what
she’d dream of that night. The nightmares of Greg seemed banished forever, to be replaced by the most lasciviously sensual dreams, all involving
Sinclair MacDonald’s six foot four body in erotic detail. Cathy wasn’t yet sure which dream was more upsetting.
----
Chapter Ten
----
Lazily Cathy squinted into the mid-afternoon sunlight, the large sunglasses cutting the glare only slightly. Something nice and tall and icily fruity would
be divine at that moment. As she burrowed deeper into the soft white sand she considered raising her hand in a languid gesture she’d observed others
using. Within seconds a white-coated bartender would appear at her side, eager to cater to her every whim. There was something so wickedly sybaritic about
Pirate’s Cove, the way it encouraged indolence and self-indulgence. A self-indulgence that was frankly sensual. No, it would do her good to get up
from her comfortable position and go in search of a drink herself. Besides, she’d been lying in the hot tropical sun for almost two hours. By using
all her latent caution she’d managed to acquire a light golden color all over her body. Any more than two hours and that honey gold would turn to
lobster red. Sighing, she rolled over and struggled to her feet, thrusting her arms into the terry cloth coverup. Not that the old-lady bathing suit showed
much, she realized with a flash of humor. Nevertheless, she just couldn’t bring herself to stride around the sand or the hotel lobby wearing so very
little. The terry cloth robe reached to her ankles, although it was slit up the side, halfway up her slender thigh. She ought to get a needle and thread
and sew the slit, she thought absently, heading toward the shade and a cool drink.
There were a good half dozen single men sitting around the bar. All in bathing suits, exposing indecent amounts of flesh, most of it sunburned and flabby.
For a brief moment Cathy allowed herself to wonder what Sin would look like in one of those brief excuses for a swimsuit, and then she shook that
disturbing thought from her brain. The luxurious atmosphere of Pirate’s Cove really had addled her brain.
Six pairs of eyes watched her approach. Even the enveloping white terry cloth couldn’t disguise her long, shapely limbs or natural grace, and the
large sunglasses beneath the silvery blond hair added to the mystery. Cathy recognized those avid expressions, and without missing a beat she did a right
turn and headed back to her hotel room.
Meg had returned to her room an hour ago in search of a mystery novel. When she hadn’t returned Cathy had presumed one of the all too frequent bouts
of nausea had hit her. She would check on Meg, then head back to her room and order a piña colada from room service. A nice, cool shower before dinner
would add just the right fillip to an already perfect day. And it was likely to be her last one. Sin and Charles were due tomorrow. The very thought of all
the garbled excuses and explanations she’d be forced to offer before Sin’s amused eyes brought a chill to her sun-heated flesh.
There was no answer at Meg’s door. A mome-tary panic filled her, before she remembered her spare key. Opening the door a crack, she peered into the
deserted room. Meg’s bathing suit lay in a wet pile on the floor, her sundress from the morning tossed across the bed, a towel in the chair. Ever the
neatly organized person, Cathy thought with amusement as she picked up her sister’s clothing and hung it away. She must have gone back out, and
somewhere they’d missed each other. Well, they would doubtless meet up again before long. In the meantime her skin was beginning to feel a little
clammy in the wet bathing suit, and she hurried on ahead to her room two flights up, eager to get into clean, dry clothes.
Her feminine intuition must have been at an all-time low. She had locked the door behind her and come halfway into the room before the sight of Sin
MacDonald
she’d dream of that night. The nightmares of Greg seemed banished forever, to be replaced by the most lasciviously sensual dreams, all involving
Sinclair MacDonald’s six foot four body in erotic detail. Cathy wasn’t yet sure which dream was more upsetting.
----
Chapter Ten
----
Lazily Cathy squinted into the mid-afternoon sunlight, the large sunglasses cutting the glare only slightly. Something nice and tall and icily fruity would
be divine at that moment. As she burrowed deeper into the soft white sand she considered raising her hand in a languid gesture she’d observed others
using. Within seconds a white-coated bartender would appear at her side, eager to cater to her every whim. There was something so wickedly sybaritic about
Pirate’s Cove, the way it encouraged indolence and self-indulgence. A self-indulgence that was frankly sensual. No, it would do her good to get up
from her comfortable position and go in search of a drink herself. Besides, she’d been lying in the hot tropical sun for almost two hours. By using
all her latent caution she’d managed to acquire a light golden color all over her body. Any more than two hours and that honey gold would turn to
lobster red. Sighing, she rolled over and struggled to her feet, thrusting her arms into the terry cloth coverup. Not that the old-lady bathing suit showed
much, she realized with a flash of humor. Nevertheless, she just couldn’t bring herself to stride around the sand or the hotel lobby wearing so very
little. The terry cloth robe reached to her ankles, although it was slit up the side, halfway up her slender thigh. She ought to get a needle and thread
and sew the slit, she thought absently, heading toward the shade and a cool drink.
There were a good half dozen single men sitting around the bar. All in bathing suits, exposing indecent amounts of flesh, most of it sunburned and flabby.
For a brief moment Cathy allowed herself to wonder what Sin would look like in one of those brief excuses for a swimsuit, and then she shook that
disturbing thought from her brain. The luxurious atmosphere of Pirate’s Cove really had addled her brain.
Six pairs of eyes watched her approach. Even the enveloping white terry cloth couldn’t disguise her long, shapely limbs or natural grace, and the
large sunglasses beneath the silvery blond hair added to the mystery. Cathy recognized those avid expressions, and without missing a beat she did a right
turn and headed back to her hotel room.
Meg had returned to her room an hour ago in search of a mystery novel. When she hadn’t returned Cathy had presumed one of the all too frequent bouts
of nausea had hit her. She would check on Meg, then head back to her room and order a piña colada from room service. A nice, cool shower before dinner
would add just the right fillip to an already perfect day. And it was likely to be her last one. Sin and Charles were due tomorrow. The very thought of all
the garbled excuses and explanations she’d be forced to offer before Sin’s amused eyes brought a chill to her sun-heated flesh.
There was no answer at Meg’s door. A mome-tary panic filled her, before she remembered her spare key. Opening the door a crack, she peered into the
deserted room. Meg’s bathing suit lay in a wet pile on the floor, her sundress from the morning tossed across the bed, a towel in the chair. Ever the
neatly organized person, Cathy thought with amusement as she picked up her sister’s clothing and hung it away. She must have gone back out, and
somewhere they’d missed each other. Well, they would doubtless meet up again before long. In the meantime her skin was beginning to feel a little
clammy in the wet bathing suit, and she hurried on ahead to her room two flights up, eager to get into clean, dry clothes.
Her feminine intuition must have been at an all-time low. She had locked the door behind her and come halfway into the room before the sight of Sin
MacDonald
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