What was she doing? she asked herself.
For once in her life, she was acting on a whim, that’s what she was doing. For once in her life she was being bold, that’s what she was doing. For once in her life, she was throwing convention to the wind, she was doing what she wanted to do. She was not leaving him with the impression she was a dull small-town girl who had spent her whole life with her nose buried in a book. Even if she had been!
She didn’t want that to be the whole truth about her anymore, and not just because of him, either. Because the incident in the water yesterday, that moment when she had looked her own death in the face and somehow been spared, had left her with a longing for second chances.
She stood up and turned her back to him. Becky took a deep breath and peeled her shirt over her head, then unbuckled her slacks and stepped out of them. She had on her luxurious Rembrandt’s Drawing brand underwear. The underwear was a matching set, a deep shade of turquoise not that different from the water. It was as fashionable as most bathing suits, and certainly more expensive.
She glanced over her shoulder, and his expression—stunned, appreciative, approving—made her run for the water. She splashed in up to her knees, and then threw herself in. The water closed over her head, and unlike yesterday afternoon, it felt wonderful in the heat of the early evening, cool and silky as a caress on her nearly naked skin.
She surfaced, then paddled out and found her footing when she was up to her neck in water, her underwear hidden from him. She turned to look at where he was still sitting on the blanket. Even from here, she could see the heat in his eyes.
Oh, girlfriend, she thought, you do not know what you are playing with. But the thing about letting a bolder side out was that it was very hard to stuff it back in, like trying to get a jack-in-the-box back in its container.
“Come in,” she called. “It’s glorious.”
He stood up slowly and peeled his shirt off. She held her breath. It was her turn to be stunned, appreciative and approving.
She had seen him without his shirt already when he had sacrificed it to doctor her leg. But this was different. She wasn’t in shock, or in pain, or bleeding all over the place.
Becky was aware, as she had been when she had first laid eyes on him, that he was the most beautifully made of men. Broad shouldered and deep chested, muscular without being muscle-bound. He could be an actor or a model, because he had that mysterious something that made her—and probably every other woman on earth—feel as if she could look at him endlessly, drink in his masculine perfection as if he was a long, cool drink of water and she was dying of thirst.
Was he going to take off his shorts? She was aware she was holding her breath. But no, he kicked off his shoes and, with the khaki shorts safely in place, ran toward the water. Like she had done, he ran in up to about his thighs and then she watched as he dived beneath the surface.
“I didn’t peg you for shy,” she told him when he surfaced close to her.
He lifted an eyebrow at her.
“I’ve seen men’s underwear before. I’m from Moose Run, not the convent.”
“You’ve mentioned you weren’t a nun once before,” he said. “What’s with the fascination with nuns?”
“You just seem to think because I’m small town I’m prim and proper. You didn’t have to get your shorts all wet to save my sensibilities.”
“I don’t wear underwear.”
Her mouth fell open. She could feel herself turning crimson. He laughed, delighted at her discomfort.
“How are your sensibilities doing now?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she squeaked. But they both knew it was a lie, and he laughed.
“Come on,” he said, shaking the droplets of water from his hair. “I’ll race you to those rocks.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t have a hope of winning.”
“I know,” he said fiendishly.
“I get a head start.”
“All right.”
“A big one.”
“Okay, you tell me when I can go.”
She paddled her way toward the rocks. When it seemed there was no chance he could catch her, she called, “Okay, go.”
She could hear him coming up behind her. She paddled harder. He grabbed her foot!
“Hey!” She went under the water. He let go of her foot, and when she surfaced, he had surged by her and was touching the rock.
“You cheater,” she said indignantly.
“You’re the cheater. What kind of head start was that?”
“Watch who you are calling a cheater.” She reached back her arm and splashed him, hard. He splashed her back. The war was on.
Tandu had been so right. She needed to leave whatever fear she had remaining in the water.
And looking at Drew’s face, she realized, her fear was not about drowning. It was about caring for someone else, as if pain was an inherent ingredient to that.
Becky could see that if she had not let go enough in life, neither had he. Seeing him like this, playful, his face alight with laugher and mischief, she realized he did carry some burden, like a weight, just as Tandu had suggested. Drew had put down his burden for a bit, out here in the water, and she was glad she had encouraged him to come swim with her.
She wondered what his terrible burden was. Could he really have been given more than he thought he could handle? He seemed so unbelievably strong. But then again, wasn’t that what made strength, being challenged to your outer limits? She wondered if he would ever confide in her, but then he splashed her in the face and took off away from her, and she took chase, and the serious thoughts were gone.
A half hour later, exhausted, they dragged themselves up on the beach. Just as he had promised, the trades came up, and it was surprisingly chilly on her wet skin and underwear. She tried to pull her clothes over her wet underwear, but it was more difficult than she thought. Finally, with her clothes clinging to her uncomfortably, she turned to him.
He had pulled his shirt back on over his wet chest and was putting the picnic things back in the basket.
“We have to go,” she said. “I feel guilty.”
“Tut-tut,” he said. “There’s that nun thing again. But I have to go, too. My crew is arriving first thing in the morning. I’d like to have things set up so we can get right to work. You’re a terrible influence on me, Sister English.”
“Sister Simone, to you.”
He didn’t appear to be leaving, and neither did she.
“I am so far behind in what I need to get done,” Becky said. “I didn’t expect to be here this long. If I go to work right now, I can still make a few phone calls. What time do you think it is in New York?”
“Look what I just found.”
Did he ever just answer the question?
He had been rummaging in the picnic basket and he held up two small mason jars that looked as if they were filled with whipped cream and strawberries.
“What is that?” Knowing the time in New York suddenly didn’t seem important at all.
“I think it’s dessert.”
She licked her lips. He stared at them, before looking away.
“I guess a little dessert wouldn’t hurt,” she said. Her voice sounded funny, low and seductive, as if she had said something faintly naughty.
“Just sit in the sand,” he suggested. “We’ll