Chapter Fifteen
It occurred to Gabriela that the time they had spent together in the last week in that sun-drenched garden, they’d had Marcello to act as a buffer between them. Not to mention her parents a few steps away!
Now, they were a grown man and a grown woman alone together, the chemistry between them unmistakable.
Well, alone, except for his security.
“Let’s go to the beach,” Enrique suggested, his voice soft. “Just you and me. Butterfly Cove. It’s always secluded.”
“What about them?” she said, nodding toward the security team.
“I told them to stay with Marcello.”
The full impact of what he was suggesting hit her. Not even security. They were going to be alone. Entirely alone.
It was a terrifying—and absolutely thrilling—new twist in the wild and unmapped road she found herself traveling down today.
“What did your security have to say about you ditching them?” Gabriela asked the Prince.
Enrique raised an eyebrow at her. “The only one who ever dares to question my decisions is you.”
“Well, maybe your decisions need to be questioned.”
This was madness. She didn’t feel quite so cavalier about his security as she had when they had started out on this excursion. She clutched for an excuse.
“I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” she hedged. They were walking toward danger. Possibly from several different directions. Someone had to be the sensible one!
He grinned wickedly at her. “Neither did I.”
The sense of danger went off the charts. “Oh,” she managed to croak out.
And then he leaned in close to her. “I guess I’ll find out if you put on your bloomers this morning.”
She smacked him smartly right on his shoulder.
He cupped his hand over his shoulder, pretending hurt. “And you’re the only one who has ever done that, too. You’re also the one who introduced the whole concept of commando to my sheltered world.”
She snorted at that, a sound designed to hide exactly how hard her heart was beating. He held open the door of her father’s car for her, just as if she’d said yes to this crazy idea to ditch his security and spend time together. In a state of undress!
It occurred to Gabriela, as she slid by Enrique—just as if she had said yes—that she didn’t want to be the sensible one anymore.
She wanted to leave that behind. Maybe not forever, but for the delicious space of the now. She wanted to flirt with danger. She wanted to feel what being with him made her feel.
Alive.
She could live one heartbeat at a time, couldn’t she?
She plopped into the passenger seat.
Enrique had been absolutely right.
The heat inside the car was enough to melt her.
Maybe he was not motivated by wanting them to be alone together. Maybe he was just hot and it was as simple as going for a swim.
But whatever it was for him, the fact that her actions were signaling a strong yes instead of no was turning her world into an inferno.
That feeling of being alive intensified, the heat playing across the newly sensitive surface of her skin, along with a hyperawareness of color and sound.
And scent.
The tangy aroma of him tickled her nostrils, despite the open windows. He found the switch for the radio. She noticed the squareness of his wrist, the masculine appeal of his hands tapping on the steering wheel as crackly music filled the car. It was a well-known love ballad by a local musician.
Enrique began to hum along, and then sing.
His voice was raspy. Terrible, really.
“Don’t give up your day job,” she advised him.
He only grinned and sang louder. Even this—the fact he was comfortable revealing such a flawed singing voice to her—made her feel a deepening sense of intimacy with him.
By the time they reached Butterfly Cove, she was ready to ignite.
She got out of the car. As he had guessed, the beach was completely theirs. It really was one of the best-kept secrets on the island, a tiny half-moon of fine white sand tucked between towering black volcanic boulders. Protected turquoise waters lapped gently at the shore.
Without waiting for him—feeling as if her sensation overload might explode if she looked at him—Gabriela ran across the sand and down toward the water, shedding her clothes as she went, not being the sensible one.
At all.
She plunged into the sea in her underwear.
But if she had thought that was going to put out the fire, she was wrong. Because when she turned, finally daring to look, Enrique was standing there at the shore.
He had brought the picnic basket, and set it at his feet. Was he waiting for the exact moment when she turned and looked at him?
His gaze locked on hers, he flicked open the top button of his shirt.
With exquisite slowness, sure that he had her full attention, he moved to the next one.
When he had dispensed with all the buttons, the shirt gaped open, revealing the hard washboard lines of his perfect abs, the jut of his hips, the muscular arrows on either side of those abs that dipped into the waistband of his trousers.
Still with tormenting slowness, he slipped the shirt off one broad shoulder and then the other, peeling it from his arms, letting it drop in a heap in the sand.
And then his hands moved to the button on his trousers, and then the zipper. He bent, and peeled down the trousers, stepped out of them one leg at a time.
Black boxer briefs clung to him, and he stood there for a moment. He had shed his identity as a prince as completely as his clothing. Enrique stood before her, 100 percent pure man.
Radiating certainty.
Radiating confidence in himself and his innate masculinity.
He stood there, still, letting her drink him in, letting her know that sometimes not even water could put out a fire.
And letting her know this was not a man whose only agenda was a cool dip on a blistering-hot day.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Enrique let the water close over him, a refreshing burst of coolness on this sweltering day.
And yet the chill of the water hardly cooled the heat inside him, as he swam out to where Gabriela stood, the water lapping just below her shoulders.
Her hair was soaked, otter-slicked against her head. Her thick lashes were tangled with crystal drops of water.
What had been building between them for a week, since the moments that followed Geraldo’s rescue from the tree, burst open like a storm cloud on a summer day.
He put his hand behind her neck and drew her lips to his own.
As soon as he tasted her, he knew the truth.
What had been building between them had been building for a lifetime, not a week. Her lips under his tasted of homecoming.
Of the place where he most wanted to be in the entire world.
Her lips tasted of the promise of being accepted, not for what he was, but for who he was.
Just a man.
With her, with the ocean all around them, cradling them, and her arms twining sweetly around his neck, her lips answering the invitation of his, he was nothing else.
For a suspended moment in time, he gave himself to every sensation, gave himself to her. It felt as if they were young again, experiencing the startling bliss of discovery. The time they had been apart evaporated as though it had never been.
Though he had been kissed many times since—and so, he was sure, had she—it was now, as it had been then, as if this was the very first time for both of them.
Her lips tasted of salt and need. There was no resistance in her; the opposite of that, an opening, like a flower opening to sun.
All that mattered, to Enrique, was this moment of pure connection between them. There was no future. And really no past, either. All that existed was this, an experience so profound he could feel himself beginning to tremble in its majesty.
It was an enchantment that drew them both into the circle of its power, that held them fast in bonds stronger than steel and softer than the petals of a rose.
At the back of his mind, he registered the irritation of a dog barking frantically.
“There’s someone on the beach,” she whispered.
It felt as if he was, indeed, trying to break bands made of iron, as he turned and looked over his shoulder.
A middle-aged woman, wearing a rather daring bikini—probably because she had thought she would have the beach to herself, just as they had—was throwing a ball out into the water for a shrilly excited terrier.
“At least we know she doesn’t have a place to hide a phone or a camera,” Gabriela said. “So, no nearly naked prince cavorting in the water as tomorrow’s leading story in the Tribute.”
Interesting that she would think of protecting him, when he wanted to protect her. He placed his body so that he completely blocked the woman’s view of Gabriela in her underwear.
Gorgeous underwear.
It seemed to have been spun from silk threads, moonlight and enchantment.
Reluctantly, Enrique realized what a good thing it was that woman had arrived and interrupted them because didn’t protecting Gabriela go a lot further than making sure a stranger didn’t see her in her underwear?
Despite the fact it felt as if he had waited a lifetime to have this—to taste her lips, to know her, finally, as a woman—he reminded himself that not only did she technically work for him, but this was Guido’s daughter!
Could Enrique ever look at himself in the mirror again if he treated her with anything less than complete honor?
How could he respect himself if he gave in to an impulse, rather than making a conscious decision?
The woman seemed to realize, suddenly, she was not alone at the beach. She squinted out at them, her mouth fell open and she glanced down at herself. She called the dog and scurried away.
Gabriela leaned into him again, her eyes closed, her lips ready.
He put a finger on her lips, and she opened her eyes and saw the no in the gesture and in his eyes.
She looked stunned by his withdrawal. And hurt. It was almost enough for him to say, honor be damned.
But before he was pulled back into the pure temptation of her lips, she masked the look on her face, and cocked her head at him.
Then she reached out, her arm flat against the water, and delivered a mighty splash to his face. While he choked on water, she punched him—a little too hard—on the shoulder.
“You’re it,” she said, the game he had watched the boys play in her garden. And then pulled completely away from him, turned, tried to run, gave up and swam away.
She’d always been a strong swimmer, and for a moment he just watched her, admiring her beauty and strength and grace, feeling the ache of the lost moment he had refused.
After a second, he followed her through the water, accepting her invitation to play, though admittedly he was not trying nearly as hard as he could have to tag her. A man could only test his resolve—and win—so often.
That moment that had sizzled between them had finally fizzled out as they chased each other through the water until they were utterly exhausted.
Now, back on the sand, Gabriela watched as Enrique scooped up his heap of abandoned clothes, and acted as if the excursion was over.
“She’s gone,” she said. “Let’s dry off before we get dressed. I’m starving. Let’s see what’s in the basket.”
His eyes drifted to her underwear, which she knew was very nearly transparent. She knew he’d come to his senses, and that she should be nothing but glad that he had, but she at least wanted him to regret that he had done so.
He hesitated, then dropped his clothes. He opened the picnic basket and took out a blanket, then flicked it open.
She sat on it, and after a moment, glancing around to satisfy himself there were no other dog walkers about, he sat down, too.
The contents of the picnic basket were, of course, exquisite. Baked-that-morning flaky croissants, excellent cheeses, a selection of Hermosa Mariposa’s finest olives, ice-cold artesian well water in glass bottles, strawberries and grapes.
Gabriela deliberately made him regret the interrupted kiss even more with the way she ate the strawberry, closing her eyes, biting into its plump flesh delicately, darting out her tongue to catch the delicious juices. She opened her eyes. She had his complete attention. She smiled, all innocence.