eyebrow raised.
‘Does it really not bother you?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ she said, then she smiled as she realised just how true the words were.
Whether it was the appeal of this man, or that the healing process was nearly complete, she didn’t know, but something, probably a combination of both, had released her spirit and reawakened not only a need to live but an almost urgent desire to live life to the full.
A brief affair was just what she needed, the first step in the discovery of the new Sarah Watson.
She stood up from the couch and crossed to the table, pausing to lift the lids off some of the dishes, sniffing the delicious aromas with renewed appreciation of good food.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Harry as she took her seat.
The bemused look on his face made her want to explain.
‘For bringing me back to life,’ she said. ‘For reminding me of simple pleasures like a great meal or a really, really good kiss.’
The candlelit gloom made it difficult to be sure, but she was almost sure he blushed...
* * *
She was glowing, and more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen.
Surely one hot kiss couldn’t have caused the transformation but, whatever it was, he hoped it stayed. Sitting there at the table, in her prim black blouse with the top button undone—had he done that?—revealing just a hint of shadowy cleavage, she was so enticing he doubted he’d be able to eat.
But he was the host so he lifted the first covered dish from the trolley and placed it on the table in front of them.
‘The chef seems to have provided for all tastes. Do you like oysters? He’s done Kilpatrick and Mornay and, on a special dish of ice, just natural ones. Do you like oysters?’
She smiled and his heart jolted in his chest.
‘I could force some down,’ she responded, ‘although only for the zinc, of course.’
The teasing suggestion of the supposed aphrodisiac properties of the shellfish hung in the air between them.
Using the tongs provided, she selected half a dozen differently prepared shellfish for her plate.
‘For the zinc, of course,’ he agreed, but although he loved oysters he was far too mesmerised by the crispy, pancetta-topped Kilpatrick disappearing between her pale lips to serve some for himself.
‘Here,’ she said kindly. ‘Try a Mornay.’
She held the fork towards him and he leaned forward to let her slide it into his mouth.
He was bewitched!
Incapable of doing anything more than sit in dumb silence, watching as she ate another one then offered the next to him.
He had to get real here, to take control. He was the host!
‘More?’ Sarah asked softly, and he ignored the innuendo in her words and placed the platter of oysters on the table between them.
And to show he was in control, he lifted one on his fork and offered it to her, his senses on overdrive as she opened her slightly kiss-roughened lips and sucked it from the fork.
So dinner became a prelude—a long, teasing period of foreplay—as they ate the oysters, crayfish and salad, then fed each other some kind of coconut mousse, as delightful as any dessert he’d ever tasted.
Or was it the company that made it so special?
She was leaning back in her chair, this red-headed woman he’d kind of pursued across the world, looking rosily replete and so damned beddable he had to keep reminding himself not to rush things.
‘So?’ she said finally, and although she managed a very small smile he could almost feel her tension across the table.
He rose and took her hand, leading her back to the divan.
‘We could just chat for a while then say goodnight, and I’d drive you up to your villa...’
‘Or?’
Her smile was a little stronger this time, and her green eyes glittered in the candlelit room.
‘Or I could kiss you like this,’ he responded, sitting down beside her and demonstrating gently.
‘Or like this!’
The kiss deepened, and now she was kissing him back, inviting him into her coconut-sweet mouth, her tongue teasing at his, her hands sliding underneath the back of his shirt, touching his skin so lightly he was almost sure he moaned.
Or someone had.
His body was so aroused it was only a matter of time before their movement on the narrow divan made her fully aware of it.
‘Bed?’ he whispered into her mouth.
‘Bed!’ she responded, firmly enough to excite him even further.
He quelled a mad urge to lift her into his arms and make a dash for the bedroom.
Except he’d probably drop her! He might think he was fighting fit, but, as Luke had warned, it could take years before he fully regained the strength and mobility he’d lost in the fight for his life.
He drew her close again, and somehow, still kissing, they made a less dramatic move into the bedroom.
Where she stiffened in his arms and he realised just how big a step this was for her. He’d lost a bit of strength and the ability to do the one job he’d excelled at, the job he’d loved, while she’d lost the man she loved and a child she’d have been expecting to welcome into their family.
He eased away and took her face between the palms of his hands, looking into her eyes, at her reddened, swollen lips, remembering the taste. No, this was about her.
‘We can stop right here if you like,’ he told her.
And for a moment she hesitated. Then the glowing smile returned.
‘And miss a night of our very short fling?’ The smile widened, and he found himself wanting to watch that smile forever.
As if!
* * *
Sarah pressed her body against his, feeling his reaction to her teasing, hearing his growl as he plundered her mouth once again, backing her towards the bed while his hands roved at will over her body.
And her body responded to every move he made, so by the time he’d manoeuvred her onto the bed and was slowly undoing the buttons on her shirt she was trembling and helpless, her fingers touching his face, his hair, his chest, almost begging him to take her but lacking the words after so long a time.
And probably because he wasn’t David?
A new love, even for a brief affair, needed new words, new language—language she hadn’t yet learned.
Then, suddenly, words were not required. Instinct and need and want and desire all took over and although the first time was too frantic, too mind-blowing in its intensity, the second time, when their bodies had lain close and probably spoken a secret language to each other, was slow, and languorous, and so intensely fulfilling she clung to Harry, like a limpet to a rock, remembering the pleasure of maleness—the strength and sinewy toughness that differentiated men from women.
‘Tomorrow?’ he murmured in her ear, as they lay, spent and sweaty, once again. ‘If you like, we could take the resort boat out and snorkel along the edge of the reef. It’s another world of beauty out there.’
‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered back, ‘I have a day of extremely unromantic and unbeautiful endoscopies to do, and the day after that, if I remember rightly, a double hernia op and a breast lumpectomy.’
‘Ouch!’
He shuddered as she nipped her fingers on his nipple, although earlier it had excited him.
‘It’s a holiday romance without the holiday part, remember?’ she said, easing away from the enticing maleness in the bed, knowing she had to get back up to the villa for the little that remained of the night. ‘But I’m here to work, so daytime canoodling is out.’
‘Canoodling—what a great word. Is that what we’ve been doing?’
‘It is indeed,’ she said quietly, standing up now, searching around for clothes.
It had been David’s word and although she felt no guilt, the memory somehow brought him closer.
‘Do you have to go?’
He was sitting on the bed, this Sheikh Rahman al-Taraq, his lower body covered by a rumpled sheet, his chest bare and smooth, slightly muscled beneath the skin, the smile that had accompanied his question so beguiling she almost slid back in beside him.
Almost!
‘And wander back home at dawn with the eyes of the entire island on me?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then I’ll drive you back.’
He was out of bed in one lithe movement and she almost gasped at her body’s reaction to this naked male—this magnificent naked male.
‘You d-don’t have to drive me.’ She stuttered out the words, aware that one touch or, worse, a goodnight kiss would have her back in bed with him in less time than it took for a single drumbeat, let alone a chorus of them.
* * *
He had things to do!
He’d told himself, when he’d made this mad dash across the world to a very small Pacific island to see again the woman with the red hair, that with the marvels of the internet he could work from anywhere.
But that had been before just one night with that same woman had blown his mind.
Now every time he closed his eyes he saw an image of her milk-white skin, the teasing smile, and long, slim arms and legs, and full breasts, and—
Open your eyes and do some work!
But although the voice he used with himself was stern, himself wasn’t obeying, seeing Sarah now even when his eyes were open.
He’d go for a walk, clear his head, or go up to the research station to see what was happening there.
Or he could take the resort helicopter over to one of the uninhabited islands and gather some of the bark and leaves Sam needed for his research into M’Langi tea.
Or just take a long, cold, shower...
* * *
Sarah worked slowly and carefully, aware that any deviation in her concentration could have, well, not fatal but nasty results.
And there were so many new tracks to follow in her head that a deviation would be easy.
So she concentrated even more than usual, calling out results to Caroline, who was note-taking, although the new machine she’d bought for Wildfire computed the results.
Somehow, seeing them on paper made diagnosis easier for Sarah, and her assurances to patients that all was clear were far more heartfelt and meaningful.
Another patient was wheeled out to the top ward, today being used as a recovery room. Hettie held sway in there, keeping an eye on all the patients as they woke from their mild anaesthesia, helping them dress, then offering juice or cups of tea. Vailea, the hospital housekeeper, made sure there was a steady supply of both, and plenty of sandwiches for people who’d been nil by mouth for at least twelve hours.
The day wore on, finally finishing, and Sarah stripped off in the washroom and turned the shower to very hot. That way, if Hettie or Caroline happened to come in while she was dressing, they might think the red marks left on her body by the adventures of the previous night were from the water, nothing else.
Not that either of them came in, so Sarah dressed in the clothes she’d hastily pulled on that morning—for some reason all black—and headed to the small office to write up her notes.
The sun was almost setting, and she wasn’t on the beach. They’d made no arrangements, she and Harry, but would he look for her there?
Think she was avoiding him?
She shook her head and sighed.
Fancy complicating her life like this, even if it was only a holiday romance.
But would she not have done it to avoid complication?
No way!
Her body tingled in secret places even as she sat in Sam’s chair and pulled up the information she needed from the computer.
Tingled even more when she heard his voice.
His voice!
‘Anyone need a hand, someone to stand in while someone takes a break?’ he was saying.
A gust of laughter from Keanu confirmed what they both already knew—jungle drums!
‘You don’t need an excuse to see our Sarah,’ Keanu said. ‘She’s in the boss’s office, writing up her notes. But before you interrupt her, will you take a look at an X-ray we’ve just done? For some reason the pictures aren’t coming through from the machine as clearly as we’d like—we’ve an expert coming out next week to fix it. It’s a little boy with an injured arm, and Sam and I both think greenstick fracture, but another pair of eyes on it would be good.’
Aware in every nerve in her body that they’d have to walk past Sam’s office to get to X-Ray, Sarah held her breath, though obviously the X-ray had been taken to Harry, wherever he was out the front—maybe outside—as the murmur of their voices had grown softer.
A brief affair, she reminded herself, but her ears strained to hear his voice again, and her body continued to misbehave.
* * *
Much as he’d have loved to spend more time with her, Harry realised that a woman as dedicated as Sarah wasn’t going allow herself to be distracted from her work. So he’d learned to live with her absence during the day.
He would drift up to the hospital most days, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, hear her voice, accepting the inevitable on the majority of days when it was nothing more than exercise and a time to chat with the other staff.
But late afternoons and evenings were theirs. They’d meet on the beach at sunset, swim together in the placid waters of the lagoon, then, now that the tides were kinder in the late afternoons, walk around the rock fall to his bure.
There, they’d shower, where the simple action of soaping her back had become an erotic pleasure that invariably led further. Then they’d dress and sip their juice on the deck outside until the stars were out and their dinner had been delivered.
The second night, they hadn’t eaten until midnight, when hunger had forced them out of bed.
But today was the last day—the final evening of their time together lay ahead.
The thought of never seeing her again, except perhaps occasionally if their visits to Wildfire coincided, made his gut ache, but he was a man with his life in tatters; a man with family responsibilities tugging at him; a man who could see no fixed future even for himself, let alone for anyone else.
And Sarah deserved someone better. She would never be over the losses in her life, but now that she was moving on, she deserved the best.
‘Are you all right? When you didn’t arrive on the beach, I—’
But he could see what she’d thought. She was breathless, her skin sheened with perspiration. She’d run from the beach to the bure thinking what? That he’d collapsed? That the encephalitis that had done so much damage to him had returned?
Not that it did, but he did suffer periodic weakness and he remembered confessing that to her.
He held out his arms and she came into them.
‘I hadn’t realised it was so late,’ he said. ‘I was thinking how much I didn’t want to say goodbye.’
She pulled him closer and held him tightly.
‘A fling,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s been fun and so very good for me I cannot thank you enough, but we’ve still got tonight.’
‘We’ve still got tonight,’ he echoed, but as he began to unbutton her shirt he heard the helicopter take off, and a sense of foreboding made his fingers shake more than normal...
* * *
They were out on the deck, swinging lazily in a double hammock, bodies tangled together, and suddenly she wanted to know more about him and about the land where even the fountains were rose-scented.
‘Tell me about your home.’
Had the fact that it was their last night together prompted the question?
Who knew? But now he was talking, his voice deep with the love he obviously felt for his homeland.
‘At night in the desert the stars seem so close you could reach out and pluck a handful of them from the sky to keep in your pocket for a dark night, or to lay at the feet of a woman as homage to her beauty.’
Would you gather stars for me? Sarah wanted to ask, then reminded herself it was a holiday romance and the holiday ended tonight.
‘And the sand stretches as far as the eyes can see, right up to the red and gold mountains, waving dunes of it, tempting the unwary to cross just one more hill. It is a barren beauty but I can imagine nothing more beautiful.’
Sarah moved closer, snuggling up to him.
‘More,’ she demanded. ‘The sand, tell me about the sand.’
She felt his smile against her cheek.
‘It is soft and fine, and runs through the fingers like the most expensive silk. Warm to the touch—well, too hot to touch at times, but in the shadows it will warm you, provide a bed for you, and weave itself into your life.’
And she would never see this beauty, feel the fineness of this sand—what lay between them would be memories, and on her part gratitude for his help in moving on in her life.
But was that enough?
Was that all it could be?
Of course it was, it had to be. A fling with Harry was one thing, but Sheikh Rahman al-Taraq had responsibilities to his family, to a tradition that stretched, she’d realised from snippets of conversation, back almost to the beginning of time itself.
And he also had, she remembered, a woman pledged to marry him—a woman chosen, he’d said one night, by his family—his mother. It was the way things were always done.
He was easing away from her, as if aware of her thoughts, but apparently it was hunger driving him.
‘Food has yet again miraculously appeared,’ he told her, holding the hammock steady as he climbed off it. ‘My traditional food tonight, but little bits and pieces of it, like Spanish tapas. Do you want to sit at the table out here to eat it?’
Sarah swallowed the lump of melancholy that had formed in her throat and agreed that sitting at a table to eat was probably more sensible than handling food of any kind in a hammock.
He helped her out, held her to steady her—or perhaps just to hold her—then took her hand and led her to the small table where a platter of delicacies had miraculously appeared.
A round silver tray held myriad little dishes while a second platter had a variety of flatbreads, some thick and crusty, some wafer thin.
‘Sit and taste!’ Harry told her. ‘The smaller, inner dishes are sauces of various kinds. You can try them by dipping bread in them, or perhaps pick up a kibbeh...’ he lifted a small, round ball in his fingers ‘...and dip it in here like this.’
And he held it to her lips, his fingers trembling slightly—but, then, so were her lips and all of the rest of her body.
Whatever it was, it was delicious, a crusty outside protecting something soft and delicious—
‘Eggplant?’
Harry nodded, then chose a piece of flatbread, dipping it into a steaming dish of...who knew?
‘This is one of my favourites. It is mujadara with meat and pine nuts.’
He offered her a bite and a host of flavours she could only guess at hit her tastebuds.
‘Wow!’
Harry smiled.
‘Now you know how to eat our food, you must help yourself. Fingers and bread are our cutlery.’
How could the sound of a man’s voice speaking about cutlery make her bones melt?
To distract herself, Sarah leaned forward and selected a small red pepper stuffed with who knew what.
‘Shrimp!’ she said, as once again an explosion of taste filled her mouth.
It was a culinary exploration, and with Harry’s thigh tight against hers as she tried the different delights, braving all the sauces eventually, it became again a kind of foreplay.
‘There are sweets,’ he said, when she finally sank back, replete, against the back of the divan.
Sarah shook her head.
‘If I eat again this week I’ll be a pig,’ she complained.
‘So, we walk it off? A walk on my beach instead of yours? A short walk!’
He was prolonging this, their last night together, and Sarah understood, even agreed.
So they walked together past the long infinity pool at the edge of the resort gardens and onto the private beach.
‘Your stars can’t be much brighter than these,’ Sarah told him, waving her arms towards a heaven alight with brightness.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said, turning to walk back along the beach to the bure.
Sarah opened her mouth to say she’d have to see it to believe it, then closed it again.
Theirs was a brief affair, a fling—it began and ended right here on Wildfire.
* * *
Harry held Sarah tightly against his body, his mouth opening to say, You must come and see them, then closing again. Remembering their decision that it would be a fling, and also the complications of his life back home.
He knew of the young woman his parents had arranged for him to marry. Had even mentioned her existence to Sarah. The chosen one was everything a man could want in a wife—beautiful, well educated, a far-removed cousin in the strange marital dance of alliances the royal family had practised for centuries.
The perfect match for a ruler!
Except he didn’t wanted to rule.
His brother would be better, fairer, more involved with the people.
But the woman had been chosen. She would be expecting to marry him. To let her and both their families down would be unthinkable.
So this romance would end with this last night...