into place while showering. “Maybe I should slip back into the black.”
“Can’t,” he said with a devilish grin, and Brenna abruptly swung toward the bathroom, where her jeans and top no longer lay in a heap on the floor. “Don’t look so upset, angel. It’s just clothes.”
She grabbed the edges of her control and knotted them together. “I’m beginning to wonder why I saved hot water for you.”
She realized her mistake too late. A gleam moved into his eyes, darkened them into a primeval glow. “Trust me, angel,” he said, swinging to the side of the bed. His bare feet came down on the white tile floor. “I don’t need to be any hotter than I am.” He crossed toward her with an easy masculine grace, a man clearly comfortable with his own body, even though he wore loose-fitting running shorts and a torn and dirty VMI T-shirt. “I’m thinking a cold shower will do just the trick.”
Pausing beside her, close enough to touch, he took in first her eyes, then let his gaze slide lower, down along the scoop neck of the sundress, along the bodice, to her legs and bare feet. He didn’t touch her this time, not physically, not with his hands, and yet everywhere his gaze skimmed, her body burned. “Your toes aren’t painted.”
Her throat tightened. “Why would they be?”
“I’ve never known a woman who didn’t paint her toenails.”
At that, Brenna found she could smile. “And I’ve never seen the point.” Almost never, that was. There’d been a brief period there, a couple of shattering weeks, when she’d put pink on her toes and black around her eyes, mauve on her lips. She’d wanted to feel womanly, had thought it would make a difference.
“Christ,” Ethan swore softly, but sounded more fascinated than angered. “Another time, another place, another circumstance, and who the hell knows?”
She did. She knew. No matter the time, the place, the circumstance, she could have no relationship, no future, with this man. She’d left that part of her life behind. She trusted her dreams, her visions of what would come to pass in other people’s lives, but her mind went dark when it came to her own emotions. Her own future.
With one last heated look, Ethan strolled past her and into the opulent bathroom but didn’t shut the door. Instinctively she looked after him, stood frozen when he pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it to the ground.
She’d seen a man naked before. She’d seen a muscular, well-built man without clothes. But then she’d wanted to run. Then she’d scrambled back across the bed, grabbed a gun.
Now she just wanted to stare. The deep bronze of his arms extended across his shoulders and down his chest, lower still to a stomach of finely corded muscle. Dark gold hair curled along his pecs and swirled around flat mauve nipples, trickled like an arrow down toward his shorts…
… which he was reaching for.
Brenna spun away, refused to watch, to stare, to wonder. She didn’t understand what kind of game he was playing. She knew he didn’t trust her, that he thought she was on Zhukov’s payroll.
How far are you willing to take this, angel?
The shower came on, and fleetingly she wondered if he was really going to take it cold. Didn’t matter, she told herself. All that mattered was staying alert. Surviving. She had no allies on this island. If she was going to make it off alive, she had no one to trust but herself.
The temptation to turn toward the open bathroom door was strong, but she resisted, wandering instead to the wall of windows overlooking the beach below. The sun glimmered on the sugary sand, the waves, gentle now, swishing against the shore.
“All better?”
The voice, deep and slightly rough, rushed through her, like the warm breeze rustling the palms lining the beach. She turned to find Ethan striding toward her, wearing the khaki shorts she’d seen on the floor, but nothing else. His closely cut hair was damp, the whiskers still
“Can’t,” he said with a devilish grin, and Brenna abruptly swung toward the bathroom, where her jeans and top no longer lay in a heap on the floor. “Don’t look so upset, angel. It’s just clothes.”
She grabbed the edges of her control and knotted them together. “I’m beginning to wonder why I saved hot water for you.”
She realized her mistake too late. A gleam moved into his eyes, darkened them into a primeval glow. “Trust me, angel,” he said, swinging to the side of the bed. His bare feet came down on the white tile floor. “I don’t need to be any hotter than I am.” He crossed toward her with an easy masculine grace, a man clearly comfortable with his own body, even though he wore loose-fitting running shorts and a torn and dirty VMI T-shirt. “I’m thinking a cold shower will do just the trick.”
Pausing beside her, close enough to touch, he took in first her eyes, then let his gaze slide lower, down along the scoop neck of the sundress, along the bodice, to her legs and bare feet. He didn’t touch her this time, not physically, not with his hands, and yet everywhere his gaze skimmed, her body burned. “Your toes aren’t painted.”
Her throat tightened. “Why would they be?”
“I’ve never known a woman who didn’t paint her toenails.”
At that, Brenna found she could smile. “And I’ve never seen the point.” Almost never, that was. There’d been a brief period there, a couple of shattering weeks, when she’d put pink on her toes and black around her eyes, mauve on her lips. She’d wanted to feel womanly, had thought it would make a difference.
“Christ,” Ethan swore softly, but sounded more fascinated than angered. “Another time, another place, another circumstance, and who the hell knows?”
She did. She knew. No matter the time, the place, the circumstance, she could have no relationship, no future, with this man. She’d left that part of her life behind. She trusted her dreams, her visions of what would come to pass in other people’s lives, but her mind went dark when it came to her own emotions. Her own future.
With one last heated look, Ethan strolled past her and into the opulent bathroom but didn’t shut the door. Instinctively she looked after him, stood frozen when he pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it to the ground.
She’d seen a man naked before. She’d seen a muscular, well-built man without clothes. But then she’d wanted to run. Then she’d scrambled back across the bed, grabbed a gun.
Now she just wanted to stare. The deep bronze of his arms extended across his shoulders and down his chest, lower still to a stomach of finely corded muscle. Dark gold hair curled along his pecs and swirled around flat mauve nipples, trickled like an arrow down toward his shorts…
… which he was reaching for.
Brenna spun away, refused to watch, to stare, to wonder. She didn’t understand what kind of game he was playing. She knew he didn’t trust her, that he thought she was on Zhukov’s payroll.
How far are you willing to take this, angel?
The shower came on, and fleetingly she wondered if he was really going to take it cold. Didn’t matter, she told herself. All that mattered was staying alert. Surviving. She had no allies on this island. If she was going to make it off alive, she had no one to trust but herself.
The temptation to turn toward the open bathroom door was strong, but she resisted, wandering instead to the wall of windows overlooking the beach below. The sun glimmered on the sugary sand, the waves, gentle now, swishing against the shore.
“All better?”
The voice, deep and slightly rough, rushed through her, like the warm breeze rustling the palms lining the beach. She turned to find Ethan striding toward her, wearing the khaki shorts she’d seen on the floor, but nothing else. His closely cut hair was damp, the whiskers still
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