“That’s not necessary—”
“I insist. You work way too hard. Good night, Elizabeth,” he said before he walked off the dock.
• • •
Harper was feeling restless.
Or maybe reckless was the right term.
After tossing and turning for an hour plus, obsessively reliving Latimer’s kiss, and growing hotter and pricklier by the minute, she finally got out of bed. She hurried into yoga pants, tennis shoes, and a long-sleeved shirt. She twisted her hair into a sloppy bun. Not allowing herself to think of any motive past a soothing midnight walk to calm her nerves, she headed toward the lake.
In addition to a three-quarter full moon, the ground lights of several restaurants and private homes lit the beach. After several minutes of brisk walking, a distressing thought occurred to her. Her press pass was in the purse she’d left behind at Latimer’s, along with her driver’s license and credit cards. She needed the press pass, at the very least, for the mayor’s press conference in South Lake Tahoe in the morning.
Maybe she could contact Elizabeth in the early morning, in order to retrieve it? But no, Elizabeth had never actually supplied her with any contact information.
She recognized the modern mansion to the right of her. It was Cyril Atwater’s home. That meant the next property down the beach was . . .
Latimer’s.
A moment later, she slowed as she neared the perimeter of the Latimer compound. The huge, multileveled terrace of the mansion was sparsely lit and largely occluded from the shore by several tall pines.
Her purse would likely still be up there. She’d left it tucked in the corner of the couch, and it wasn’t large. There was a good chance no one had noticed it during the post-party cleanup, especially since Latimer and she had been the only ones utilizing the upper level of the terrace. It was only yards away from her reach.
Couldn’t she just pop up the stairs and get it?
That was her logic for tentatively approaching the first set of stone steps that led from the beach and dock to the pool level. Her rationalization was the sole thing on which she’d let herself focus. Her return had nothing to do with her regret for walking away from Latimer . . . with her irrational lust for a man she’d just met.
No. It was all about her press pass.
Her heart began to thump in her ears as she rose up the steps. She suspected an alarm might go off at any moment. A dozen guards might rush her. As much emphasis as Latimer put on security, surely there were motion detectors out here at the very least, if not video surveillance. She wasn’t scared, though. Not precisely. She was tingling with something that felt like anticipation.
A splashing, trickling sound entered her awareness. She paused on the stone terrace, her breath stuck in her lungs.
The pale blue pool glimmered to the left of her, dimly illuminated by several perimeter lights. There was enough light for her to see that the trickling sound wasn’t coming from the pool, however. The surface of the water was as smooth as blue glass.
A low, harsh groan cut through the hushed night. Harper jumped, air hissing out of her lungs. The sound had come from behind a cedar enclosure just to the left of her. The wall of the enclosure didn’t reach all the way to the stone terrace. Beneath it, she could make out a gray mist and water splashing around a pair of muscular calves. As she watched, the solitary man parted his legs several inches, planting his feet. Another tense groan vibrated the still air.
She didn’t tell herself to move. She was drawn irrevocably. Irrationally. Her heart now drumming furiously in her ears, she rounded the wall. It was a shower enclosure, a place to remove the sand after being on the beach.
Latimer was turned in profile to her, completely unaware of her presence. Steam from the running shower curled around long, muscular legs. Moonlight gleamed on the stretch of his wet, naked back and round buttocks. Water streamed down his shoulders and ridged abdomen. His muscles were pulled so tight, she had the random impression he was about to break from the strain. He stood with one hand bracing himself on the cedar wall, his head bowed forward, eyes clamped tight, his body coiled as tight as a spring.
His other han
d fisted his cock.
He was furiously erect, his sex as long, hard, and intimidating-looking as the rest of him. He jacked himself with a forcefulness that both shocked and aroused her. Whatever rode him in those tense seconds, whatever desire commanded him, it was a savage, ruthless thing . . . and it pained him.
The realization must have made her make a sound of distress, because his head jerked around. His pumping arm froze. In a split second, his entire focus was yanked entirely from his single-minded search for release, and fastened onto her.
For a lung-burning few seconds, neither of them spoke. Harper wondered numbly if the air itself could catch flame.
“I’m so sorry. I forgot my purse.”
Her lame words had no substance. They seemed to be incinerated to mist in an instant in the silent storm that hovered between them.
Slowly, he released his erection and removed his hand from the wall. He straightened and turned toward her. He stood tall. The moon, stars, and the pool lights dimly illuminated a good portion of his body. She could easily make out his cock springing out from between hard, strong-looking thighs.
“You forget a lot of things. Or maybe you just want to forget.”