Hiring Cupid (6 page)

Cute butt.

A guttural groan escaped her lips. Did she have to look?

Oh, absolutely
.

The words “look, but don't touch” came to mind.

Why not?

Why not indeed? Why not enjoy her time in paradise, enjoy his company, and enjoy being cared for? It was only four days after all. She deserved four days. Didn't she?

Left alone, Marco faced the outgoing tide. He was disconcerted and he hated it. Carly was an intricate mix of woman and child. One minute her sensuality intoxicating, the next he was confused by her youthful angst. He'd seen frustration and sadness etched on her face, felt her fear and yes, he avowed, her shame. Even though she didn't admit it, she was ashamed of her past. Heavens knew why. His past wasn't perfect by far. But his past and his present he would keep private.

Then there was work. Carly was addicted to it as much as he was, and as independent. Yet he had the temerity to chastise her for it. Shouldn't he listen to his own advice?

In a state of constant arousal, achingly more so every time he looked in her direction, he was held captive. He would make love to her in an instant and envisioned her luscious curves and long legs wrapped tightly around him, holding him to her. It forced his groin to ache with a throb that nearly broke his covenant with himself. Denial was one thing. Denying, when his body told him it couldn't continue one iota longer, was completely another.

"Look!” Carly's excited voice rang across the cove, interrupting Marco's self-absorbed musings.

"Dolphins. They're playing.” She raced to the water's edge and he followed. Ignoring the chill as it lapped the frayed edges of his jeans, he waded in behind her.

A group of about six or seven dolphins surfed for a few meters on the incoming waves before they turned and headed out to sea, only to repeat the process over and over again. Clearly they were having fun.

Marco grinned. So did Carly. Her laughter echoed across the empty bay, while he unfortunately was in serious sexual agony.

One by one, the dolphins frolicked then finally disappeared and a laughing Carly turned to him.

"You're eyes are bright with life,
cara
."

Her smile beamed wider and lit up her face with a joyful intensity he'd not seen before as her laughter rippled between them. She tipped her head back, exposing the long, creamy curve of her neck and the swell of her breasts. His throat closed. He didn't have a clue if he was breathing. He didn't care. “
Cara mia,
you are alive."

Carly stilled and her head fell sideways, the lush veil of her hair draped across her shoulders. “Weren't they wonderful, so beautiful."

"It is you who are beautiful. Your joy is infectious.” For a fraction of a second she stiffened and the light in her eyes dulled.

"Come on, let's see what else the island has to offer,” he suggested. Tucking her hand in his he pulled her gently with him and without faltering she fell into step as they headed back toward the shimmering sand.

"This is like being Robinson Crusoe,” Carly explained as she stepped over the last of the rock pools. “You could be Friday, and we're off to explore the island."

Marco chuckled. “You are a fusion Carly Mason. Do you know that?"

Her smile disappeared and for the second time in as few a minutes he cursed with exasperation. He was handling this all wrong.

"Don't fret. You are you,” and he pulled her with gentleness into the crook of his arm as he directed them inland toward adventure.

Energy flagging, Carly forced herself to concentrate and put one foot in front of the other. Pearls of sweat dripped down the sides of her face and into her eyes, making them sting. The hike over the precipitous rocky foreshore and up to the headland under the blistering heat had taken its toll. Roughly, she swatted away a fly.

"Oof.” She swore loudly and brushed a frond rudely out of her way.

Marco halted and she slammed into his back. “You okay?"

"If you mean am I okay about having damn palms slap me in the face for the umpteenth time, then no, I'm not."

"We're nearly there."

"Good."

"Do you want to rest?"

Carly eyed Marco. He looked cool and totally unfazed, whereas she felt a wreck. The thought of taking a break was tempting, but one look at that upward quirk in his jet-black brow and the haughty measure of his gaze changed her mind.

"Just so you know genie, I'm not happy. This isn't a wish of mine."

"It's not?” His eyes crinkled. Carly could see he was holding back a laugh at her expense and fumed.

"I'm aching, tired, hot, dirty, and sweaty,” she railed, gathering in a jagged breath, “and did I mention aching? Playing ducks and drakes with palm fronds isn't my idea of fun."

But they had to keep going. Dragging up determination she didn't realize she had, Carly started walking, simply concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. She ached in places she'd forgotten could ache and although grateful Marco had the forethought to insist she wore her sneakers, they'd long ago filled with gritty sand and dirt.

However, despite it all she was surprisingly happy, though she wasn't going to admit that to Mr. Genie who hadn't oozed even an ounce of sweat.

"See, you can enjoy yourself,” Marco commented as they headed back a short while later.

Carly swatted a palm out of her way. “I never said I couldn't."

"Really? Could have fooled me."

She came to an abrupt halt, spinning around on her soaked and mud-caked sneakers to face Marco. She wagged a finger at him. “What is this, Marco Valente? Are you trying to psycho analyze me?"

He chuckled, and that same old twinkle in his eye she had come to recognize as dead-set dangerous sparkled. Her lips pursed and her body stiffened as if trying to brace herself against his chemistry.

"As if I would.” His smile broadened and she balled her fists at her side.

Stand firm, Mason, she silently advised herself.

"Life is for living, Carly. Balance. That's what you need. Work—and play."

Carly hummed a very out of tune melody as she quietly moved about the small connecting bathroom. Surrounded by a haze of mist from the hot water pulsating from the shower she caught her reflection in the mirror. Grime streaked her face and her hair hung in sweaty clumps. She grimaced. Yep, a total wreck and yes, okay, she was tone deaf and sang off tune. She couldn't be good at everything.

And you're good at?

She was good at work. Her design business had flourished. What else could she want?

Work and play, Marco had said.

She loved her work, and yes, she would admit, she'd enjoyed their hike inland. She had enjoyed playing—with Marco.

Her genie had done well.

Above the sound of the water, she heard him call from the kitchen and so quickly finished her shower, toweling dry with one of the big, luxuriously fluffy bath sheets.

But despite her happiness, a disconcerting niggle tugged at her heart and her normally very vocal inner-conscience remained mute, questions unasked.

Noise from the small kitchen echoed through to the bathroom and brought a smile to her lips. A domesticated man. Her father liked cooking ... Carly caught herself before she went down that all too familiar track. That, however, was another story, one she'd tried to forget.

Marco had offered to fix dinner and she graciously accepted, once again thinking how delightful it was to be cared for; a luxury she rarely, if ever, experienced.

Donning a fresh tank top with spaghetti thin straps and a pair of cut off jeans, she cinched the shorts around her waist with a belt and gave her hair a quick brush. Under the luminescence of the single bulb the silken strands glistened a deep, rich auburn, grazing her shoulders in soft waves. She curled the ends of a strand of hair around her fingers.

Like burnished copper or autumn leaves.
The memory of her father's muffled voice sent a shiver of disquiet racing through her, and her smile faded. What on earth made her think of him again? Vincent Mason was long gone from her life. “Out of sight out of mind,” she muttered at her reflection, roughly tugging the brush through a knot.

Huh! That was another falsehood. Her father may not be in her life, but he was in her mind albeit occasionally, and it hurt as much now as it did seventeen years ago.

"Dinner's up,” Marco called from the kitchen as the sound of rushing water stopped and he heard Carly's footfall as she left the shower cubicle. But damn it, thoughts of a naked Carly in the shower played havoc with his concentration.

Dinner
had
been ready.

Marco glanced at the burnt offering in the sink and grimaced, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the still lingering acrid smoke. The blackened meat had shriveled beyond recognition.

Damn it. He was Italian and prided himself on his finesse in the kitchen. Wasting two bits of prime beef was an anathema to his skill. Nevertheless, he threw another couple of steaks onto the still smoldering grill. This time he'd better concentrate or they'd starve.

Carly Mason had upset his equilibrium. Hell, it was more than upsetting, he acknowledged ruefully. She was under his skin and it hadn't even been twenty-four hours. Where was the successful businessman who loved and left them? CV Hotels was his life—not love, or commitment.

"Smells good."

Carly's soft whispery voice thwarted Marco's concentration and the steak knife clattered from his grip. He sucked in a lung full of air. She was ... stunningly beautiful.

His eyes widened and the pulse in the base of his throat throbbed, blood rushing to his nether regions. He smothered a swallow and tried to pull his warring, urging body into line. It was a struggle. He was a Valente he reminded himself. Struggle went arm in arm with the name.

"Sit down,” Marco directed her to the small pine dining table in the corner. “I'll bring it over."

"You're spoiling me."

"As I said, your wish is my command."

"I'll have to think up something difficult then."

"Such as?"

"Some weird and wonderful commands for the genie,” she said suddenly lowering her gaze, dark sooty lashes shadowing her expression. Marco couldn't see her eyes. He wanted to—very much. He wanted to see what was going on behind those long, lush lashes and look into the depths of her eyes. Look into her soul.

Snatching up his wine glass, he downed its contents in one gulp, refilling his glass immediately. Finally, he managed to speak. “Wonderful, huh? What sort of wonderful?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Oh, yeah. He sure did. The beat of his heart upped its pace and his blood pulsed. “A challenge?"

"You sound worried, Marco. Do you think I'll ask you to do something
uncomfortable
?” she said emphasizing the last word.

Marco choked on his wine and was suddenly beset by an intense sense of disquiet as he fought to corral his very scattered common sense. Images of him serving a naked Carly whirred through his brain, torturing him. Hell. This woman could bring him to the brink of no return.

"You are a minx,” he chastised.

"Absolutely.” And she chuckled lightly, the soft corners of her mouth tilting upwards, a shining brightness in her eyes once more.

"So what are these ideas?"

Marco waited impatiently while she pretended to consider it carefully, chewing on a piece of steak with over-stated thought.

"How about making you wear a loin cloth?"

He gulped. What the hell had he got himself into? He should have kept his mouth shut. But oh no, he'd gone and asked.
Dumb move, Valente!

"Genies always wear a loin cloth when they're serving their masters, well in this case, mistress,” she corrected.

"Mistress?” Marco kept his voice smooth as silk. “You want to be my mistress?"

He heard her sharp gasp, embarrassment registering on her face and felt a moment of triumph.

"That's not what I meant at all."

"No? You disappoint me,
cara mia
.” Yeah. Shame. “Is it that a mistress is not the same in Italian as in English?"

Carly's face flushed with color and her lips parted. She wiped the tip of her tongue over them and his body tightened.

"You're having me on, Marco Valente."

Marco heard a shaking resonance in her voice. He wanted to smile at her courage under fire, but restrained himself. She was a good sparing partner and he always liked a challenge. “You speak English. Don't try and confuse me."

"As if I would."

"Yeah,” she smiled, “You would. You know perfectly well I wasn't inferring I'd be your mistress."

"Perhaps,” he shrugged, giving her a broad grin as he took another sip of his wine, savoring the fruity taste as it slid over this tongue. His gaze rested on her lips. Lush and ripe, and so very ready to be kissed. “This is a game,” he admitted, smiling. “Like cat and mouse.” Yet, Marco reasoned to himself, he had still to decide who was who.

Dinner over, night loomed and with no city lights, the glow of the lighthouse to the north was the only sight of man. On the table the naked flame of candlelight flickered.

"Fancy a coffee?” Marco questioned and passed her a cup. Carly took it, giving a brief nod and headed out to the patio. And he followed like the proverbial bee to honey he thought with a wry sense of self-mockery.

Outside the night air was warm, a testament to the gulf winds. Cicadas chirped, and a faint breeze wafted up from the ocean stirring the tips of the palms and banana trees. The fragrance from the wild frangipani and the gardenia growing nearby were a heady mix to his already over indulged senses.

Carly sat down on the step and rested against the railing. He followed.

"I..."

Carly burst into laughter as they both spoke at once.

"You first,” he acquiesced.

"Okay, I was ... um,” she prevaricated. “I was teasing, before. Joking, you understand."

"About being my mistress?"

"Mm.” Embarrassed, she looked away.

"How do you know I wasn't?"