Patricia Potter by Lightning Page B

said it was twenty feet deep.
    He was “Adrian” now, just as she was “Lauren.” She heard her name on his lips with a sense of sadness and regret. Somehow, it seemed to make him a friend. But how could he ever be that? How could he ever be anything other than an enemy?
    Yet his touch still sparked new sensations, and her heart reeled crazily whenever she saw his reckless grin.
    He had, this day, left Socrates with Johnny, the pilot, the only man, he said, who would tolerate the beast. He added, with that quick, devilish smile, that he wanted no chaperon that chattered incessantly.
    Lauren, for her part, would have preferred the imp’s presence. She would have preferred anything other than being alone with a man she would be forced to betray. But now she refused to think of it, and merely took pleasure in the sun and the breeze and the lovely water, and the striking man who so confidently handled the sail and tiller.
    There was something incredibly appealing about him, as he stood and moved so agilely among the sails. Once on the boat, he had given her an apologetic smile and pulled off some very polished black boots and stood happily, like a small boy, on bare feet. He was wearing a pair of snug trousers and a loose flowing shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned arms. The wind whipped the thick chestnut hair, and the sun made it flame with reddish gold as he moved with quick elegance and grace, and occasionally threw her a glance of pure delight for a lovely day. He seemed nothing like an English lord, or, she corrected herself, as she had imagined one to look. Except, possibly, for that proud set of his chin and the attractive, precise speech that would always single him out.
    Lauren tried not to look at him, to look instead at the depths of the sea, at the fish she could see, and the sand, and the rocks and the coral. She tried not to sense the restlessness that ruled his body or the runaway attraction that was ruling her mind.
    She leaned back against the side of the boat, occasionally following his instructions to lean this way or that, without knowing exactly why but trusting him explicitly. Corinne had chosen this dress from her small wardrobe, and Lauren had protested at first but was now pleased. It was a dress she had purchased before her father’s death, an extravagance, but when she had seen the light green muslin material, she hadn’t been able to resist, and she had made the dress herself. Like all her clothes, it was modest in cut, but it seemed to float when she walked, and the dark green ribbons around the neckline made her eyes wider and deeper. She had not worn it since her father’s death nearly eight months earlier.
    Lauren tried to tell herself that the flash of appreciation in Adrian’s eyes meant little to her, but in her heart she knew it meant a good deal. She had never really cared that much before, because she had never met a man who had really attracted her. She had, in fact, sometimes even questioned her womanliness. But now she knew it had just been lurking inside, ready to reveal itself at the worst possible time.
    “Lean forward,” he said, and she did as the small craft turned, spraying cool water on her, and she felt like laughing with the pure joy of movement and warmth and beauty.
    A beach spread out before her, a lovely wide white beach washed by aquamarine water. He guided the craft almost to water’s edge and lowered the anchor, jumping out with such loose grace that the movement appeared effortless. The water came to above his knees, but he seemed indifferent, as he held out his arms for her.
    Lauren hesitated, remembering the effect of his touch as he had helped her into the boat earlier, but neither did she wish to ruin her favorite dress or seem childish. Nonsense, she scolded herself. She had already been in his arms twice in as many days—not exactly voluntarily, but there, nonetheless.
    He grinned as if he knew exactly what she was