Barefoot by the Sea

“Bloody hell.” The words floated over the garden, making Tessa draw back in surprise. “I could kill that fuckin’ woman.”

The words…spoken in a perfect English accent.

“What did you say?” Tessa’s question popped out at the same time she jumped from the shadow.

“Tessa!” He lunged toward her. “Holy crap, that was not what it looked like.”

But was that what it sounded like? “What did you say?”

He shook his head. “She threw herself at me, I swear.” He reached her, his hands out, a backpack hanging off his shoulder. “I’d just texted you that I was on the way.” He opened his hand and showed her his phone.

“I didn’t get a text.” Had she imagined that accent?

“I didn’t get to send it,” he said, stepping closer, his hair wavy from being pulled back in a ponytail, a shadow of whiskers darkening his cheeks, his eyes glittering shiny blue in the moonlight. “That woman freaking threw herself at me, I swear.”

Bloody hell. She shook her head as if she could make the words tumble out of her memory. Who said that? No one—in this country.

“Tessa.” He closed in on her, his large, masculine torso so close she could smell the scents of the kitchen. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s completely wrong.”

But now he sounded normal. American. Like someone from California and Nevada where they had zero accents and didn’t say things like bloody hell.

He stroked her cheek. “You were coming to meet me, weren’t you?”

She looked up at him, searching his face for a clue to any kind of secret. All she saw was perfection. Almost too perfect.

“To take a walk?” he asked.

He flipped the backpack over his shoulder and dropped it on the ground. “Let’s have a picnic right here in the garden. I brought stone crabs. I was going to take a shower, but…” He took her hand and pulled her down to the ground. “Sit down and please, please tell me you know me better than to think for one second I’d be attracted to that piece of trash.”

“John.” She refused to let him do this, steadfast in her determination not to be sweet-talked or coerced or lied to. In any accent. “I saw you.”

What she meant was I heard you, but she couldn’t bring herself to say that yet.

“What you saw was a pathetic woman throwing herself at a disinterested man.” He tugged her toward the ground. “C’mon, Tessa. Sit here. Talk to me.”

She let him pull her down. “I did see you kiss her,” she said softly as she let her backside hit the ground, a soft spot of orange-scented leaves.

“No, you saw her kiss me.” He settled right next to her, the backpack in front of his knees. “I have had exactly three conversations with the woman and hope that was the last.”

“She’s a…” She couldn’t quite think of anything bad enough.

“I know the word for what she is.”

“In what language?” she asked.

His eyes widened in surprise. “I only speak one.”

“Maybe I should say in what accent?” At his look of confusion, she took a breath and let her thoughts out in a rush. “I heard you when you were looking for me. You said ‘bloody hell’ and something in an English accent.”

“Did I?” For one second, one lightning flash of a millisecond that was so fast she almost missed it, she read a little fear in his eyes. Or guilt. Or…something. Damn it, there was something.

“That’s…odd.” He reached for the backpack, yanking the zipper. “I have everything we need for a moonlight picnic,” he said quickly. “Even a corkscrew. But no glasses. We have to drink from—” He finally looked at her, his expression changing as he took in hers. “Tessa, I swear I have no interest in that woman. She’s obviously the town slut, a complete—”

“You spoke with an English accent. I heard it. I know I did. Why?”

“I don’t know,” he finally said, so softly she almost didn’t catch it.

He pulled out a to-go white foam box, and then a bottle of wine. “I told you I lived in Singapore, and I picked up a lot of expressions from the Brits there.”

She didn’t answer, swallowing the temptation to remind him he said he’d lived there for such a short time it was more like a visit.

“Tess, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I need to trust you,” she finally said.

He set the box and wine on the ground, turning to put both hands on her face. His fingers were calloused and rough and so large that his palms covered her cheeks. “Listen to me, okay? I know what happened with your husband. I know that you saw what you think was me”—he searched for a word—“cheating on you.”

“Cheating? I barely know you.”

“We’re getting married,” he shot back. “Or did you forget?”

“We’re talking about a stunt on the beach to help build business,” she corrected, trying to ease out of his grasp. “So there’s no ‘cheating’ involved.”

“Then why did you turn and fly away into the night?”

“I didn’t want to…” Relive old pain. “Watch.”

He stroked her chin with his thumbs, a sure, warm touch that sent a thousand sparks to every nerve ending in her body. “Like I was saying, I know that your husband ended your marriage by cheating on you. So I’m taking a wild guess that you had a little flashback and a very understandable moment when you doubted me.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“No, I’m that keen.”

Keen. Another word spoken more in England than the US. Had she ever noticed that before?

“And you are not transparent.” He came an inch closer, erasing space and doubts and common sense. “You’re beautiful and sweet and smart and good.” His voice got so soft it almost sounded pained. But Tessa’s eyes were closed and she couldn’t read his expression. All she could do was feel his hands, his breath, his…lips.

He kissed her so tenderly she could barely feel it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. And he sounded truly sorry. Really sorry. Like—she pulled back from the kiss to study the misery on his face.

“You’re too sorry,” she said. “If that was as innocent as you say, you wouldn’t look quite that sorry.” Or was he sorry for something else? God, he confused her.

“I’m apologizing in advance for all the stupid things I’ll do in a clumsy effort to”—he closed his eyes—“get what I want.” Another kiss, this one slower, deeper, and hotter. “And what I want, woman, is you.”

She barely heard those last words, the blood rushing through her veins, pulsing in her head and a whole lot of other places. Everything felt so good, so alive, so real.

But was everything real? Was he? Here in the moonlight, the smell of oranges and oak, the touch of salt air and sweet lips, was anything real? His tongue traced her lips and he finally let go of her face, dragging his hands down her throat, onto her chest. She bowed her back into the kiss, dropping her head back to offer him whatever he wanted to touch.

He kissed his way down her throat, lingering there to suck gently, tangling one hand in her hair and letting the other slide lower until his palm grazed her breast.

More nerves tingled, tightening every inch of skin, twirling a ribbon of desire through her body until she had to moan with the need for him to untie every bit of her.

Who cared if he was real? She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted everything.

As he caressed her breast, she dropped back and he came with her, both of them falling to the soft earth as they kissed. Her nipple budded under his palm, drawing a moan from her throat, or maybe it was his. Everything was connected.

He slid on top of her, a solid, huge erection pressing on her stomach and stealing her breath.

“Tessa,” he whispered into the kiss.

“Mmmm.”