The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (204 page)

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Authors: Helen Bianchin

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Erotica, #Collections & Anthologies, #Contemporary Women, #General

BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
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‘Yes.' Georgia cast her a warm glance in the semidarkness. ‘Although I probably won't sleep tonight as I go through everything again and again in my mind.'
‘I have a remedy for that,' Trenton declared, and Georgia laughed.
‘Perhaps we'll join you later for a game of tennis. How long do you intend to play?'
‘I'll leave it up to Suzanne,' Sloane drawled, and she turned towards him with a sweet smile that was lost in the fading light.
‘Passing the buck, darling? What if I'm feeling particularly energetic?' As soon as the words left her mouth she wanted to curse herself for uttering them.
‘I think I can match you.'
In more ways than one. Silence, she decided, was golden. Something she intended to observe unless anyone asked her a specific question.
The ocean resembled a dark mass that merged with the sky. There were no visible lights, no silvery path reflected from a low-set moon. Tonight it rose high. a deer milk-white orb in the galaxy.
Suzanne felt the increased pressure of Sloane's fingers at the edge of her waist, and a tiny spiral of sensation unfurled inside her stomach.
‘I think we'll turn back,' Sloane declared, drawing to a halt. ‘If we don't see you on the court, we'll meet for breakfast. Eight, or earlier?'
‘Eight,' Trenton agreed. ‘Enjoy.'
As soon as they had progressed out of earshot Suzanne broke free from Sloane's grasp. Lights were visible through the trees, and as they drew close the main complex came into view.
Within minutes they reached their villa, and indoors she quickly changed into shorts and a top, added socks and trainers, aware that Sloane was doing likewise.
Securing the court wasn't a problem, because there were no other guests to compete with. The hiring of racquets and balls was achieved in minutes, and Suzanne preceded Sloane into the enclosure.
‘O
NE set, or two?'
‘Two,' Suzanne declared as she crossed the court and took up her position at its furthest end.
‘A practice rally first,' Sloane called. ‘Best of three gets to serve. OK?'
‘Sure.'
He had the height, the strength and the expertise to defeat her with minimum effort. It was the measure of the man that he chose not to do so in the following hour as she returned one shot after another, won some, lost most, and while it was an uneven match she managed to finish with two games to her credit in the first set and three in the second. A concession, she was sure, that was as deliberate as it was diplomatic.
‘Your backhand has improved.'
Suzanne caught the towel he tossed her, and patted the faint film of sweat from her face and neck. He, damn him, didn't show any visible sign of exertion. Not a drop of sweat, and he was breathing as evenly as if he'd just taken a leisurely walk in the park.
‘I expected your serve to singe the ball.'
Sloane's eyes gleamed with latent humour. ‘Were you disappointed that it didn't?'
Expending physical energy had been a good idea. The heat was there, but banked down to a level she could deal with.
‘You played as I expected you to,' she responded sweetly, and waited a beat. ‘Like a gentleman.'
He rubbed the towel over the back of his neck, and sent her a musing smile. ‘Ah, a mark in my favour.'
‘Are we keeping score?'
‘Believe it'
Why did she get the instinctive feeling he had his own hidden agenda?
Her
agenda was to survive the weekend with her emotions intact.
His
she could only guess at
‘Let's get a drink from the bar, shall we?' Sloane suggested smoothly.
A diversionary tactic which Suzanne let pass only because she was thirsty.
It was an unexpected surprise, and a welcome one, to see Georgia and Trenton seated comfortably at a table adjacent to the well-stocked bar. Surprise, because she'd thought not to see them again before breakfast, and the welcome part was a definite plus, for it meant she wasn't alone with Sloane.
‘We thought we'd join you for a game of doubles,' Georgia said as Suzanne slid into a seat at her mother's side.
‘Georgia's idea,' Trenton drawled with amused resignation. ‘I had another form of exercise in mind.'
‘Don't tease, darling. You'll embarrass the children.'
Children?
Suzanne looked at Georgia in keen surprise. Those beautiful eyes the colour of her own bore a faintly wicked gleam that promised much to the man seated at her side. Loving sex without artifice, a joyous sharing and caring.
Suzanne felt a lump rise in her throat at the latent emotion evident, and she took a generous sip from the tall glass of iced water a waiter had placed in front of her only moments before.
She risked a glance at Sloane and glimpsed his wry amusement. ‘The
children,
of course,' she ventured conversationally, ‘are less likely to score a handsome win after expending their energy on court.'
Trenton sent her a devilish smile. ‘Georgia and I need any advantage we can get.'
‘So sharing a drink is seen as a five-minute break for refreshment?'
‘Definitely.'
‘Of course, we're playing two sets?'
‘One,' Trenton decreed.
‘In that case,' Sloane drawled, collecting his racquet as he rose to his feet, ‘let's get started.'
Father and son chose not to play competitively, and Georgia and Suzanne were fairly evenly matched. It was a lot of fun. Suzanne couldn't remember ever seeing her mother appear so brilliantly alive, or so happy.
After an hour and a narrow win in Suzanne and Sloane's favour, they exited the floodlit court and crossed to the lounge bar.
Trenton led the way, his arm curved round Georgia's shoulders, and there was little Suzanne could do about the casual arm Sloane placed at her waist
‘A cool drink?' Trenton suggested as they selected a table and sank down into individual chairs. ‘Or would you prefer an Irish coffee?'
It was after ten when Trenton and Georgia got to their feet.
‘We'll see you at breakfast. Eight o'clock,' Trenton said. He clasped Georgia's hand in his and brought it up to his lips with a warm intimacy. Suzanne felt her heart flip with something she refused to acknowledge as envy.
‘Want to follow them, or stay here for a while?'
Suzanne spared Sloane a considering glance from beneath her long-fringed lashes. ‘We could take a walk in the moonlight.'
‘A delaying tactic, Suzanne?'
Her lashes swept upwards, and she regarded him with ill-concealed mockery. ‘How did you guess?'
‘Afraid?' His voice was so quiet it sent shivers down her spine.
That was an understatement. But it was fear of herself that made her reluctant to be alone with him. ‘Yes.'
‘Such simple honesty,' Sloane said with unmistakable indolence. He rose to his feet and extended his hand. It had been a long day. An even longer night lay ahead.
A swift retort rose to her lips, and remained unuttered. ‘It's one of my more admirable traits.' She wanted to take hold of his hand, feel it enclose her own, and bask in the warmth of his intimate smile. Yet to do so would amount to a fine madness of a kind she dared not afford.
‘One of many.'
She rose, ignored his outstretched hand, and skirted the table
en route
to the entrance. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere.'
He drew level with her. Try sincerity.'
She spared him a sideways glance, and chose not to comment. She quickened her step, and felt mildly irritated at the ease with which he lengthened his to match it.
They reached their villa, and inside she crossed the lounge and quickly trod the stairs to the bedroom. She paused only long enough to collect her nightshirt before entering the
en suite,
and carefully closed the door behind her.
A foolish, childish action that nevertheless afforded her a measure of satisfaction. Until it was time to emerge some ten minutes later, when all of the former fire had died and wary apprehension reposed in its place.
Sloane was standing at the window, looking out into the darkness.
‘Bathroom's all yours.'
He turned to face her, aware of the moment she'd entered the bedroom via the darkened glass reflection.
She looked about sixteen, her skin scrubbed clean, her hair tied back in a pony-tail. Did she have any idea how sexy she looked in that mid-thigh-length tee shirt? As a cover-up the soft cotton merely moulded her firm breasts and was more provocative than designer silk and lace.
‘How's the hand?'
Oh, hell, she'd almost forgotten. ‘Fine.'
‘And your hip?'
Painful, and showing the promise of a nasty bruise. ‘OK.' She moved towards the bed she'd nominated as her own, turned back the cover, and slid between the sheets. ‘Goodnight.'
‘Sweet dreams, Suzanne.'
She didn't care for the mocking humour in his voice, and as soon as the bathroom door closed behind him she propped herself up on one hand and plumped the pillow vigorously with the other, then she shifted onto her left side and almost groaned out loud as her bruised hip came into contact with the mattress.
She was tired, and, if she closed her eyes and willed herself to believe she was comfortable, surely she should sleep.
Suzanne heard the shower run, then stop minutes later. The bathroom door opened, a shaft of light illuminated the room, then there was darkness, the soft pad of Sloane's feet on the polished floorboards as he crossed to the bed, the faint slither of cotton percale, and the almost inaudible depression of mattress springs settling beneath a solid male frame.
Despite counting imaginary sheep and practising various relaxing techniques, Suzanne found sleep remained elusive.
Her hip ached. Throbbed, she corrected, deep into specific analysis in the darkness of night. Pain-killers would dull the pain's keen edge and help her sleep.
If only she had some. Maybe there was a foil strip in her vanity bag, or, failing that, it was possible Sloane had some in his wet-pack.
Damn, damn,
damn.
If she lay wide awake for much longer, she'd be in a fine state by the end of Georgia and Trenton's wedding festivities.
You would think, she ruefully decided as she slid carefully from the bed, that an over-abundance of emotional and nervous tension together with long walks, rock-clambering, and three sets of tennis, would fell the fittest of the physically fit.
Instead, she felt as if she'd trebled a daily dose of caffeine.
Suzanne crept to the bathroom, closed the door, then switched on the light and rummaged through her vanity bag to no avail. Her fingers delved into Sloane's wet-pack, hesitated, then, driven more by need than courtesy, she separated compartments and almost cried out with relief when she discovered a slim pack of paracetamol.
She broke off two, part-filled a glass with water and swallowed them, then she replaced the glass and switched off the light. She'd allow a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, then she'd open the door and tiptoe back to bed.
It was a remarkably simple plan. Except in attempting to give Sloane's bed a wide berth she veered too far and brushed against a chair.
A soft curse fell from her lips at the same time Sloane activated the bed-lamp.
‘What in sweet hell are you doing?'
Suzanne threw him a dark glance, and resorted to flippancy. ‘Rearranging the furniture.'
He slid into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard. His dark hair was slightly tousled and he was bare to the waist.
Probably bare beneath the waist as well, she reflected a trifle ruefully, all too aware of his penchant for sleeping nude.
It was too much.
He
was too much.
‘You should have turned on the light.'
Oh, sure. The last thing she'd wanted to do was to wake him. Coping with a darkly brooding male wasn't a favoured option.
Suzanne pushed in the chair and took the few steps necessary to reach her bed, then slid carefully between the sheets.
‘Headache?'
She should have known he wouldn't leave it alone. The look she cast him held such fulsome anger it was a wonder he didn't
burn. ‘Yes.'
In this instance she had no compunction in resorting to fabrication.
‘Want me to give you a neck and scalp massage?' Oh, God. ‘No.' Would he detect the faint desperation in her voice? She hoped not. ‘Thank you.'
‘Seduction isn't part of the deal,' he drawled with musing cynicism, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again.
He read her far too easily, and it rankled unbearably. ‘Well, now, that's a relief,' she said with pseudo-sweetness.
‘Unless you want it to be,' Sloane added with killing softness.
The thought of that hard male body curved over her own in a tasting, teasing supplication of each and every pleasure spot filled her with such intense longing it was all she could do to respond, let alone keep her voice even.
‘If you come anywhere near me,' she warned in a tense whisper, ‘I'll render you serious bodily harm.'
His husky chuckle further enraged her. ‘It might almost be worth it.'
Without thought Suzanne picked up the spare pillow and threw it at him, watching in seemingly slow motion as he fielded it and unhurriedly tossed the bed-covers aside.
‘Dammit—don't.' She turned and scrambled to the furthest side of the bed, only to give a sharp cry as her hip dragged painfully against the mattress.
It was no contest. She simply didn't have a chance as Sloane's hands caught hold of her shoulders and turned her back to face him.
For a long moment she gazed at him in open defiance, aware that the slightest move, the faintest word would invite crushing retribution.
His eyes were impossibly dark, their depths unfathomable as he reached for the edge of the bedcovers and wrenched them off with one powerful pull of his hand, then drew her down onto the mattress.
His head lowered and she felt one hand grasp hold of her thigh, then slide to her hip.
Her gasp of pain was very real, and he paused, his mouth only inches from her own. She saw his eyes narrow, glimpsed the tiny lines fanning out from each outer edge, and felt him tense for a few long seconds before he slid the hem of her nightshirt to her waist.

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