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Done for his benefit? he asked himself, then shot that idea in the foot with a silent huff of scorn to remind himself that Eve Herakleides disliked him as much as he disliked her.
Outside the air was like warm damp silk against his skin. The humidity was high, and looking out to sea Ethan could see clouds gathering on the horizon aiming to spoil the imminent sunset. There could be a storm tonight, he predicted as he turned in the direction of his beach house. Behind him the sound of a woman’s laughter came drifting towards him from inside the bar. Without thinking he suddenly changed direction and his feet were kicking hot sand as he ran toward the water and made a clean racing dive into its cool clear depths.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Jack cautioned. ‘He’s too old and too dangerous for a sweet little flirt like you.’
Dragging her eyes away from the sight of Ethan Hayes in full sprint as he headed for the ocean, Eve looked into Jack Banning’s knowing gaze—and mentally ran for cover. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.
Jack didn’t believe her. ‘Ethan Hayes could eat you for a snack without touching his appetite,’ he informed her without a hint of mockery to make the bitter pill of truth an easier one to swallow.
‘Like you, you mean,’ she said with a kissable pout, which was really another duck-and-run. ‘Big bad Jack,’ she murmured as she moved in closer then began swaying so provocatively that he had to physically restrain her.
He did it with a white-toothed, highly amused, grin. ‘Minx,’ he scolded. ‘If your grandfather could see you he would have you locked up—these messages you put out are dangerous.’
‘My grandpa adores me too much to do anything so primitive.’
‘Your grandfather, my little siren, arrives on this island tomorrow,’ Jack reminded her. ‘Let him see this look you’re wearing on your face and we will soon learn how primitive he can be…’
CHAPTER TWO
ETHAN took his time swimming down the length of the bay to come out of the water opposite the beach house he was using while he was here. It belonged to Leandros Petronades, a business associate, who had understood his need to get away from it all for a week or two if he wasn’t going to do something stupid like walk out on his ten-year-strong working partnership with Victor Frayne.
Victor…Ethan’s feet stilled at the edge of the surf as the same anger that had caused the rift between the two of them rose up to burn at his insides again.
Victor had used him, or had allowed him to be used, as a decoy in the crossfire between Victor’s daughter, Leona, and her estranged husband, Sheikh Hassan Al-Qadim. In the Sheikh’s quest to recover his wife, Leona and Ethan had been ambushed then dragged off into the night. When Ethan had eventually come round from a knockout blow to his jaw, it had been to find he’d been made virtual prisoner on Sheikh Hassan’s luxury yacht. But if he’d thought his pride had taken a battering when he’d been wrestled to the ground and rendered helpless with that knockout blow, then his interview with the Sheikh the next morning had turned what was left of his pride to pulp.
The man was an arrogant bastard, Ethan thought grimly. What Leona loved about him he would never understand. If he had been her father, he would have been putting up a wall of defence around her rather than aiding and abetting her abduction by a man whom everyone knew had been about to take a second wife! 19
Leona had been out of that marriage—best out of that marriage! Now she was back in it with bells ringing and—
Bending down he picked up a conch shell then turned and hurled it into the sea. He wished to goodness he hadn’t had that conversation with Jack Banning. He wished he could stuff all of these violent feelings back into storage where he had managed to hide them for the last week. Now he was angry with himself again, angry with Victor, and angry with Sheikh Hassan Al-Qadim and the whole damn world, probably.
On that heavily honest assessment, he turned back to face land again. Leandros Petronades had been his saviour when he’d offered him the use of this place. Not that the Greek’s motives had been in the least bit altruistic, Ethan reminded himself. As one of the main investors in their Spanish project, Leandros had been protecting his own back, plus several other business ventures his company had running with Hayes-Frayne. A bust up between Ethan and Victor would have left him with problems he did not need or want. So when he’d happened to walk in on the furious row the two partners had been locked in, had seen the huge purple bruise on Ethan’s face and had heard enough to draw his own conclusions as how the bruise got there, Leandros had immediately suggested that Ethan needed a break while he cooled off.
So here he was, standing on the beach of one of the most exclusive islands in the Caribbean, and about the lush green hillside in front of him nestled the kind of properties most people only dreamed about. The Visconte hotel complex occupied a central position, forming the hub around which all activities on the island revolved. Either side of the hotel stood the private villas belonging to those wealthy enough to afford a plot of land here. André Visconte himself owned a private estate. The powerful Galloway family owned many properties, forming a small hamlet of their own in the next bay. But if the size of a plot was indicative of wealth, then the villa belonging to Theron Herakleides had to be the king.
Painted sugar-pink, it sat inside a framework of ancient date-and fabulous flame-trees about halfway up the hill. From the main house the garden swept down to sea level via a series of carefully tended terraces: sun terraces, pool terraces, garden terraces that wouldn’t be believed to be real outside a film set. There were tennis courts and even a velvet smooth croquet lawn, though Ethan could not bring himself to imagine that Theron Herakleides had ever bothered to use it. Then there were the guest houses scattered about the grounds, all painted that sugar-pink colour which came into its own with every burning sunset. Almost on the sand sat the Herakleides beach house, the part of her grandfather’s estate that Eve was using while she was here.
It had to be the worst kind of luck that the Petronades and the Herakleides estates were beside each other, because it placed her beach house right next door to his, Ethan mused heavily, as he trod the soft sand on his way up the beach. Other than for Eve’s close proximity he was happy with his modest accommodation. The beach houses might be small but they possessed a certain charm that appealed to the artist in him. Nothing grand: just an open-plan living room and kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom.
All he needed, in other words, he acknowledged as he came to a stop at the low white-washed wall that was there to help keep the sand back rather than mark the boundary to the property. Set into the wall was a white picket gate that gave access to a simple garden and the short path that led to a shady veranda. Next to the gate was a concrete tub overhung by a freshwater shower head. Pulling his wet tee shirt off over his head he tossed it onto the wall, then stepped into the tub and switched on the tap that brought cool water cascading over his head.
His skin shone dark gold in the deepening sunset, muscles rippled across his shoulders and back, as he sluiced the sand and salt from his body. Standing a few short yards away on the hot concrete path that ran right around the bay, Eve watched him with the same fascination she had surrendered to the last time she had chanced upon Ethan Hayes like this.
Only it wasn’t the same, she reminded herself quickly. He was dressed, or that part of him which caused her the most problems was modestly covered at least. But as for the rest of him—
Water ran off his dark hair down his face to his shoulders. The hair on his chest lay matted in thick coils that arrowed down to below his waist. She hadn’t noticed the chest hair the last time—hadn’t noticed the six-pack firmness of his abdomen. He was lean and he was tight and he was honed to perfection, and she wished she—
‘You can go past. I won’t bite,’ the man himself murmured flatly, letting her know that he had seen her standing here.
Fingers curling into two fists at her sides, Eve released a soft curse beneath her breath. I hate him, she told herself. I really hate him for catching me doing this, not once but twice!
‘Actually I quite like the view,’ she returned, determined not to let him embarrass her a second time. ‘You strip down quite nicely for an Englishman.’
More muscles flexed; Eve’s lungs stopped working. She wished she understood this fascination she had for his body, but she didn’t. She could not even say that he possessed the best body she had ever seen—mainly because it was the only one she had seen in its full and flagrant entirety. That, she decided, had to be the cause of this wicked fascination she had for Ethan Hayes. It fizzed through her veins like a champagne cocktail, stripped her mouth of moisture like crisp dry wine. Tantalising, in other words. The man was a stiff-necked, supercritical, overbearing boor, yet inside she fluttered like a love-struck teenager every time she saw him.
The shower was turned off. He threw one of those cold-eyed looks at her then slid it away without saying a word. He was going to do his usual thing and walk away as if she didn’t exist, Eve realised, and suddenly she was determined to break that arrogant habit for good!
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ she informed him.
He turned a second look on her. Looks like that could kill, Eve thought as, with a scrupulously bland expression, she pointed to the back of his legs where beautifully pronounced calf muscles were still peppered with fine granules of sand.
Still without saying a word he turned on the shower again. A sudden urge to laugh brought Eve’s ready sense of humour into play and she decided to have a bit of fun at the stuffy Ethan Hayes’ expense.
‘Jack just warned me off falling for you,’ she announced, watching him wash the sand off his legs. ‘He thinks you’re dangerous. The eat-them-for-a snack-as-you-walk-out-of-the-door kind of man.’
‘Wise man, Jack.’ She thought she heard him mutter over the splash of water, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘I laughed because I thought it was so funny,’ she went on. ‘I mean—we both know you’re too much the English gentleman to do anything so crass as to love them and leave them without a backward glance.’
It was not a compliment and Ethan didn’t take it as one. ‘You keep taking a dig at my Englishness, but you’re half English yourself,’ he pointed out.
‘I know.’ Eve sighed with mocking tragedy. ‘It worries the Greek in me sometimes that I could end up falling for a die-hard English stuffed-shirt.’
‘Fate worse than death.’
‘Yes.’
He switched the shower off again and Eve rediscovered her fascination with his body as he turned to recover his wet tee shirt; muscles wrapped in rich brown flesh rippled in the red glow of the sunlight, droplets of water clung to the hairs on his chest.
Ethan turned to catch her staring. The prickling sensation between his thighs warned him that he had better get away from here before he embarrassed himself again. Yet he didn’t move, couldn’t seem to manage the simple act. His senses were too busy drinking in what his eyes were showing him. He liked the way she was wearing her hair twisted cheekily up on her head with a hibiscus flower helping to hold it in place. He liked what the pink dress did for her figure and the slender length and shape of her legs. And he liked her mouth; it was heart-shaped—small with a natural provocative yen to pout. He liked her smooth golden skin, her cute little nose, and those eyes that had a way of looking at him as if she…
Go away, Eve, he wanted to say to her. Instead he dragged his eyes away, and looked for something thoroughly innocuous to say. ‘I thought you were all off to a party this evening.’ Flat-voiced, level-toned, he’d thought he’d hit innocuous perfectly.
But Eve clearly didn’t. She stiffened up as if he had just insulted her. ‘Oh, do let’s be honest and call it an orgy,’ she returned. ‘Since you believe that orgies are more my style.’
Time to go, he decided, and opened the picket gate.
‘While you do what you’re probably very good at, of course,’ she added, ‘and play whist with the cheese and wine set at the hotel.’
He went still.
Eve’s heart stopped beating on the suspicion that she had finally managed to rouse the sleeping tiger she’d always fancied lurked within his big chest. Sometimes—usually when she was least expecting it—Ethan Hayes could take on a certain quality that made her think of dangerous animals. This was one of those times, and her biggest problem was that she liked it—it excited her.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
He knew exactly how old she was. ‘Twenty-three until midnight,’ she told him anyway.
He nodded his wet head. ‘That accounts for it.’
This was blatant baiting, Eve recognised, and foolishly took it. ‘Accounts for what?’
‘The annoyingly adolescent desire to insult and shock.’
He was so right, but oh, it hurt. Why had she willingly let herself fall into that? Eve had no defence, none at all and she had to turn to stare out to sea so that he wouldn’t see the sudden flood of weak tears that were trying to fill her eyes.
And who was the adolescent who made that cutting comment? Ethan was grimly asking himself, as he looked at her standing there looking like an exotic flower that had been cut down in its prime. Oh, damn it, he thought, and walked through the gate, meaning to get the hell away from this before he—
He couldn’t do it. Muscles were tightening all over his body on wave after wave of angry guilt. What had she ever done to him after all? If you didn’t count a couple of teasing come-ons and letting him catch her in a heated clinch with someone else’s man.
She’d also caught him naked and had had a full view of his embarrassing response, but he didn’t want to think about that. Instead he took in a deep breath and spun back to say something trite and stupid and hopefully less—
But he found he was too late because she had already walked off, a tall slender figure with a graceful stride and a proud yet oddly vulnerable tilt to her head. Still cursing himself for the whole stupid conversation, Ethan made himself walk up the path. Though, as he reached the shade of the veranda, he couldn’t resist a quick glance sideways and saw Eve was about to enter her house. One part of him wanted to go after her and apologise, but the major part told him wisely to leave well alone.
Eve Herakleides could mean trouble if he allowed himself to be sucked in by her frankly magnetic appeal. He didn’t need that kind of stimulation. He didn’t want to end up in the same fated boat he had been in before with a woman just like her.
What was it that Jack had called it? ‘Lusting after the unattainable.’ Eve was destined to higher things than a mere architect had to offer—as her grandfather would be happy to tell him. But it was the word lust that made Ethan go inside and firmly close his door.
CHAPTER THREE
EVE tried to enjoy the party. In fact she threw herself into the role of life and soul with an enthusiasm that kept everyone else entertained.
But the scene with Ethan Hayes had taken the edge off her desire to enjoy anything tonight. And she was worried about Aidan. He had been drinking steadily since he’d arrived at the bar on the beach late this afternoon and his mood suited the grim compulsion with which he was pouring the rum down his throat.
Not that anyone else seemed to have noticed, she realised, as she watched him do his party trick with a cocktail shaker and bottle of something very green to the laughing encouragement of the rest of the crowd, whereas she felt more like weeping.
For Aidan—for herself? In truth, she wasn’t quite sure. On that low note she surrendered to the deep doldrums that had been dogging her every movement tonight and slid open one of the glass doors that led onto the terrace. Then she stepped out into the warm dark night, intending to walk across the decking to the terrace rail that overlooked the sea—only it came as a surprise to discover that she was ever so slightly tipsy, so tipsy in fact that she was forced to sink onto the first sunbed she reached just in case she happened to fall down.
Well, why not? she thought with a little shrug, and slipping off her shoes she lifted her feet up onto the cool, cushioned mattress, then relaxed against the raised chair back with a low long sigh. The air was soft and seductively quiet, the earlier threatened storm having passed them by. Reclining there, she listened to the low slap of lazy waves touching the shore, and wondered dully how much longer she needed to leave it before she could escape to brood on her own terrace without inviting comment here?
At least Aidan was already in the right place for when he eventually sank into a drunken stupor, she mused heavily. This was his home, or the one he liked to call home of several the family had dotted around this tiny bay. With a bit of luck he was going to slide under a convenient table soon and she could get some of the guys to put him to bed, then forget about him and his problems for a while and concentrate on her own.
She certainly had a few, Eve acknowledged through the mud of her half-tipsy state. Ethan Hayes and his horrible attitude towards her was one of them. Her grandfather in his whole, sweet, bullying entirety was another. The older he got, the more testy he became, and more determined to run her life for her. She smiled as she thought that about him though, and allowed her mind to drift back to the last conversation she’d had with him over the phone before she’d flown out here from her London flat.
‘Grandpa, will you stop trying to marry me off to every eligible man you happen to meet?’ she scolded, ‘I am only twenty-three years’ old, for goodness’ sake!’
‘At twenty-three you should be suckling my first grandson at your breast while the next grows big in your belly,’ he complained.
‘Barefoot I presume, while making baklava for my very fat husband.’
Eve hadn’t been able to resist it, she chuckled into the night at the outrageous scenario.
‘Spiridon is not fat.’
‘But he is twice my age.’
‘He is thirty-nine,’ the old man corrected. ‘Very handsome. Very fit. The ladies worship him.’
‘And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to foist me off with the most notorious rake in Greece,’ she rebuked. ‘I thought you loved me better than this.’
‘You are the unblemished golden apple of my eye!’ Theron Herakleides announced with formidable passion. ‘I merely want you to remain that way until I see you safely married before I die.’
‘Die?’ she repeated. He was bringing out the big guns with that remark. ‘Now listen to me, you scheming old devil,’ she scolded, ‘I love you to bits. You are the love of my life! But if you stick one—just one—eligible man in front of me I will never speak to you again—understand?’
‘Ne,’ the old man answered, gruff-voiced and tetchy. ‘Yes, I understand that you bully a sick and lonely old man.’
Sick, she did not believe, but lonely she did. ‘See you soon, Grandpa,’ she softly ended the conversation.
And she would do—sooner than she’d thought too—because her grandfather was making a flying visit here tomorrow just to spend her birthday with her. The prospect softened her whole face. She loved that stubborn, bad tempered old man almost to distraction. He had been both her mother and father for so many years now that she could barely recall the time when she hadn’t looked to him for every little thing she might need.
But not a husband, she quickly reminded herself. That was one decision in her life out of which he was going to have to learn to keep his busy nose!
Why a sudden image of Ethan Hayes had to flash across her eyes at that moment, Eve refused to analyse, but it put a dark frown upon her face.
‘Here, try this…’ Glancing up she found Raoul Delacroix standing beside her holding out a tall glass full of a pinkish liquid decorated with just about everything, from a selection of tropical fruit pieces to several fancy cocktail sticks and straws.
‘What’s in it?’ she asked warily.
‘Aidan called it tiger juice with a bite,’ Raoul replied.
Tiger juice, how appropriate, Eve mused dryly, thinking of Ethan Hayes again.
‘I’m game, if you are,’ Raoul said, bringing her attention to the other glass of the same he was holding. ‘It might help take the scowl from your face that you seem to have been struggling with all evening.’
Had her bad mood been that apparent? Eve accepted the glass without further comment, but as Raoul lowered himself onto the sunbed next to hers, she felt a fizz of anger begin to bubble inside because she knew whose fault it was that she was feeling like this!
If she didn’t watch out, Ethan Hayes could be in danger of becoming an obsession.
‘Salute.’ Raoul’s glass touching the edge of hers brought her mind swinging back to where it should be.
‘Cheers,’ she replied, unearthed a curly straw from the rest of the pretty junk decorating the glass, put it to her lips and sucked defiantly.
The drink tasted a little strange but not horribly so. She looked at Raoul, he looked at her. ‘What do you think?’ she asked him curiously.
‘Sexy,’ he murmured with a teasingly lecherous grin. ‘I can feel my toes tingling. I will now encourage the sensation to reach other parts.’ With that he took another pull on his straw.
Laughing at his outrageousness, Eve did the same, and it became a challenge as to which of them could empty the glass of Aidan’s wicked brew first. After that she remembered little. Not the glass being rescued from her clumsy fingers nor the light-hearted banter that went on around her as the rest of the crowd discussed where the birthday girl should be placed to sleep it off. Aidan offered a bed, someone else suggested she was perfectly fine where she was. Raoul reminded them that her grandfather was due in on the dawn flight, so maybe the wisest place for him to find her tomorrow was in her own bed. This drew unilateral agreement because no one wanted to explain to Theron Herakleides why his precious granddaughter had been so rolling drunk she hadn’t even made it home. Raoul offered to deliver her there since it was on the way to his villa, and he’d only had one glass of alcohol. Everyone agreed because no one else felt sober enough to make the drive.
It was all very relaxed, very light-hearted. No one thought of questioning Raoul’s motives as they watched him carry Eve to his car. They were all such long-standing friends after all. All for one, one for all.
CHAPTER FOUR
ETHAN came shooting out of a deep sleep to the sound of a woman’s shrill cry. Lying there in his bed with his heart pounding in his chest he listened for a few moments, uncertain that it hadn’t been someone screaming in his dream.
Then the second cry came, and he was rolling out of bed and landing on his feet before the sound had come to a chillingly abrupt halt. Grabbing up a pair of beach shorts he pulled them on, then began moving fast out of his bedroom, across the sitting room and through the front door, where he paused to look around for some clue as to where the cries had come from.
It was pitch black outside and whisper-quiet; nothing stirred—even the ocean was struggling to make a sound as it lapped the shore. Peering out towards the sea, he was half expecting to see someone in difficulties out there, but no flailing silhouette broke the moon-dusted surface. The cries had been close—much closer to house than the water.
Then it came again, and even as he swung round to face Eve’s beach house he saw the shadowy figure of a man slink down the veranda steps.
