Page 23

“Really?”
“Yes. Water infused with rose petals.”
He gives a short laugh, but doesn’t say anything.
The sun is hot, and I’m warming up a little. I should move… but I discover that I’m reluctant to. Orson’s shirt is mostly transparent, the cotton stretching tight across his biceps where his arms are around me. He has huge biceps. He’s quite a big guy close up, bigger than he looks in his suits, which fit so well they hide his athletic build.
I shift on his lap… and then freeze. Slowly, I look up, into his blue eyes.
“Jesus.” I scramble to get away from him.
He laughs. “Steady or you’ll end up falling back in.”
Flustered at the memory of what I felt in his trousers, I try to unstick my dress from my legs. “I don’t believe you. I just nearly died and you’re all aroused!”
“I wasn’t aroused by the near-death experience. I was aroused by the proximity of a gorgeous young girl.”
“Just because my dress is transparent, God you men are so predictable…”
“Look, I defy any man not to get an erection when they have a water nymph sitting in their lap smelling of rose water.”
The word erection makes my face heat. “Goodness.”
He just laughs. “We should get you home so you can change out of that wet dress.”
I think about what Ana’s going to say when I walk in and groan.
“Come on.” He holds out a hand as he walks toward the stepping stones.
“I know the way home,” I tell him, ignoring it.
“I’m not letting you fall in again while you’re all wet and slippery. Hold my hand.”
I try not to think about being wet and slippery with Orson Cavendish and fail miserably. “I’m not holding your hand.”
“Hold my arm then. Scarlett!” He grabs for me as I slip on the first stone. Before I can argue, he lifts me into his arms again and starts walking across the stepping stones.
“Put me down!” I squeal, conscious of his bare arm touching my thighs.
“Not until we’re on the other side. And stop wriggling—do you want us both to end up in the water again?”
I stop, fuming, and loop my arms around his neck as he navigates the stones. “Your shoulder,” I say, remembering his injury. “You’re going to hurt it carrying me.”
“You’re like carrying a pillow,” he scoffs. “Anyway, my shoulder’s almost healed. It’s my head that hurts.”
“You had a concussion?”
“Yeah. It’s taking its time to heal.”
I try not to look at the way his biceps bulge against the tight cotton. Or the sight of light-brown hair through the transparent shirt. Or the bulge of his Adam’s apple. Or how smooth his chin is.
Instead, I look at his hair, and the white flashes at his temples. Spencer had the same, so it obviously runs in the family.
“How old are you?” I ask as he steps carefully from stone to stone.
“Twenty-seven. You?”
“Twenty-four.” He looks younger up close. He has no lines on his face and no scars. His mouth is attractive, his lips narrowish and firm. I bet he’s an expert kisser.