Charon's Crossing

What was she doing? She was no femme fatale.

True to his word, Matthew was still sitting on the settee, the same as when she'd left him, head back and resting against his linked hands, legs outstretched. He was whistling softly and pleasantly through his teeth.

Her throat tightened. He was so beautiful. The T-shirt stretched like a second skin over his back and his shoulders, defining every muscle. His hair was loose, a spill of chestnut silk shot with a dozen different shades of gold.

Oh, how she loved him! How could she ever leave him?

She couldn't. She wouldn't! Not ever. Not—

"Kathryn?"

She blinked her eyes, which had suddenly blurred with tears, and realized that Matthew had turned and seen her. Now, he was rising slowly to his feet.

"Great God," he whispered. He was very still, nothing moving but his eyes, which had turned into dark pools of desire as his gaze swept over her. "This is a swim suit?"

She nodded and felt herself coloring.

"I have never seen anything like it."

She laughed nervously. "No, well, actually, neither have I. I tried to tell you how silly it was. I bought it on the spur of the moment, but—"

"Kathryn, you are so incredibly beautiful."

She couldn't help but smile. "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

He smiled, too. "A man cannot be beautiful."

"You are," she said softly.

Their eyes met, and what he saw in the blue depths of hers put a lump into his throat. He was wrong. She was not beautiful, his Kathryn; she was exquisite. She was all he had ever wanted in a woman and never hoped to find, a rare combination of sweetness and spirit, innocence and sensuality.

Looking at her as she stood before him, with her dark hair a loose cloud about her face and shoulders, the rich curves of her body an almost painful contrast to the shy flush of color in her lovely face, he wished with all his heart that he could drop to his knees and offer her what men had offered the women they loved from the time the world had begun.

But he could not. He could offer her only that which was his to give, his adoration and his love for whatever little time they had together.

He took a step towards her and held out his hands.

"Kathryn," he whispered, "come to me."

His voice was soft and husky, so filled with tension that the simple words sent an arrow of heat racing from her breasts to her belly. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and his gaze followed the gesture with an almost palpable hunger.

"Please," he said. "Come to me, sweetheart."

She went to him slowly, the coolness of the marble against the soles of her feet a shocking contrast to the heat of his eyes on her flesh.

"Do you like the suit?" she whispered, when she reached him.

"Aye," he said. A muscle knotted in his cheek.

He undid the knot of the sarong. It slipped to the ground, puddling at her feet. He caught his breath as he looked at her, and then he slid his hands over her, slowly and gently, his fingers stroking and teasing.

She made a soft little sound in her throat and he smiled.

"My Kitten," he whispered. "Do you like that?"

"Yes. Oh yes. Oh..."

She rose on her toes and kissed him, her mouth open and soft against his, and then she kissed his throat. Her hands slid under his shirt and she heard the sharp hiss of his breath when she touched his hot skin.