J.F. Kirwan - 37 Hours

She’d watched it from a distance until it grew dark and the mosquito shift came to feast on her, despite having plastered her skin with repellent earlier. The turtle struggled, terribly weary judging by its slow, jagged digging movements, but it never stopped. Nature imbued its progeny with an incredible will to prolong the species. She walked beside the turtle as it lumbered down to the sea, and clapped as it floated and then disappeared beneath moonlit waves. By the time she’d walked around the beach back to the dive centre, she’d missed dinner, and didn’t care.

In the hammock, she turned her head back towards the emerald sea that shifted to cobalt blue farther out in the depths. She heard the distant whine of an engine. Shading her eyes, she searched for the boat – not so easy with the sun low in the sky, flashes of white skittering across the wave-tops. It was the same speedboat she’d arrived on, a sleek five-metre affair with a rectangular orange canopy to stave off the sun, a single powerful engine at the rear. Several passengers. Her breath shallowed. One of them stood out from the others. At the prow. Only a silhouette, but his broad-shouldered swimmer’s physique gave him away. She rolled off the hammock and stood under the shade of the palms.

She thought about running to the jetty to greet him. But she was still pissed off with him. No visits, no letters, no communication whatsoever. He was probably with someone else, married for all she knew. After all, it hadn’t been a big romance. Made love three times, had a couple of deep conversations. Not a relationship. Barely an affair. A fling, that was all.

He disembarked, and saw her. He handed his holdall to one of the locals, and walked straight towards her.

As he approached, she folded her arms. ‘Nice of you to drop by,’ she said. But he didn’t slow down. He came right up to her, took her head in both hands and kissed her, hard, urgent, passionate. The opposite of Sergei, who had been seductive, smooth, confident.

She came up for air. ‘You have some explaining to do.’ But her body was already reacting to him. The chemistry between them burst alive, and was kicking. But her anger was there, too.

‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’

‘Later. Here’s what matters. I haven’t made love to anyone since the day you were taken away.’

She eyed him. Was it true? She searched those deep blue eyes.

Damn. She’d been looking forward to a storming row, him being guilty, begging her to forgive him. And now this? He’d been faithful, whereas she’d slept with Sergei less than forty-eight hours ago… She felt her face redden with embarrassment. She hoped he’d mistake it for sunburn. But she realised it touched her – if he wasn’t lying about it. No one had ever cared about her that much. She needed time to work out how she really felt about it, but sensed that time was the one thing that was in short supply.

‘Where’s your room?’ he asked.

Unbelievable. But at least now she was on more familiar ground. ‘What, the hammock isn’t good enough?’

He took her hands, held them behind her back with one hand and kissed her throat, his chest brushing against her breasts, while his other hand held the back of her head. He nudged her back towards the hammock. Cheering erupted from one of the breakfast tables. The Brits, naturally.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.