Glynna’s stomach dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. Spend the weekend with sarcastic, sharp-tongued and dangerously sexy Jake Dawson? They’d drive each other crazy within a matter of hours.
“That would be wonderful.” Marcie looked relieved. She smiled at Glynna. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
She looked up and found Jake’s eyes on her. “What do you say?” he asked. “Or are you worried I’ll tarnish your virtue?”
Now he’d done it. She had to agree or she’d look like a prude. She held her head up and adopted what she hoped was an air of indifference. “It doesn’t matter to me if it doesn’t matter to Jake. We’ll both be busy working most of the time anyway.”
“Great. Your cottage is right over here.” Marcie started down the path again, and led them to the last in a row of six. The square whitewashed building had blue shutters, porches on three sides and abundant heart and dove gingerbread trim. “How romantic,” Jake leaned forward and growled into Glynna’s ear, the rough timbre of his voice sending a jolt through her.
After giving them a brief tour of the three rooms that made up the cottage, Marcie finally left them alone. The porter appeared seconds later and deposited their luggage just inside the door.
Glynna carried her suitcase into the bedroom. Jake followed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t lay a finger on you. You’re not really my type.”
She flinched at the remark. Not that she was interested in a man like Jake, but did he have to make a point of telling her she was undesirable?
She opened her suitcase and took out her makeup bag. “I’ll take the bed. You can have the sofa.”
She started toward the bathroom, but he intercepted her. “No way. I’m a foot taller than you. You take the sofa.”
She glared at him, noting not only how tall he was, but how broad his shoulders and chest were. “All right. I’ll take the sofa.”
“Good.” He walked over to the bed and stripped off his shirt in one smooth movement.
She stared, her mouth going dry at the sight of his broad, muscular back. “Wh…what are you doing?” she asked.
“This is the beach. I’m going to change into my swimsuit.” He glanced at her. “I suggest you do the same unless you want to really stick out.”
He headed for the bathroom, leaving her alone. She opened her suitcase again and took out her most conservative swimsuit—a modest tankini with high-cut legs that suddenly seemed incredibly revealing.
She glanced at the closed bathroom door. Should she change now, or wait until the bathroom was free? What if Jake walked out while she was still undressing?
With trembling fingers, she reached for the zipper on her dress. What if he did walk out and find her half-dressed? Would he think her so undesirable then?
She hurriedly stripped and donned the swimsuit, then hung the sundress in the closet and deposited her dirty clothes in a side pocket of her suitcase. The last thing she wanted was to leave her underwear around for Jake to find.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he had a beach towel over one shoulder. He scarcely glanced at her, but went to his bag and took out a digital camera. “I’m going to take a few preliminary shots.”
He left without saying goodbye. Glynna stared after him, then sank onto the end of the bed. With Jake gone, the cottage felt too quiet and still. She stared at the painting across from the bed. It depicted a couple walking hand in hand into the sunset. The romantic image mocked her. When was the last time she’d had anything approaching romance in her life? Where was the man who was going to sweep her off her feet and make her forget about work and her father and all the stress in her life?
The men she usually met were either business associates of her father, whom she’d known since she was a toddler, or society playboys whose idea of romance was an expensive dinner at a trendy restaurant, followed by discreet and polite sex. Where were the men who could bring excitement and adventure into her dull existence?
Men like Jake Dawson. The thought sent a tremor through her. Maybe spending the weekend in this cottage with him wasn’t such a smart idea. The very fact that he was so different from every other guy she knew acted as a kind of aphrodisiac. How else to explain her sudden attraction to a man who was so clearly not right for her?
She hugged her arms across her chest and frowned at the happy couple in the picture. If Jake knew what she was thinking about him, he’d probably tell her she was out of her mind. “Imagine that,” she said out loud. “Something he and I could agree on.”
JAKE HAD TO GET out of the cottage before he did something he knew he’d regret. He must have been out of his mind to think he could spend a weekend in close quarters with the ice princess.
Not that she was as cold as he’d thought. In fact, he suspected a hot woman lurked just below the surface. Those were exactly the sort of suspicions he knew would land him in trouble.
The best thing to do, he told himself, was to concentrate on work. Looking at the world through the lens of a camera had given him the perspective to deal with problems in the past. And it had given him goals and hopes and dreams that went beyond the oil fields and cow pastures he’d grown up in. All he had to do was keep looking through that lens, keep taking his pictures, and he’d end up where he wanted to be, in New York, seeing his work on gallery walls and in expensive coffee-table books. He still had a lot to do to get there, and he couldn’t let a woman like Glynna McCormick mess with his head and distract him from his goals.
He took some shots of the line of cottages, the flower-filled gardens and the shady palapas. Later he’d view these pictures and decide which scenes and angles would be worth pursuing with his large-format Sinar. He photographed couples lounging by the pool, laughing together on the volleyball court and embracing in the surf. The cynic in him wondered if everyone was really as happy and in love as they looked.
The couple in the ocean parted and began walking down the beach. Jake approached them and introduced himself as a photographer for Texas Style. “We’re doing a story on the resort and I just took your picture,” he said. “Could I ask you a few questions?”
The woman smiled. “We’re going to be in a magazine?”
“I can’t promise anything, but maybe.” He dug in his pocket for the pencil stub and scratch pad he always carried. “Your names?”
“Rich and Emily Spencer,” the man said. He was young, midtwenties, with already thinning brown hair and a crooked nose.
“What brings you to La Paloma?” Jake asked.
“We’re on our honeymoon.” Emily leaned closer to Rich. “Isn’t this the most fabulous place?”
“Uh-huh.” His attention was distracted by a woman who was walking down the beach toward them. She moved with feline grace along the edge of the waves, her long dark hair blown back over one shoulder, the sun illuminating her skin with a golden glow.
“Do you know her?” Rich asked, following Jake’s gaze.
He nodded. “She’s the writer I’m working with on this piece.”
“Lucky you,” Rich said, earning a fierce look from Emily.
“Yeah,” Jake mumbled. “I’m lucky all right. Just one lucky dog.”
GLYNNA TOLD HERSELF she should be interviewing happy couples, talking to the staff or at least reading through the press kit Marcie had left for her. Instead, the sun and surf had induced an unfamiliar languidness. She strolled the beach, savoring the heat of the sun on her skin and the caress of water against her ankles, inhaling the