Rebound, Baby

Rebound

by Ruthie Knox

Chapter 1, Take 1

Clad in nothing but a black lace thong and a pair of red heels, the woman straddled a chair with her back to the camera. A spotlight somewhere off-frame lit up her skin but left the background black, drawing the eye to the dip of her waist, the lush curve of her hips, the length of her spread legs. She was hot, and though most of her profile was in shadow, the pout of her full lips suggested she knew it.
Rachel Gaines took one last look at the picture on her phone and smiled to herself. Not too shabby. She tapped out a quick message—“Can’t wait to see you”—and hit “Send.”
If this one didn’t get his blood pumping, nothing would.
The shot was the provocative finale in a series of sexy pictures she’d been sending her boyfriend, Peter, for the past week. They would be reunited this morning for the first time in nearly a year, and “hard up” didn’t begin to describe the state she was in. The British would say she was “gagging for it.” Crude, but descriptive.
In an effort to distract herself and prepare for their getaway—ten days together in romantic Maui—she’d gone to Paris for the weekend and bought herself a ton of lacy lingerie, a new black dress, and the red heels. Returning to her tiny, empty London flat, she’d downed half a bottle of wine and decided to take some photos. It seemed only fair to give Peter a little preview of what she had in store for him.
Such sexual adventurousness was unusual for her, but then it had been an unusual year. For the past ten months, she’d been moving around Italy and England, doing research for her art history dissertation. She spent her days peering at frescoes in dimly-lit cathedrals, poring over illuminated manuscripts in archives, and endlessly taking notes on her laptop. Surrounded by urbane, attractive people in some of the world’s most beautiful cities, she was nearly always alone. It seemed like a lifetime since she’d had a face-to-face conversation with another human being that didn’t involve ordering dinner or buying a train ticket.
But as anonymous as she often felt, the months of utter independence had also given Rachel a sexual confidence that was entirely new. With little to do before and after the archives closed, she’d taken up jogging and yoga with a vengeance, and it showed: she was as thin and toned as she’d ever been. Admiring the style of the European women she’d observed on train platforms and at sidewalk cafes, she’d also changed the way she dressed, trading in her t-shirts and jeans for tailored clothes that did more to show off her assets.
It wasn’t an earth-shattering transformation, but it was an empowering one. Rachel had always thought of herself as average looking. The younger sister of two athletic older brothers, she got attention for her academic exploits but never for her face or, god forbid, her body. But on the streets of Florence and Milan she was nobody’s kid sister. She was a woman—and judging by the appreciative stares and comments, an attractive one.
She was also spoken for. Which meant that as much as she yearned to feel a man’s arms around her and hear the sound of a male voice warm and low in her ear, she hadn’t accepted any of the propositions that had come her way. She was holding out for Peter.
Glancing at her watch, she smiled. He was due in half an hour. Just enough time for her to grab something quick to eat. She settled her carry-on over her shoulder and headed away from the gate to see what she could find.
Even in sunny California, the pickings were slim for a vegetarian at the airport. Since disembarking in Los Angeles, she’d passed half a dozen coffee bars and a food court, but she hadn’t seen a single entree with her name on it. Rachel thought of the breakfast sandwich on homemade focaccia she had devoured hours ago on the flight from London, and her stomach growled. There was no hope of finding anything half that tasty here. She’d be lucky to find a decent salad.
As she walked, her mind circled back to the photo. Was it too much? Rachel hadn’t heard a word from Peter in the past week, and she hoped it was just because he was busy and not because something was . . . off. The two of them been together for seven years, four of them apart, and the truth was that she couldn’t always tell what he was thinking anymore. They’d started dating in college and remained together even when they’d gone their separate ways afterward, Rachel to graduate school at Berkeley, Peter to medical school in LA. They spent time together when they could, but their weekend getaways had grown further apart as Peter’s schedule had become more demanding, and he hadn’t been able to make it to Europe to visit her even once.
This was their new beginning, though, Rachel reminded herself. She’d finished her research, while Peter had landed a residency at the University of Washington. Since she didn’t have to stay in Berkeley to write her dissertation, they had agreed to move in together in Seattle after she returned from Europe. Rachel had already secured a lease on what would be their apartment.
But first they needed to reconnect. That’s what this vacation was all about. She had practically emptied her bank account to pay for their plane tickets and book them a room at an eco-tourism resort that promised a combination of earth-friendly comfort and outdoor adventure—kayaking, hiking, surfing, the works. She wanted all of that, plus plenty of quality time alone with Peter.
Spotting some halfway-decent-looking salads in a refrigerated case, she snagged one and got in line to pay for it. As she was accepting her change from the cashier, her phone rang. Peter’s ring. Ha! He must have called as soon as he got the picture.
She tucked her purchase under her arm and answered in what she hoped was a seductive tone. “Hi, sweetheart. Get any good mail lately?”
“Rachel.” Peter cleared his throat. “Hi.”
He didn’t sound like a man bowled over by lust. He sounded nervous. She waited, but apparently “hi” was all Peter had to say for the moment.
“Hi,” Rachel repeated. “Are you at the airport yet?”
“No, I—I’m still at home.”
Oh, something was up. Something was definitely up. Her stomach did a little flip. “Peter, you’re supposed to be here in”—she checked her watch—“fifteen minutes. What’s going on?”
“There’s been, uh, a change of plans. I tried to catch you before you left London, but I guess I waited too long to call.”
He fell silent again, and Rachel suddenly saw where the conversation was headed.
“I’m not going to make it to Hawaii with you, Rachel.”
“What do you mean?” She knew exactly what he meant.
“I, uh, met someone. Someone really special, and I think we need to . . . I need to break up with you.”
Gobsmacked, she thought. Another English term. Funny, she’d never been gobsmacked before.
Peter rushed to fill the silence in the worst possible way. “I think she’s the one, Rachel, I really do.” An earnest, hopeful note had crept into his voice, and she understood that he wanted her to be happy for him.
Fury flooded through her, and it felt good. Better to be furious than to be gobsmacked. The miserable, cowardly son of a bitch.
“Peter. You’re supposed to be here in fifteen minutes. Did you meet this . . . person . . . this morning? Because if not, why the hell didn’t you tell me what was going on before I left London? Or maybe even before I bought you a ticket to Hawaii?” Before I sent you naked pictures and made a complete ass of myself?
“I’m really sorry, Rachel. I know I haven’t handled this very well. It’s kind of taken me by surprise.” He spoke quickly now, rushing to smooth things over. Peter didn’t like anger; it made him uncomfortable. Everything made him uncomfortable. Her friend Leah had always held this against him, but Rachel was used to working around it. It would be a relief, she realized, not to have to accommodate his quirks anymore.
She tuned back in to what he was saying. “. . . have to admit, it’s been over for a long time between us. I like you a lot. You’re a really nice person. But we just don’t have any chemistry, you know?” He paused. “Maybe we can still be friends?”
Friends? She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it, gobsmacked. Then she hung up on him.

***

An hour later, Rachel was sitting on a plane to Hawaii. It was probably a mistake, but honestly, what difference did it make where she went? There was nowhere in particular she needed to be. Since she’d paid for the trip, she supposed Maui was as good a destination as any.
Really, it was Leah’s fault she was here. After she hung up on Peter, she spent several minutes slumped against a carpeted airport wall, trying to get a handle on how she felt. She knew she was supposed to be devastated, but somehow the word didn’t fit. She’d been angry on the phone, but that had faded quickly. Rachel never had been very good at staying angry. As the baby in her family, she specialized in patching up conflicts, and participating in them didn’t come naturally.
What she really felt was humiliated. The man she’d planned to spend the rest of her life with had just dumped her over the phone, and she was pretty sure he’d told her it was because she was boring. He thought she was nice. He liked her. They had no chemistry. What did that say about her?
Peter had been her first and only lover. When they met, she’d never even been kissed. Two protective older brothers and a 4.0 GPA had pretty much guaranteed a dateless high school career—one she’d cut short by graduating a year early. Stanford hadn’t been much better until she and Peter had been assigned to one another as lab partners in a biology class.
From the beginning, Peter had made her laugh, and he didn’t seem intimidated by her straight As. Bottom line, they had fun together, and she’d thought the sex was pretty good. True, she had better orgasms on her own with a vibrator and a fantasy, but then she figured that was her fault. Rachel had a hard time turning off her brain and getting lost in the moment. Always thinking, always analyzing, she’d never been able to let go during sex. Did that mean that she and Peter had lacked chemistry, or did it mean that she was just a cold fish in bed?
She didn’t know. The whole situation was too overwhelming to make heads or tails of. So she did what she always did when she felt uncertain: she called Leah.
“He did what?” Leah had shouted. “He dumped you over the phone? That gutless bastard! Tell me everything he said.”
She filled her in on the details—including the bit about the pictures, which Leah skillfully managed to worm out of her—and by the time her friend had finished calling Peter dozens of colorful names, Rachel’s spirits had lifted a bit.
“He was never good enough for you, Rach,” Leah finally said. “You know that, right?”
“What do you mean? Peter was a great boyfriend.”
Leah snorted. “He didn’t appreciate you. He wouldn’t even hold your hand in public, much less kiss you.”
This was true, but Rachel had never thought it was a big deal before. Some people were more reserved than others, right?
“Oh, and he wouldn’t dance with you, even at weddings! He never treated you like you were special. Plus, he was lousy in the sack.”
“I never said that!” Rachel protested.
“You didn’t have to say it, I could tell. You did say he never went downtown.”
Rachel groaned. She had confessed this very personal detail—and a number of others—to Leah over chocolate martinis one night. Obviously a mistake.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“My point is, he wasn’t the right guy for you. You deserve better, Rach.”
Rachel brushed the vote of confidence aside. “The question is, what do I do now? My belongings are all in storage in Berkeley, I have nowhere to live, and I’ve been dumped.”
“Oh, you go to Maui!” was her friend’s immediate reply. “You need the vacation—and you can always use the tan. Buy a hot bikini, eat pineapple, drink fruity drinks on the beach, meet some guys!”
This attitude was Leah to a T, but it had never been Rachel’s style. “You know me, Leah. I could wear the world’s tiniest bikini, but I’ll end up sitting on the beach all day reading David Copperfield, and no one will so much as say hello to me.”
“Try putting down the book, Rach,” Leah shot back at her. “You might be surprised how much fun you have.”
It wasn’t the first time Leah had accused her of hiding from life behind a book, but the accusation stung more than usual. “Aren’t you supposed to be feeling sorry for me? Some shoulder to cry on you are,” she complained.
“What’s to feel sorry for? Peter was boring. You’re better off without him. You’re young, you’re hot, you’re going to Hawaii. You need to find someone to have wild rebound sex with. That will make you feel better.”
Rachel laughed. The idea had its appeal, but that sort of thing didn’t happen to girls like her. “In my dreams. You know I don’t have the guts for something like that.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you to send those pictures either, but you did. Picking up a guy who actually has a pulse shouldn’t be all that much harder. You just have to put yourself out there—go dancing, have a few drinks, see what happens. I bet you’ll be surprised.”
She wondered. Rachel had never let herself be picked up before. She’d always had Peter, the perfect excuse to keep her distance from anyone who tried. She began to wonder if the reason she didn’t feel heartbroken that Peter had dumped her was that she hadn’t really been in love with him—not for a long time, anyway. Perhaps she’d been using him to hide from life, as Leah implied.
Rachel settled into her seat with a sigh. Maybe she was boring, or maybe she was just a coward. There was only one way to find out.
“No hiding,” she promised herself quietly. On this trip, she’d say yes to opportunities, even if they scared her. Maybe she’d even meet a guy and have a fling. God knew she needed one. She was twenty-four years old; it was time to start living her life.

Rebound

by Ruthie Knox

Chapter One, Take Two

 
“I’m here to fix the shower.”
It was a line right out of a porn movie, but the man standing in front of her didn’t look like a porn star. At least, not like the star of the only dirty movie Rachel had ever seen. That guy had pasty skin, acne scars, and a piece of equipment so enormous, it was as horrible and mesmerizing as a traffic accident.
The man leaning one tanned, muscular forearm against the doorjamb of her vacation bungalow, on the other hand— Well, she couldn’t speak to the equipment, but his face was Hollywood handsome, and what she could see of the body beneath his white dress shirt and black slacks was phenomenal.
“I’m Rob, by the way,” he said, flashing a smile.
Wow. Just, wow. The tall, powerful build, the tousled brown hair gleaming in the Maui sun, the infectious smile—he was dazzling. She’d never met anyone dazzling before. She would’ve sworn dazzling people existed only in books and on the covers of magazines, but when Rob here smiled, there was no other word for him: dazzling. It was all she could do not to fall over.
Maybe she should fall over. Maybe if she did that and sprained something, he’d offer her pity sex. She wouldn’t turn down pity sex with this man. She wouldn’t turn down any kind of sex with him.
Rob’s smile widened. “This is the part where you tell me your name and let me in,” he said.
Her cheeks burst into flame. She’d been making cow eyes at him, and he was here to fix the shower. How humiliating. “Rachel,” she choked out, stepping back and releasing her death grip on the door. “I’m Rachel.” She flexed her hand a few times, looking at her knuckles to keep her eyes from wandering back to his face. “Amy said you would do it to me. For me. Fix the shower, I mean.”
Oh holy hell. She could navigate bureaucratic red tape in fluent Italian, but put a hot Hawaiian shower repairman in front of her and she turned into a blushing fourteen-year-old, accidental innuendo and all.
“Happy to,” he replied, one corner of his mouth twitching. He hadn’t missed the innuendo, damn it. But maybe that wasn’t all bad: there was a glint of something in his brown eyes she hadn’t expected—a glint that sent a pulse of pure heat straight between her legs. “Let me take a look.”
Have a fling. The words flitted across her consciousness, weighing the moment down with possibilities well beyond her limited experience. The possibility of a kiss from a stranger. The possibility of seduction and abandon. The possibility of multiple orgasms.
“Yes.” The word came out breathless and lust-stricken, and Rob’s smile turned wicked. It dawned on her, slowly and horribly, that he hadn’t said anything to which “yes” was an appropriate response.
“Yes, I can come in?” he asked, kindly bailing her out.
It was time to abandon speech. Speech was not doing her any favors. She nodded, turned away, and led Rob down the hall to the bathroom, wishing all the while she had more clothes on. She’d bought this too-short, too-slinky black robe fueled by fantasies of a wildly erotic Maui reunion with her boyfriend, Peter—which was funny, considering the two of them had never done a single thing Rachel would describe as “wild” or “erotic.” But Peter had made the transition to ex-boyfriend status, and she was in danger of flashing a complete stranger.
It seemed obvious in hindsight that a sensible woman would’ve asked the repair guy to cool his heels at the door while she put on some real clothes. Normally, she was a sensible woman. But in the past twenty-four hours she’d flown across ten time zones and been dumped by her boyfriend of seven years. In a fit of break-up-induced insanity, she’d also agreed to her best friend’s plan to make her over into Rachel Gaines 2.0. Now that plan, with its five horrifying vacation goals, had invaded her brain. Why else would she be thinking such sinful thoughts about the shower guy?
This was so Leah’s fault.
Rachel had called Leah from a bar at the Los Angeles airport, needing to commiserate about the e-mail from Peter that had shown up on her phone as she walked off the jet bridge from her London flight. It was a long, tortured message full of apologies and explanations and good-humored pleas for her understanding, but it could be summarized in a few short sentences:
Not coming to Maui. Found the woman I want to spend forever with. Sorry, Rach, but we had no chemistry. Let’s keep in touch. Cheers.
There was nothing quite like being dumped by e-mail to reveal once and for all that your long-term long-distance boyfriend was, to borrow one of her favorite phrases from the English, a complete wanker.
Why she’d thought she would get sympathy from Leah was hard to say. Leah had identified Peter as a wanker from the get-go. On the phone, she’d called him a few colorful names and then announced, “He was never good enough for you anyway. You’re better off without him.”
Perched on an LAX barstool, cell phone pressed to her ear, glass of chardonnay in hand, Rachel had experienced a moment of terrible clarity: Her friend was right. She’d wasted years of her life with Peter because he was familiar and she was too much of a coward to trade in Mr. Dull-but-Reliable for the uncertainty of wading back into the dating pool. Rachel had fooled herself into thinking she loved Peter, but once the initial shock of the e-mail had worn off, her heart didn’t sport so much as a bruise.
No, what had taken a beating was her self-confidence. “We had no chemistry?” That was code for “You’re boring in bed,” an accusation Peter had never made outright but had certainly implied on more than one occasion.
When Rachel shared this interpretation with Leah, her friend had scoffed, “What does Peter know about good in bed? He wouldn’t even go downtown.”
“Oh my God, shut up,” Rachel had hissed into her phone, glancing around the bar as if someone might have heard the bald declaration. “I can’t believe I told you that.”
Leah laughed. “Well you did, so now I can throw it back in your face. Peter was a lousy lover.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it, it was obvious. You haven’t been laid properly in seven years.”
Since Peter was the sum total of her sexual experience, this raised the distinct possibility that she’d never been laid properly. Rachel kept this observation to herself.
“Go to Maui anyway,” Leah had urged. “You need to find someone to have wild rebound sex with. That will make you feel better.”
Rachel had laughed, drawing a few stares in the quiet bar, but her friend wasn’t kidding. “Seriously, consider this vacation an opportunity to get your confidence back,” Leah had said. “No, wait, I’ve got a great idea. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you five goals for the next ten days. Are you ready? Write this down.”
Rachel had fished a pen out of her purse and transcribed the goals in bold black letters on a cocktail napkin:
1. Get falling-down drunk before 5 p.m.
2. Dance on the beach.
3. Have a fling.
4. Experience oral sex.
5. Seize an opportunity.
Four things she had never done—a few she had never even considered doing—and the fifth a sort of open-ended provocation. The prospect of stepping so far outside her comfort zone was frightening, but it was exciting, too. She’d envisioned becoming a different Rachel, not the unexciting rule-follower from Oregon she really was but a Maui Rachel who could drink whenever and however much she wanted to, dance in public without worrying she looked stupid, and—this was the most delicious part—treat sex as an opportunity for mind-blowing pleasure rather than as the prologue to a serious relationship.
Could she really do it? On the phone at LAX, she’d been convinced, but her confidence had worn thin in the air over the Pacific. She had all the right equipment, but somehow she’d never been the sort of woman who could make a man’s pulse pound. Whenever she donned a bikini or a skimpy dress, she could practically hear her brother Levi saying, “Put some clothes on, for God’s sake! Nobody wants to see that.”
Of course, Levi could be kind of an asshole, and she knew there was technically nothing wrong with her body. Running and yoga kept her trim and fit, and a leering stranger at a bar had once told her she had a million-dollar ass. But she was a graduate student, basically a brain on legs. Who cared about her ass?
By the time she landed in Maui, Rachel was ready to back out. Unfortunately, Leah had anticipated this move and blocked it. “I know you, Rach,” she’d said over the phone. “Your word is your bond. Now sign that list.” Fueled by chardonnay and the conviction she’d spent too many years being a coward, Rachel had signed it.
She was utterly doomed.
“I’ll need to get in there,” Rob said from behind her, snapping her back to the present. “The water heater is in the cabinet underneath the sink.”
How long had she been standing there daydreaming while Rob waited for her to quit blocking the bathroom doorway? Too long. God. Could she blame the jet lag for this?
She turned around. He was closer than she’d expected, towering over her and looking rather less dazzling and rather more… was “predatory” the word? Yes. That was the word. All tightly controlled muscle and intense focus, he was a mountain lion coiled to spring. And he seemed to be about to spring on her, hard as that was to believe. She had to look frightful, red-faced with embarrassment, grimy from her run, with dark circles under her eyes. And yet, the way he was looking at her— like he was interested. A thrill skittered up her spine, and her nipples tightened against the satin.
Have a fling. The challenge lit up in her mind, each word a blaze of pink neon.
But even if she hadn’t been tired, sweaty, and smelly—and let’s not forget scared to death—how did one go about seducing the sexy resort employee? In a porn movie, she’d untie the robe and they’d be off to the races. Unfortunately, this was real life, and there was no bass-heavy soundtrack egging her on. Actual human beings didn’t do that sort of thing. Did they?
She didn’t, at any rate. “Sorry. I’ll just get out of your way.”
Rob turned sideways to give her room, and she slid by and practically sprinted the few steps back down the hall to the bungalow’s small kitchen. “I’ll be in here if you want me,” she said breathlessly before ducking inside to safety.

***

Oh, he wanted her all right.
Rob braced both hands on the vanity top and swore under his breath. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman quite so badly—certainly not a woman he’d just met. But he couldn’t have her. He had a firm rule: he never slept with guests of his resort. It was unprofessional, and it invited complications he didn’t need.
Before today, he’d never had much cause to regret the policy.
When he got the call from Amy to drop by unit three to fix the shower, he hadn’t expected to find the jogger from the beach. He’d spotted her earlier when she went by the bar, where he was about to chew out the band for being late three nights running. At the time, he’d pegged her as cute. But up close, she wasn’t so much cute as arresting, with huge blue eyes framed by dark lashes, fine features, a full mouth. Her skin glowed from the recent exertion, and her straight, dark hair, now loose and falling past her shoulders, was damp at the temples.
She was really something. Fresh-faced and sweet, sweaty from the run, incredible body. When she smiled, she revealed deep dimples in both cheeks, and her lips inspired smutty thoughts it took all his concentration to repress.
Her conversational missteps in the doorway hadn’t helped. Had he ever made a woman blush like that before? It should’ve made her look innocent, but instead it had given him a high-definition picture of what Rachel would look like in his bed. If he whispered something dirty in her ear while he was inside her, would she blush like that and wrap her legs around him?
It was a highly unprofessional thought.
Following her down the hall to the bathroom had nearly done him in. His gaze had traced the lines of her smooth, muscular calves and rose up her thighs to where the robe stopped a few inches below a round, ripe ass. Rob would bet the next payment on his business loan she didn’t have a stitch on underneath that robe. Thinking about it now sent another bolt of heat to his groin.
Get a grip, Sheffield. You’re here to fix the freaking shower.
He opened the cabinet and got to work. These on-demand water heaters had seemed like a good idea when he’d bought them. They were energy efficient, which went along with the eco-friendly theme of the resort, but they’d turned out to be finicky. Maybe it was time to replace them. He made a mental note to ask Matt for his opinion when he came back from his honeymoon.
Come to think of it, it was Matt’s fault Rob was kneeling on Spanish tile messing around with a water heater. Rob had given all the maintenance guys the day off to attend their supervisor’s wedding. In thanks, he’d had to deal with a 5:00 a.m. plumbing emergency and mysterious electrical problems in two different units. To make matters worse, his chef had quit this morning without notice, and he’d had to task Amy with rustling up food for the next few mornings’ surfing and kayaking outings—which could easily turn out to be a disaster, given that Amy could burn a pot of boiling water.
Rachel was a complication Rob didn’t need. He had a resort to run, and he couldn’t run it with a hard-on.
He finished up the adjustment and turned on the shower to confirm the hot water had been restored. Crossing to the bathroom doorway, he took a deep breath and called down the hall, “Rachel? Your shower’s fixed.”
She emerged from the kitchen. “That was quick!” She beamed at him. “Thanks. I’m pretty desperate for it.” He watched, fascinated, as a deep pink flush once again spread over her cheeks.
Just like that, his dick woke up. For crying out loud. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose.
When he opened them, she’d moved closer, standing opposite him in the hallway with the fingers of one hand wrapped around the tie of her robe. His eyes locked on her mouth, and it was all he could do to keep from leaning in and tasting her. They dropped to her throat and registered the rapid beat of her pulse. The intensity of his reaction to this woman was inexplicable, and it bothered him. Rob had seen plenty of guests in a state of semi-nudity—this was Maui, after all, and bikinis were par for the course—but he had never before had to restrain himself from pushing one up against the wall and having his way with her.
He cleared his throat and dropped his eyes, trying to break the spell. No help there. Now he was staring at the hard peaks of her nipples beneath the robe. If he brushed the robe aside and put his mouth on her, she would taste salty, her skin pebbled and soft beneath his tongue. She smelled like heaven, all clean sweat and something womanly that made him want to drop to his knees and bury his face between her legs.
Christ. He raised his eyes to hers and watched her pupils dilate. She wanted him too. There was no question.
When she took another tentative step toward him, he managed to locate his moral compass. He wasn’t going to kiss her, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to embarrass her by letting her kiss him. This had to end, right now. He couldn’t risk the resort for a quick fling with a guest. Even a guest as enticing as Rachel.
Before he could change his mind, he stepped past her and flung open the door. “You should be good to go. Enjoy your stay at Honu Bay.”
That struck the right note. Brisk and professional. Except that as he was pulling the door closed, he caught sight of her again and paused. She was still frozen in place, long legs spread, chest flushed, eyes wide. Simply breathtaking. And he couldn’t help himself.
“Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to you. For you. For the rest of your stay, I mean.” And then he grinned and shut the door behind him.

Rachel gave him a nervous smile, turned away, and ran into the water, diving under a wave and swimming off with a clean, efficient stroke. When she was thirty feet out, she called, “I’m not ready for that much spontaneity.”
He chuckled, shucked his shorts, and waded after her, taking his time, enjoying the embrace of the warm water. She was floating on her back when he reached her, her hair fanning around her head in the momentary calm between waves. He captured her waist and waited for her to find her feet before he pulled her closer. “Afraid of me?” he asked, only half-teasing.
Eyes averted, she ran one hand over his chest and down his abdomen, making him inhale sharply. The water hid his erection from view but did nothing to cool him off. He wanted her badly—had wanted her badly since he first laid eyes on her in that black robe. But he sensed the reticence behind her flippant comment and in the exploratory nature of the caress, and he didn’t want to frighten her.
“Yes,” she said softly, and his heart skipped a beat. When she met his eyes, though, her lips pursed in a coy smile, she no longer looked nervous. “You’re disgustingly perfect,” she said. “I’m afraid if I see you naked, I’ll go blind.”
He laughed, and she stepped closer, letting his hands settle on her hips under the water. “Am I to understand the no-liaisons rule has been suspended?” she asked, brushing her cheek against his chest.
The light touch did something crazy to his blood pressure, and his fingers tightened their grip.
“It’s definitely under review.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her face up to his. A few inches still separated their mouths; she wasn’t quite as tall as he’d thought. “Would you like my input?” she asked.
He slipped his thumbs beneath the ties of her her bikini bottom to trace a lazy arc over her hipbones with his thumbs, enjoying the feel of her slippery skin under the pads of his fingers. God, she was sexy. “Let’s hear it.”
“I think you need more data before you can make a fair decision.”
He lowered his head and breathed his response into her warm, wet neck. “What sort of data?”
When she tilted her head to the side to give him access, he nibbled a path along her skin, seeking out the sensitive spots that would make her shudder. He found a few, and she rewarded him with soft noises of pleasure that ratcheted up his arousal from painful to unbearable. He moved his hands up curve of her waist and around her back to slip under the string of her bikini top. She gasped, and his groin throbbed in response.
“You going to answer me?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, befuddled. Good. He wanted her befuddled. He wanted her swamped with lust, aching and begging and saying his name. Though getting her there might take more stamina than he could summon up, given that all the blood in his body had relocated to his cock.
He trailed his lips up to her ear and whispered, “What sort of data do we need, Rachel?” When he kissed along her jaw line, she moaned and lifted her hips into him. His erection pressed against the bare flesh of her stomach, and for a few seconds the need to bury himself inside her blanked out everything else. It took a while for his brain to wrestle his dick back under control, and when he came around again he realized she’d spoken.
“A kiss,” she’d said. “You need to kiss me, Rob.”
He forced himself to ease up, moving his lower body away from the temptation of her straining hips. Slow down. Just slow the hell down, Sheffield. He wasn’t going to take her in the water like a rank amateur, hard and fast and—
Holy shit, don’t even think about it.
He didn’t have a condom on him, anyway. He didn’t have anything on him. This was meant to be an appetizer, a chance to show Rachel how sexy she was. Christ, she was sexy enough to give him a coronary.
And she wanted him to kiss her. He’d do that. In a minute. He was saving it, because he’d been fantasizing about kissing her all day long. And because he was a little worried about what those luscious lips of hers were going to do to his self-control.
“What would kissing you tell me that I don’t already know?” he asked, moving his mouth lower to trail down her throat. Cupping her back in his hands, he slid his thumbs around to stroke the underside of her breasts. He wanted her out of this swimsuit. He wanted her breasts in his hands, her nipples in his mouth, and he wanted it yesterday.
Slow. Down.
“It would tell you—oh, God,” she broke off as one thumb brushed her nipple. “It would tell you if it’s going to be worth it to make an exception to the rule.”
“Mmm.” As if he hadn’t figured out the answer to that question about four seconds after he landed on top of her in that beach chair and felt the welcoming heat of her thighs clamped tight around his hips. He’d walk over coals to get her underneath him again.
Nipping gently at her collarbone, he asked, “How will I know?”
She thrust her hips against him and didn’t answer. Rob dropped his head and ran his tongue over her nipple through the wet, salty fabric of her bikini top. He bit it gently, then suckled her hard, drawing a helpless moan from her throat. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on tight.
“You’ll just— know,” she panted.
His other hand moved around to cup her breast, and he rolled the nipple between his thumb and finger while continuing to torment her with his tongue. When he lifted his head to look at her, the glazed desire in her eyes made his knees weak. He grabbed her incredible ass in both hands and hauled her tight against him.
And then he kissed her, and he knew.

***

This was what she’d been missing. The solid, warm body of a man, the smell of him, the scrape of stubble against her chin, the big hands settled possessively on her bottom, and omigod his mouth. His mouth was amazing, warm and mobile and just the right amount of firm. She’d only ever been kissed by Peter, and the first time had been so awkward, so unexpectedly messy, she’d nearly sworn off kissing for good. They’d gotten better eventually, but never great.
Turned out Peter was a really bad kisser. Rob, though. Rob was knocking her socks off, and he’d only just begun. She rose up onto her tiptoes and wrapped one hand around the back of his neck with a little moan, tugging him closer. Only then did she register that he’d gone still, his muscles tense.
She was trying to eat him alive, and he was pulling away.
What the hell?
“Rob?” She didn’t know where she’d gone wrong, but clearly she’d done something, because his hands had slipped back to her hips, and he was stiff-armed, holding her at bay. Forehead furrowed, eyes squeezed tightly shut, he exhaled, looking like somebody was trying to pull out his fingernails with pliers. “Rob?”
Nothing. Not a word from him, not a glance, not a smile, not a thing.
Had she missed a cue? When a guy took you for a walk at midnight alone on the beach and then stripped off all his clothes and followed you into the water and pulled you close and kissed you and sucked on your nipples, that meant he wanted to have sex with you, right? If it didn’t, God help her, because she had no idea what else it could possibly mean.
So, what? She was a bad kisser? She had terrible breath? He’d had an attack of conscience? He just wasn’t that into her? Only she’d felt his erection pressed up against her belly, and holy shit, he’d felt pretty into her.
Appendicitis?
She looked at him again. He didn’t seem to be in physical pain.
It had to be her. Humiliation arrived by express train, souring her stomach and making her scalp prickle. Whatever she’d done, whatever had just gone horribly awry, she didn’t need to hear the specifics. No one on earth could make her stand here and wait for the postmortem. She wriggled out of his grasp, took a deep breath, and dove under the water.
Swimming toward the shore, she stayed under until the tight bands around her chest forced her to the surface, and then she got her feet under her and walked the rest of the way in. It took her a few seconds to find her sarong, but as soon as she did she snatched it up and started marching back the way they’d come.
From somewhere way behind her, she heard Rob call her name.
Screw him. If he didn’t want her, then screw him. He’d made her feel cheap, turned her into a succubus, a tart, a slapper, a… Why weren’t there any good words for a woman who threw herself on a man who didn’t want her? She needed more synonyms to flail herself with. Hussy. That was a good one.
“Rachel, for God’s sake, wait up.”
No.
He was getting closer now, he was going to catch up, and then he’d make her listen to an explanation and she didn’t want to hear it. Because it all boiled down to the same thing: he’d made her breathless with need, reduced her to a quivering mass of nerve endings, and then changed his mind. She couldn’t have changed her mind if a tsunami had arrived. She wouldn’t have stopped kissing him if a shark had started gnawing on her foot. When their lips met, she’d been filled with this glorious sense that all the planets had lined up and the angel chorus was singing and Cupid had shot her right through the heart, all at the same time. She’d felt right.
More fool her.
Rob didn’t want her—not enough, anyway—and it was the last freaking straw.
A line from Peter’s e-mail floated up from the dustbin where she’d consigned it. You’re such a nice woman, Rachel, and we’ve had some good times. I know you’ll find someone who loves and respects you the way you deserve.
Fuck. That.
She wasn’t looking for love and respect. She didn’t want to be a nice woman. She wanted to get soundly screwed, and she couldn’t even manage it on vacation. She was going back to her room, she was going to burn the stupid napkin, and then she was going to start looking into whether she could find a spot in a nunnery, because no orgasm, no man, was worth feeling like this.
His fingers closed around her arm, and she shook it violently in an attempt to dislodge them. No luck. Hunk-of-the-Month had a strong grip.
“Let go of me!”
“Not until you talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” She raised her chin. It wasn’t quivering. She wasn’t about to cry.
“Rachel, I’m sorry,” he said. To his credit, he was the very picture of remorse. Too bad it didn’t make the least bit of difference.
“For what?” she snapped. “Are you sorry you kissed me? Or maybe you’re sorry for stripping naked, coaxing me into the water, and then treating me like a leper?”
“I—”
She cut him off with a one-handed shove to the middle of his chest. His bare, exquisite, perfect chest. “I don’t want to hear it! Just spare me the speech, okay?”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.” He spoke quietly, reasonably, and he let go of her arm.
“Let me take a wild guess. ‘Rachel, I’m so sorry I let things get out of hand between us. I never should have led you on like this. You’re such a nice person, and I know you’ll find the right guy someday, and I wish you all the best, but I can’t do this.’”
Rob opened his mouth. Closed it again. Raked his hand through his hair.
Bullseye.
“I feel one inch tall right now and about as sexy as a chimp,” she told him, somehow managing to keep her voice from wavering. “I don’t—” She swallowed, cursing the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to hear how sorry you are. I could give a shit how sorry you are. Just leave me alone and let me lick my wounds in peace.”
Without waiting to hear what he had to say, she turned her back and left him on the beach.
By the time she got to her bungalow, she was done being angry. She never had been able to sustain a good rage for long; as the youngest in her family and the only girl, it had always been her job to make the peace. Anger didn’t do much good when either one of your brothers could pound you flat without breaking a sweat. She’d learned early to suck it up.
It was too bad, because without rage, all you had was that sick, marrowless feeling that came after it.
Regret. Disgust. Self-loathing. Black emotions, battery acid in her veins.
Standing just inside the threshold of her room, she looked around at the blond bamboo floors, the cheerful splashes of color on the walls, the vast bed with its chic organic cotton bedding in shades of white, oatmeal, and gray. Such a romantic room. Such a waste.
In the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror and took in her tangled, wet hair, her red nose, the sagging bikini and the mark on her neck where Rob had sucked hard enough to leave a bruise. She stripped off her suit and stared at herself, trying to find something to like.
Put some clothes on, for God’s sake. Nobody wants to see that.
She got in the shower, turned the water on as hot as she could stand it, and cried until her throat ached.