Chapter 11
What the heck? Why had she drunk that second glass of champagne? Their beach wedding had got to her, that was why. She had been swept away by the romantic setting, swept away by Dave’s kiss. The kiss that had sent shivers up and down her spine and driven silly ideas into her head. Ideas of him wanting things to go further, of him wanting her. Not just physically but intellectually and emotionally.
But Dave had drawn a line in the sand. Do not cross.
It was there—so clear, so bright, so fucking visible.
Lea plonked herself down on the bed in her room with a despondent sigh. She’d made a class-A fool of herself, practically begging Dave to kiss her. Shame washed through her at how gauche she had been—how unworldly and foolish to think he might want to tweak the rules of their relationship.
But his kiss had been so genuine. So authentic. So powerfully passionate that she could feel it on her lips even now. She only had to close her eyes, and she was back there on the warm, grainy sand, with the waves washing against the shore with their fringe of white lace, and Dave’s mouth clamped to hers as if he never wanted to let her go. The need he had stirred in her was still humming in her body—a faint background ache she couldn’t ignore.
Lea hitched up the hem of her dress, wriggled her feet, and curled her toes. The white, jagged scars on her left leg were a jarring reminder of her past. The past contained memories she wished she could forget. Painful memories that were embedded so deeply inbrain thatr brain she still had nightmares.
Babe. The word she loathed because her father had used it to address her mother in love and hate and everything in between. The word her father had said in the moments before the car had slammed into the tree.
Lea pushed herself off the bed and walked over to the windows overlooking the beach. She hugged her arms around her body, trying to contain the disturbing images that flashed into her brain every time she thought of the accident. Accident? What a misnomer that was. It had been no accident. Her father had wanted to kill them all and had just about succeeded in doing so. He and her mother had died at the scene, but Lea had been saved by a passing motorist—an off-duty nurse who had controlled the bleeding until the paramedics had arrived. Lucky Lea. That was what she’d heard the medical staff call her at the hospital.
Why, then, didn’t she feel it?
Lea blinked away the past and focussed on the beach below. The turquoise water beckoned but she hadn’t swum since rehab after the accident. And you could hardly call that swimming. She wasn’t sure she could even do it anymore. And she couldn’t imagine doing it without a body suit on, because going out in public with her scars on show drew too many stares, too many pitying looks, and too many intrusive questions.
But on a whim, she still couldn’t explain, she had bought a swimsuit when she’d bought her wedding dress. It was a strapless emerald-green one-piece with a ruched panel in the front and a matching sarong. It was still in her suitcase—she hadn’t bothered unpacking it—because taking it out would be admitting she longed to swim, to feel the cool caress of the ocean around her body, to be lifted weightless in its embrace. Free to move with perfect symmetry instead of her syncopated gait.
Lea narrowed her gaze when she saw a tall figure walking to the water. Dave had changed into a black hipster swimming costume, which showcased his athletic physique to perfection. Lean and taut with well-trained muscles, his skin tanned from numerous trips abroad, he turned every female head on the beach but seemed completely unaware of it. He waded through the waves until he got to deeper water and began striking out beyond the breakers in an effortless freestyle that was both graceful and powerful.
She turned away from the window with another sigh. She was on beautiful Maui in Hawaii with her brand-new husband, who didn’t want her other than as a means to an end.
Where was Lucky Lea now?
Gone. Heartbroken, obviously.
Dave towelled off on the beach after his swim, but the restlessness in him hadn’t gone away in spite of the punishing exercise. He’d considered asking Lea to join him for a swim but had decided against it. This was not a honeymoon. They didn’t have to spend every minute of the day together—even if he wanted to a lot more than he should.
He walked back to the villa and found Lea sitting on one of the lounge chairs on the terrace overlooking the beach. She was wearing blue denim jeans, ballet flats, and an untucked white cotton shirt. Her head was shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, and her eyes were screened behind a pair of sunglasses. She looked up from the magazine she was flicking through and lowered her sunglasses a fraction to look at him. “How was the water?”
“Wet.”
She pushed her sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose. “Funny, ha-ha.”
Dave took the sun lounge seat beside hers and hooked one arm around one of his bent knees. “Did you bring a swimming costume with you?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to swim.” Her tone was brusque to the point of rudeness, her gaze staring out in front of her rather than facing him. “Please don’t ask me again.”
“If you’re worried about your leg, then let me assure you—”
Her gaze whipped around to him with such speed that it dislodged her hat, and she had to steady it with one of her hands. “You laid down some rules, so I’m going to do the same. I don’t like swimming. I don’t like wearing bikinis, shorts, or skirts that are above the knee. And if you do want me to wear them, then you’ve married the wrong person.” She removed her hand from holding her hat in place and turned back to stare out at the ocean.
Dave swung his legs over the side of the sun lounge seat and leaned his arms on his knees, studying her rigid features. Her mouth was set, her chin at a haughty height, and her eyes fixed on a view he could tell she wasn’t even registering.
“Lea.” He kept his voice low and gentle. “Look at me.”
Her fingers began to pick at a frayed patch on her jeans, and her mouth was still set in a stubborn line.
“I know what you’re going to say, so don’t bother saying it.”
He sighed. “Tell me what you think I’m going to say.”
She rolled her eyes, pulled a thread out of the patch on her jeans, and played tug-of-war with a series of sharp little tugs until it snapped. “You’re going to tell me I’m being silly about being self-conscious about my leg. That I should try and live a normal life and not care what anyone says or if they stare and ask rude questions.” She rolled the broken pieces of thread into a ball and dropped them onto the table beside her chair. “But you’re you. You’re not me.”
Dave took one of her hands and anchored it against his thigh, close to his bent knee. “You’re not silly to be self-conscious. It’s tough to have anything that draws unwelcome attention. But it concerns me that you're limiting your enjoyment of life because of other people’s reactions or judgements.”
She went to pull her hand out from under his, but he countered it with a little more pressure. Her palm was soft against his thigh—warm and soft—and he couldn’t stop imagining how it would feel on other parts of his body. His groin stirred, his blood rushed, and his self-control went AWOL. Damn it, he thought. Not now.
Before he could stop himself, he brought her hand up to his mouth, pressing a light kiss on her bent knuckles. She gave a little whole-body shiver, as if his touch was having the same effect on her as hers was on him. The tip of her tongue darted out to sweep a layer of moisture over her lips, her throat rising and falling in an audible swallow.
He took her sunglasses off her nose and laid them aside so he could mesh his gaze with hers. “You don’t have to be self-conscious around me. If we’re going to convince Mary and others that this is the real deal, then we’re both going to have to feel more relaxed around each other. And even if we don’t feel it, we’ll have to act on it.”
Act…yes…act. Just act.
Her pupils were like black ink spots, her eyelashes were miniature fans. Her gaze dipped to his mouth, her indrawn breath sounding ragged. “Relaxed…in what way?”
Dave turned her hand over and stroked his thumb over her palm in a rhythmic fashion. “There will be occasions when we’ll be required to show some affection. Holding hands, a kiss on the cheek, or a quick peck on the lips for appearances’ sake. It would look odd if we didn’t.”
"Okay." Her voice was as soft as the whisper of the afternoon breeze. “But earlier today, you were pretty determined we weren’t going to kiss again.”
“Unless absolutely necessary.”
Her eyebrows lifted in a wry manner. “And who gets to decide whether it’s necessary or not?”
Lea, you are not helping, she chastised herself.
“Me.” Dave released her hand and stood. He was unapologetic for being so adamant. He wanted no blurry boundaries. He wanted control at all times. He wanted to keep his wants under lock and key.
She anchored her hat and tilted her head to look up at him. “And do you think—I mean, is that fair?”
“Probably not, but that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“You are an asshole; did you even know that?”
“No,” he smirked.
She rolled her eyes again.
He scooped up his towel and flung it around his shoulders. “I’m heading in for a shower. I’ve booked a restaurant for dinner at eight. It’s a short walk from here, but we can get a taxi if you’d prefer.”
Pride shone in her eyes and rang in her voice. “That won’t be necessary.”
Jerk.
Act my ass.