‘No need,’ he said, a wicked smile curving his mouth as he threw her a towel. ‘There’s no one else here.’
She caught it and set it to one side. ‘Another time, maybe.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
She frowned. ‘Why the insistence?’
‘Why the evasion?’
‘All right,’ she said with an exasperated sigh since he clearly wasn’t going to let this drop and the sight of him all naked and perfect was robbing her of her wits anyway. ‘I can’t swim.’
His dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Really?’
‘I was never taught. I can’t ride a bike either. Overlooked as a child, remember?’
‘You could have learned later.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I could have,’ she said, instinctively bristling at the faint but definitely implied criticism, ‘but by that point it had become another thing to not be able to do and another thing to avoid. I know it’s pathetic. I don’t need you to judge.’
‘It’s not pathetic and I’m not judging. I’m just surprised.’
‘It’s not that uncommon.’
‘I will teach you.’
No, he wouldn’t, was her immediate response to that. There was no way she was getting in a pool and making a complete and utter fool of herself. Especially not naked. And especially not in front of someone like him, who seemed to be brilliant at everything he did. Besides, she’d become so adept at avoiding anything that involved a beach or a pool she barely even thought about her inability to swim any more.
But now she was, she found herself wondering, bizarrely, whether it wouldn’t be quite nice to be able to go on holiday somewhere hot at some point. Not that she had the time to go on holiday, or, in fact, anyone to go on holiday with, but two weeks in the sun with no way of cooling off had always been her idea of hell. Come to think of it, three weeks out here, working in the relentless heat and constantly covered in a thin film of sweat hadn’t been much fun either from that point of view, and if she was being brutally honest she’d longingly eyed up the pools both here and at the Quinta on more than one occasion.
So maybe she ought to accept a lesson or two. Duarte had taught her about wine. He’d taught her about sex. If she was willing to risk it, he could teach her how to swim, she had no doubt. She trusted him, she realised with a warm sort of glow, and interesting things did tend to happen when he took it upon himself to improve her education. So might this not be a golden opportunity to knock another thing off her activities-to-avoid list?
‘All right,’ she said, gathering up her courage and assuring herself that, quite frankly, nothing could be more embarrassing than being caught singing in the shower. ‘Let’s go.’
***
‘Are your hands supposed to be where they are?’
At Orla’s side in the pool, Duarte watched her paddle her arms and kick her legs and grinned. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Only I’d have thought one on the stomach and one on the back would make more sense than one on my bottom and the other on my breast. I feel you might be taking advantage.’
There was no might about it. He took advantage of her every time he got the chance, and where his hands were was no accident. He couldn’t stop wanting to touch her. Her skin was as soft as silk and her body was warm and lush. Fortunately for the relentless and mind-boggling need he had for her, she was equally as disinclined to pass up such an opportunity. As he’d suspected, beneath the slightly uptight surface bubbled a volcano that erupted with only the tiniest provocation, and he was more than happy to supply that.
The idea of an affair with Orla really had been one of his best and teaching her to swim hadn’t been such a bad one either, he thought, removing his hands from her body with some reluctance and letting her go. Not only did it provide ample opportunity for close proximity and direct contact, but it had also occurred to him that by avoiding anything she wasn’t good at and deliberately not trying new things, she must have missed out on a lot. For some reason, he hadn’t liked the thought of that and it gave him immense satisfaction to be able to do something about it, although for the life of him he couldn’t work out why. But then, he didn’t know why he’d invited her for a swim in the first place either when generally he used the time to clear his head and restore the order that she so easily destroyed.
‘There,’ he said, shaking off the profound sense of unease that came with confusion and focusing instead on her progress across the width of the pool. ‘You see? You’re swimming.’
‘Am I?’
At the edge, she stopped and blinked as she looked back, as if only just realising what she’d achieved. ‘Oh, my God, I am. You’re good.’
‘It’s not me,’ he said, feeling something unidentifiable strike him square in the chest and frowning slightly. ‘You’re the one who had the courage to try and then gave it one hundred per cent.’
The beam she gave him was more blinding than the hot morning sun that was rising above the hills. ‘I did, didn’t I? How can I ever thank you?’
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said as the brilliance of her smile sizzled through him and ignited the ever-present desire, which was something he did understand, at least. ‘But if you really insist, I can think of something.’
Orla spent the next week overseeing operations that were going so smoothly they didn’t require much attention, which was fortunate because her thoughts were becoming increasingly filled with Duarte. She couldn’t get enough of him or the conversations they had. They’d talked about work and travel, family and upbringings—everything, in fact, apart from past relationships, as if by unspoken but mutual consent that subject was off the table.
Yesterday, she’d expressed an interest in the winemaking process and he’d taken her on a tour of the vineyard. This morning she’d swum ten full lengths of the pool: three breaststroke, three backstroke, four crawl. Now she was floating about the place, feeling really rather pleased with herself about everything and unable to keep the smile off her face, until reality intruded in the shape of an email from a flower arranger that immediately zapped it.
The ultra-demanding client for whom she’d arranged the iceberg marriage proposal was celebrating it tomorrow with a huge party in a marquee in the grounds of her parents’ stately home. Requirements had been extremely detailed and uncompromisingly inflexible, so the news that the ornamental cabbages due to take a starring role in the thirty floral displays had not turned up was not ideal, to say the least.
Half an hour later, however, contrary to Orla’s hopes and expectations of an easy fix, ‘not ideal’ had become ‘catastrophic’. Pacing the kitchen, she’d contacted everyone she knew, calling in favours and making promises in return. She’d tried to beg, borrow or steal, but all to no avail, and, as she hung up on the last of her options, panic was beginning to bubble up inside her and a cold sweat coated her skin.
This was her fault, she thought, swallowing down the nausea. She’d become so preoccupied with Duarte and the incredible way he made her feel that she’d taken her eye off the ball. She should have put in a call to all the contractors involved in tomorrow night’s event and confirmed the arrangements. She shouldn’t have assumed that just because everything was going smoothly here, she could rest on her laurels elsewhere.
So what was she going to do? she wondered, anxiety spreading through her veins and burrowing deep. How was she going to fix this? She didn’t have a clue. She couldn’t think straight. Her head was nothing but white noise. She was useless, a complete waste of space. What on earth had made her think she deserved any kind of success? Her pulse was thundering and her chest was tightening. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.
‘Orla? Are you all right?’
Duarte’s voice filtered through the thick, swirling fog and she was dimly aware of him stalking towards her, vaguely wondering what he was doing there when he’d told her he’d be working at the house today, but mainly thinking, no. She wasn’t all right. She wasn’t all right at all. The room was spinning and she was hot and dizzy and quite possibly about to pass out.
But she didn’t. Seconds before she toppled like a ninepin, a pair of large hands landed on her upper arms, keeping her vertical and holding her steady.
‘Look at me.’