Page 30

Story: Lela's Choice

Would she welcome his hands caressing her, binding her to him? Would she moan in pleasure when his mouth traced the line of her jaw, whispered behind her ear, became tangled in the wet tendrils of hair that clung to her neck?

“You don’t pull your punches, do you?” Her eyes opened wide, not with the shock Hamish expected, but with a more complex emotion. Regret?

“Neither do you. If the currency is to be brutal honesty, I want you in my bed.” He abandoned his good intentions. Her searing honesty caught him by the balls and squeezed his heart. He and Olivia hadn’t managed honesty at the end; he missed the intimacy that came with honesty.

“This is happening too fast.”

“How fast do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “That’s not true.”

“I’m happy to go at your pace.” He brushed his lips across her damp forehead. The damnedest thing was she embodied hope—for too long in short supply in his life. “But in case you haven’t noticed, you’re holding on to me, Miranda.”

* * *

LOWERING HER GAZE,Lela saw her hold on his arms was firm, that she’d angled herself into the V of his body created by his posture, legs apart to steady them both.

If a kiss was out of character, how did Lela describe her body’s unconscious response to him? Desire shimmered through her, and she wallowed in the sensation of her body awakening. She let hunger roll through her like a wave, let herself lean against his wet, muscular male body. Hamish, a man who seemed to understand her choices.

“You make me impatient to experience.” She lifted a hand to his chin, drawing his face towards hers to brush her lips across his mouth, once, twice, lighter than a butterfly before diving under his arm and surfacing a few feet away. “But I can’t be sure if that’s real or because I’m thrown off-balance by the bizarre situation we’re in.”

“Brutal honesty.” He slicked back his wet hair, a frown creasing his forehead. “I don’t ever mix business with pleasure. I came down here to apologise and put us back on a business footing.”

Pulling herself onto the side of the pool, Lela sat facing him, her hair plastered against her head, suddenly self-conscious that her plain one-piece clung to every curve. “It’s a principle I respect.” She smiled. “And I admire the integrity behind your decision.”

He groaned. “Do you know that dimple of yours is a killer?”

In a single action, she rose to her feet and collected her towel, wrapping it around herself to hide her thoughts as well as her body from him. “I don’t need your apology, Hamish. I could have stepped away last night. But finding Sophie is the reason we’re spending time together. We can’t afford to forget that or let ourselves be distracted.”

“We finish the job.” His mouth twisted.

“Are you coming in?”

From the age of ten, Lela had understood the battle lines between her father and herself. After her mother’s death, her father had seen things as black or white, and she could choose family cohesion or independent exile.

She’d walked the fine line with no major slips until her school graduation party. Lela had accepted a date from a boy in her class. She’d dressed up, he’d picked her up, they’d had a comparatively innocent night out, a few stolen kisses behind the school hall, a few fumbles, enough inexpert stroking of her breasts to stir the woman in her and make her dream of greater intimacy. The boy had delivered her to her front doorstep, and, in case they were being watched, planted an innocent kiss on her cheek. They’d giggled and made tentative plans for a future meeting.

Lela had opened her front door to find her father, still dressed in his office clothes—a suit and tie, minus the jacket—ready to deal with the next problem in his day: her. Papa had accused her of betraying her family and snapped out a furious ultimatum. Either stop seeing the boy or leave his house that night.

Sophie was seven.

The father who’d bounced a young Carmen on his knee, who’d tickled her when he’d tucked her into bed remained consumed by grief at her mother’s death. Despite Papa’s treatment of her sister, she’d known he grieved deeply for Mari. But she’d seen fear on his face when he confronted her about kissing a boy. Fear he’d lose her, fear of what that would do to Sophie, to the whole family.

Because she loved him, she wouldn’t challenge his dignity or right to make decisions in his own home. In those helpless moments of rage and loneliness—and there were many—she believed life would have been different if her mother had lived. That conviction sustained her.

“I might do a few more laps. Let’s meet for breakfast and plan the day.”

“Find Sophie?” Her niece was her first, second, and only priority.

“That’s the plan.” He plunged back into the pool.

Over the years, Lela had dated men, progressed far enough to bring them home to meet her family. They’d stopped calling or, the more honest ones, confessed they didn’t want to live a life bound by responsibilities she couldn’t abandon. The blunt subtext being they hadn’t cared enough about her to persist, a hint that no one could.

Hamish was right. She was attracted to him, but the moment wasn’t right. He still kept her father’s secrets. She still needed to know Sophie was safe.

Letting herself into her room, it hit her. Her response to Hamish was different to her dealings with other men. She’d known of Hamish for years, had admired his work and respected his commitment to vulnerable women and children. Hamish appealed to her head and her heart. For the first time in her life, she’d met a man who understood and shared her concern about Sophie.

No wonder Hamish made her body yearn.