Her Dakota Summer (10 page)

“Malcolm and Jackson like you.” She glanced down at her nails. “In fact, they seem to be of the opinion that you would make a good boyfriend for me.” Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his profile to see his reaction.

“That’s pretty interesting. They asked me if I liked you. Several times.”

“Yeah, they asked me that too.”

He leaned forward, balanced his elbows on his knees. When he turned his head toward her, a hank of hair fell across his eyes. “And what did you say?”

A grin spread across her face. She shook her head. “You first.”

“I told them that I thought you were—”

“Very nice?”

He laughed a little and sat up, brushing the errant strands out of his face. “They told you.”

“Of course they did.”

“They are tough interrogators. I couldn’t dodge the question.” He paused. “What about you?”

“I told them that I thought you were very nice too.” She paused. “And they want to see you when they get back, so there’s that.” She shrugged. “I guess our fate is sealed.”

Dakota took her hand, leaned over and kissed her. The slow journey of his lips, then the touch of his tongue eased her stiff nerves, relaxing and arousing at the same time. His back was warm and reassuring under her palms. When they broke the kiss, she was breathless and giddy.

Getting up, she wound her fingers through his and tugged him to his feet. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go mess up the sheets.”

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

Toy Boy

Lily Harlem

Excerpt

Chapter One

“It’s all organized. Booked.”

I’d heard the words Sullivan had spoken but could hardly believe them. Not that they hadn’t been expected, just that finally, after a year of long-distance communication, we were going to meet face to face.

In Greece!

“Really?” I managed. “I’m so excited. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I told you. It’s a date. Our first date.”

His voice was lusciously low and sexy. We’d started out chatting online, so when I’d first heard it for real, over the phone, I’d been seduced all over again. Not only could he write words that turned me into a heap of mush on the sofa, he also spoke in a way that made me want to rip off my clothes and rub myself all over him.

“Thank you,” I said, twirling my wedding ring around my finger. “But are you sure? It sounds so expensive.”

“It’s not, and if I’m skippering, that makes it a fraction of the cost.” He paused. “Kay, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for so long, please, let me have this.”

I hesitated and stared at my reflection in the window. Twilight was stealing the day, and light from the lone candle flickering on the sill bounced off the glass.

A fluttering in my stomach sent excited sensations up to my chest and down to my pelvis. It had been so long since another man had made me giddy with anticipation. I’d lost Thomas five years ago. He’d been the love of my life, my soul mate. Then one day, he was gone.

Darkness.

Killed in a car crash—head-on collision.

“Hey, you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, Sullivan. I am. It’s just…”

“You haven’t been treated for a while. I get that, and before you say it, I know you can afford it, but I want to do this.”

I tipped my chin and took a deep breath. “In that case, thank you. I’ll organize my flight. And I can’t wait to see you in Cephalonia. It’s going to be…awesome.” I tried out one of the new words I’d picked up from his vocabulary.

“Yeah, awesome.” He’d put an extra strong American twang to his accent. “And don’t worry about a thing. I can manage a thirty-two-footer, no problem, and this will be the fourth time I’ve navigated around the Ionian Islands.”

“So you keep telling me.” I smiled. He’d been talking about us taking a sailing holiday for a while. He was a keen sailor, whereas I was a novice and a bit nervous, if I was honest. But I guessed he was looking forward to flexing his muscles in front of me and showing me just how in control of the wind and the ocean he was—the Neanderthal in him was trying to get out, or so I suspected.

“The wind picks up in the afternoons,” he went on, “so we can have late nights, lazy mornings and hit the waves after lunch.”

“If that’s the best time to hoist the sails.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll be the best time.” He chuckled. “Listen, I have to run. A meeting with my finance director is calling.”

“Oh, of course.” When we got chatting, I often forgot about the five-hour time difference between Oxford and New York. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow and see you next week.” I bit on my bottom lip. Sullivan was really going to be in front of me—next week—to touch, kiss, join in bed. Late nights, he’d said. Late nights, just the two of us, naked, letting our desire spill out and doing the things we’d talked about when our conversations had gotten frisky. Which they often did, much to my delight.

“Sure thing, baby. Catch you tomorrow.”

I set down my phone and flopped onto the sofa. I had a small round table set next to it that held my glass of wine and the one photograph Sullivan had emailed me. It had been taken in Central Park several Christmases ago, so he’d said. It was evening, and shadows sliced over his body and face, the night embracing his image. He wore a hat against the cold and a scarf muffled up to his chin. His collar stood tall, just stroking his ears, and a puff of cold air hung before him.

I wished it were a clearer photograph. I’d asked him for another one, and he’d said he would but had never gotten around to it. The one I’d sent him, of me in the garden by my rose bed, was perfectly clear. I’d been wearing a sun hat and holding my secateurs, and the shot was natural and bright. I thought it best to let him see me for how I was, rather than trying to dress to the nines then Photoshop away the wrinkles. Not that I was old or didn’t scrub up okay—I did. I just wanted to look like myself.

Sullivan had gone for moody and atmospheric with his shot. I couldn’t even make out his hair color because of his winter beanie, or the exact shape of his mouth because of his scarf. But his eyes were gorgeous—sparkling and sexy and staring straight at the camera, straight at me.

I couldn’t wait to see him for real. He was always so kind and gentle with me. I’d told him all about Thomas and how broken I’d been after his death. He’d listened on the phone for hours and sent me long, sensitive emails when I’d told him it was an anniversary or birthday. He understood grief. He got how much of a deal this was for me—to be entering a relationship with someone else when I’d believed there would only ever be Thomas in my life.

Sullivan had never been married and was a year out of a long relationship when we’d met on a business scholar forum. He’d said he felt ready to settle down again, with the right person, which, it seemed, was me.

I sighed and decided to take a bath before bed. Only five more days at work, then a weekend of packing and getting organized, perhaps a quick drink with my best friend, Brenda, then I’d be on my way to Greece. Those days would go by so slowly, but what could I do? I didn’t have a handy time machine to magically transport myself to the Ionian Islands.

I blew out the candle on the windowsill. The sliver of smoke danced upward, the end tendril dissipating in the draft.

Sullivan had consumed my thoughts and desires for so long now. He was a dream come true. Everything about him was perfectly in tune with me. The sooner we made this thing between us real, the better. Phone sex was all well and good, but it was time to turn fantasy into reality.

* * * *

The Greek landscape was wild, vibrant, and had captivated me the moment it had come into view from the plane.

Now, as the taxi hugged the side of a dusty hill, I stared downward at a small white house that squatted by the sea. It had an orange roof, was surrounded by gnarled olive trees, and had a rusty car parked out front. It looked idyllic, so peaceful and pleasant, a far cry from the bustling university I lectured in back home.

My stomach lurched as the driver rounded the bend and the plummeting drop at the side of the road showcased jagged rocks peppered with ocean spray. But even my fear of heights couldn’t detract from my excitement. The moment of meeting Sullivan was so near. Within the hour, within the half hour most likely, we’d be together. He’d landed the day before, to get the boat ready, and the galley stocked with food and wine.

He was so thoughtful and considerate, just like Thomas had been. I looked at my wedding ring and sighed. It was time to take it off. I’d planned this. I knew that I needed to feel free and available before I got physical with Sullivan, and I was sure I would. It wasn’t like we were strangers going on a first date. We knew each other inside and out—our dreams, our hopes, our fears…our desires.

‘I like to imagine, Kay, you lying naked next to me, in bed. I’d start by kissing your lips then down your neck. I’d taste your skin, explore the dent at the hollow of your throat, feel you sigh beneath me when I took your nipples into my mouth. I’d spend so long adoring your breasts, making them hard, tight points of need.’

I tugged the gold ring, and it slid over the joints of my finger, leaving a circular indentation on my flesh. It had sat there for so long, my hand looked naked without it. But it was time to start afresh. I had moved on. I’d made my peace with the loss of Thomas. I’d never be okay with it, never think it fair that he didn’t get to grow old, but I knew he’d want me to find happiness again and not live out the rest of my life alone.

And the person I was hoping to spend it with was Sullivan. He knew I had baggage, and he didn’t need me to wear the ring like a badge stating that I had once belonged with someone else.

My purse had a small compartment in the lining with a zip, so I put the gold band in there for safekeeping. Perhaps I’d buy a chain to keep it on—but maybe not.

I pushed my shades more securely into place and pulled in a deep breath. Sullivan. Yes. Now was all about my time with Sullivan, the sexy American who had seduced me with his charm, humor and gentleness. I only hoped he liked what he saw when he met me.

We entered the small port of Fiscardo. The taxi wound down a narrow lane lined with homes that had the doorsteps sticking out onto the cobbled pavement. Terracotta pots containing pink and blue flowers filled every available surface around the windows and on balconies. A few locals sat in chairs on the pavement, chatting and passing the time of day.

I leaned forward and studied the harbor at the base of the road. It appeared busy, stacked full of boats, and as we rounded the corner, I could see it was surrounded by bars and restaurants, brimming with people enjoying drinks and Greek food.

The colors were stunning—brilliant white, azure blue and cerise pink. The yachts, without exception, were all impressive, even with their sails strapped to their masts.

I scanned the bobbing boats, eager to catch my first glimpse of Sullivan. He’d sent me a link so I could see the type of boat we’d be sailing. It was a Beneteau, a thirty-two-footer, white with a navy Bimini. The Bimini, he’d told me, was the strip of canvas that provided shade over the table and the helm. We’d need that here in Greece in July. The sun was scorching.

“Here, Fiscardo,” the taxi driver said, drawing the vehicle to a halt.

“Thank you.” I unclipped my seatbelt and scrabbled in my purse. I counted out thirty euros and passed the notes to him.

“Have nice holiday,” he said, smiling and displaying his last few top teeth.

“I’m sure I will.” I grinned and stepped out of the car, pulling my soft bag with me. Sullivan had told me not to bring a suitcase, as there would be nowhere to store it on the boat. A canvas holdall that could fold up was the best thing to use.

The taxi pulled away, leaving me on the quay edge.

The heat wrapped around me like a fire-warm blanket, and the air, despite the sea breeze that lifted my hair from my shoulders, was baking hot.

I could see several boats that matched the description Sullivan had given me. The one nearest me had a couple sitting at the table beneath the Bimini. They were eating cheese and bread and drinking wine. It looked idyllic.

Hoisting my bag into the crook of my arm, I started to walk around the small harbor. The pathway, like the lane, was cobbled, and I was careful where I put my feet as I moved past the ends of the moored boats.

The restaurants on the other side of the path were hives of activity, people laughing and chatting and waiters rushing around. But I hardly noticed any of this, I was looking for our boat, for Sullivan.

I passed several large yachts, scanning the next one each time as it came into view. Another Beneteau rocked gently, tugging on its rope, but this wasn’t ours, either. It had someone’s laundry flapping from the boom, adult’s and children’s clothes—the owners likely enjoying late afternoon food and drink in one of the bars.

I carried on walking. Perspiration was pricking the skin on my cleavage. I was running out of boats. There were only about six left. Three were motorboats, and the other two weren’t white.

But the last one was another Beneteau and my heart fluttered when I realized it must be ours, unless of course, Sullivan had decided to take our vessel out for a test run, and he wasn’t here at all.