The Sicilian Surrender

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“I don’t want smirks, I want pensive,” he shouted.

She nodded, took some deep breaths and gave him pensive.

The man always stayed at a distance, watching her as if he wanted to absorb her into his skin. At the same time he wanted to turn his back and forget he’d ever seen her.

Another scientific deduction. Besides, even if it was true, it made no sense.

The evidence all pointed to his watching not her but the entire group. He was surely one of the security guards that patrolled the place, and if she hadn’t noticed him right away, that was just because he was good at blending into the scenery.

And if her sun-baked brain gave him more depth than that, painted him as almost cruelly masculine and incredibly sexy, that was her fault, not his.

Fallon blew the hair back from her forehead. Without question, the heat was playing games with her mind.

“Maurice?” She swung toward the photographer, hands on her hips. “Listen, Maurice, enough is enough. I’m melting. My makeup’s running, my scalp’s crawling with sweat.”

“You want me to tell you you still look gorgeous? ’Cause you do.”

“Yeah, right. That’s wonderful, but I’ve had it.”

“Ten minutes more, that’s all. Lift your chin like so.”

“You said ten minutes an hour ago.”

Maurice lifted his chin. Fallon left hers where it was.

“Maurice,” she said firmly, “everybody else has gone. They’re all sitting in the tent, out of the sun, drinking something cold and waiting for you so they can take the van back to the inn.”

“Let them wait. I’m not finished. Look at me, O’Connell. Give me a little more attitude. You’re a bride and your groom’s watching you and you want to show him what you’ve got. Good. Fine.”

Did she want to show the man who watched her what she had? She’d thought about him last night, lying in her narrow, lumpy bed. Imagined his face. Would his eyes be dark? His nose classically Roman? His mouth full, his jaw chiseled?

Would he look like the man at the airport?

The skin on the back of Fallon’s neck tingled. He was up there, watching her again.

She knew it.

She looked back, shading her eyes, making no attempt to be discreet and yes, there he was, standing with his arms folded, his eyes hidden behind those omnipresent dark glasses.

A hot arrow of desire shot through her so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she felt her knees turn to water. She wanted—she wanted—

Out of here. That was what she wanted. Turning, she splashed through the shallows to the beach.

“O’Connell?”

Her sunglasses were on a canvas folding chair. She jabbed them on her nose and shoved her feet into a pair of rubber thongs.

“What’s happening, babe?”

“The session’s over, that’s what’s happening.”

“Yeah, but the light’s changing.” Maurice hurried after her as she headed for the path that wound up the cliff. “Babe,” he whined, “look at the sky. Clouds, see? And the water’s getting choppy. Nice little waves coming in. Moody stuff. I thought we’d try something new—”

“I’ll see you later,” Fallon said, and started up the path. Maurice was a great photographer but he never knew when to stop.

She did, and it was now.

She was out of breath by the time she reached level ground. The stranger was gone, which annoyed her. What kind of man watched a woman without making an effort to meet her? Because yes, he was watching her. Not the others.

Her.

Fallon strode toward the tent, where the Bridal Dreams people were sprawled in a semi-circular arrangement of canvas chairs, their faces tilted up to the sun.

Andy looked up and called out to her. “All done?”

She nodded. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. She grinned back, returned the gesture and opened the door of the ancient little red Fiat she’d rented from the innkeeper as soon as she’d realized how isolated this place was.

Her jeans and T-shirt were lying in the back seat. Fallon pulled them on over her bikini, grimacing a little at the feel of the hot cotton against her sticky skin.

She wanted a shower and a cold drink. She wanted to pack her things for tomorrow’s flight home and then, maybe, drive up into the hills for one last look over the sea.

Most of all, she thought as she let out the clutch and floored the gas pedal, most of all, she never wanted to see this cliff and its castello again.

Stefano watched Fallon O’Connell walk toward the tent he’d permitted to be raised on his property.

She seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

Was he the reason? Yes. He probably was.

Stefano opened the concealed minifridge built into the wall behind his desk, took out a bottle of water and raised it to his lips.

The lady thought he was watching her. He’d realized that days ago. The way she stiffened and looked around her whenever he appeared was a dead giveaway.

It didn’t surprise him. Women who looked like her assumed they had the eye of every man who saw them.

She was wrong. He wanted nothing to do with her.

Concern for his privacy had drawn him back, not a woman, and a damned good thing, too. Carla had violated their agreement before he’d even had time to board his plane. She’d brought in more people than she’d said she would, and his housekeeper told him that she’d sought access to the house the instant his back was turned.

Stefano settled into a leather armchair, put his feet up on a hassock and took another drink of cold water.

Of course, he’d sent Carla packing. He’d wanted to toss out the lot of them, her and her hedonistic fashionistas, too, but that dark threat she’d made hung over his head. Instead, he’d done the best he could, told his former mistress to get off his property before he had her thrown off.

Then he’d settled in to get through the week without going crazy from boredom, and that was the only reason he’d taken to observing the Bridal Dreams group.

Fallon had reached the disreputable-looking old car she’d picked up somewhere. Stefano frowned as she opened the door, pulled out jeans and a T-shirt and slipped them on. The shirt was oversize but the jeans clung to her legs. Such impossibly long legs, he thought with lazy appraisal.

Clothed, she was as magnificent as she’d been in the string bikini.

Okay. Maybe he paid more attention to her than to the others. What man wouldn’t? She was stunning, the kind of woman who’d silence a room simply by entering it. A man would have to be blind not to enjoy looking at her.

Tomorrow, there’d be nothing to look at.

This unwanted intrusion in his life was over. This was the last day the photographic crew would be here. Fallon O’Connell was driving away right now. He couldn’t help smiling at the way the little Fiat bucked. She’d probably let the clutch out too fast. She was driving too fast, too, leaving a plume of dust behind.