It had to be the worst kind of luck that the Petronades and the Herakleides estates were beside each other, because it placed her beach house right next door to his, Ethan mused heavily, as he trod the soft sand on his way up the beach. Other than for Eve’s close proximity he was happy with his modest accommodation. The beach houses might be small but they possessed a certain charm that appealed to the artist in him. Nothing grand: just an open-plan living room and kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom.
All he needed, in other words, he acknowledged as he came to a stop at the low white-washed wall that was there to help keep the sand back rather than mark the boundary to the property. Set into the wall was a white picket gate that gave access to a simple garden and the short path that led to a shady veranda. Next to the gate was a concrete tub overhung by a freshwater shower head. Pulling his wet tee shirt off over his head he tossed it onto the wall, then stepped into the tub and switched on the tap that brought cool water cascading over his head.
His skin shone dark gold in the deepening sunset, muscles rippled across his shoulders and back, as he sluiced the sand and salt from his body. Standing a few short yards away on the hot concrete path that ran right around the bay, Eve watched him with the same fascination she had surrendered to the last time she had chanced upon Ethan Hayes like this.
Only it wasn’t the same, she reminded herself quickly. He was dressed, or that part of him which caused her the most problems was modestly covered at least. But as for the rest of him—
Water ran off his dark hair down his face to his shoulders. The hair on his chest lay matted in thick coils that arrowed down to below his waist. She hadn’t noticed the chest hair the last time—hadn’t noticed the six-pack firmness of his abdomen. He was lean and he was tight and he was honed to perfection, and she wished she—
‘You can go past. I won’t bite,’ the man himself murmured flatly, letting her know that he had seen her standing here.
Fingers curling into two fists at her sides, Eve released a soft curse beneath her breath. I hate him, she told herself. I really hate him for catching me doing this, not once but twice!
‘Actually I quite like the view,’ she returned, determined not to let him embarrass her a second time. ‘You strip down quite nicely for an Englishman.’
More muscles flexed; Eve’s lungs stopped working. She wished she understood this fascination she had for his body, but she didn’t. She could not even say that he possessed the best body she had ever seen—mainly because it was the only one she had seen in its full and flagrant entirety. That, she decided, had to be the cause of this wicked fascination she had for Ethan Hayes. It fizzed through her veins like a champagne cocktail, stripped her mouth of moisture like crisp dry wine. Tantalising, in other words. The man was a stiff-necked, supercritical, overbearing boor, yet inside she fluttered like a love-struck teenager every time she saw him.
The shower was turned off. He threw one of those cold-eyed looks at her then slid it away without saying a word. He was going to do his usual thing and walk away as if she didn’t exist, Eve realised, and suddenly she was determined to break that arrogant habit for good!
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ she informed him.
He turned a second look on her. Looks like that could kill, Eve thought as, with a scrupulously bland expression, she pointed to the back of his legs where beautifully pronounced calf muscles were still peppered with fine granules of sand.
Still without saying a word he turned on the shower again. A sudden urge to laugh brought Eve’s ready sense of humour into play and she decided to have a bit of fun at the stuffy Ethan Hayes’ expense.
‘Jack just warned me off falling for you,’ she announced, watching him wash the sand off his legs. ‘He thinks you’re dangerous. The eat-them-for-a snack-as-you-walk-out-of-the-door kind of man.’
‘Wise man, Jack.’ She thought she heard him mutter over the splash of water, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘I laughed because I thought it was so funny,’ she went on. ‘I mean—we both know you’re too much the English gentleman to do anything so crass as to love them and leave them without a backward glance.’
It was not a compliment and Ethan didn’t take it as one. ‘You keep taking a dig at my Englishness, but you’re half English yourself,’ he pointed out.
‘I know.’ Eve sighed with mocking tragedy. ‘It worries the Greek in me sometimes that I could end up falling for a die-hard English stuffed-shirt.’
‘Fate worse than death.’
‘Yes.’
He switched the shower off again and Eve rediscovered her fascination with his body as he turned to recover his wet tee shirt; muscles wrapped in rich brown flesh rippled in the red glow of the sunlight, droplets of water clung to the hairs on his chest.
Ethan turned to catch her staring. The prickling sensation between his thighs warned him that he had better get away from here before he embarrassed himself again. Yet he didn’t move, couldn’t seem to manage the simple act. His senses were too busy drinking in what his eyes were showing him. He liked the way she was wearing her hair twisted cheekily up on her head with a hibiscus flower helping to hold it in place. He liked what the pink dress did for her figure and the slender length and shape of her legs. And he liked her mouth; it was heart-shaped—small with a natural provocative yen to pout. He liked her smooth golden skin, her cute little nose, and those eyes that had