A Marriage Fit for a Sinner

He smiled and relaxed in the chair. ‘I thought being primped and plucked to perfection was every woman’s wish?’

‘You thought wrong. I was happy with the way I looked before.’

That wasn’t exactly true. Although she’d loved her thick and wild hair, she had to admit it was much easier to tend now the wildness had been tamed a little. And she loved that she could brush the tresses without giving herself a headache. As for the luxurious body creams she’d been provided with, she marvelled at how soft and silky her skin felt now compared to before.

But she kept all of it to herself as he untied the knot in her sarong and let it fall away. ‘You were perfect before. You’re perfect now. And mine,’ he breathed.

Within seconds, Eva was naked and craving what only he could give her, her eventual screams as loud as the storm raging outside.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘COME ON, we’re taking the boat out today. As much as I’d like to keep you to myself, I think we need to see something of Rio before we leave tomorrow.’

Eva stopped tweaking the chorus of the melody she’d been composing and looked up as Zaccheo entered the living room.

The perverse hope that he would grow less breathtaking with each day was hopelessly thwarted. Dressed in khaki linen trousers and a tight white T-shirt with his hair loose around his shoulders, Zaccheo was so visually captivating, she felt the punch to her system each time she stared at him.

He noticed her staring and raised an eyebrow. Blushing, she averted her gaze to her tablet.

‘Where are we going?’ She tried for a light tone and breathed an inward sigh of relief when she succeeded.

‘To Ilha S?o Gabriel, three islands away. It’s a tourist hotspot, but there are some interesting sights to see there.’ He crouched before her, his gaze going to the tablet. Reaching out, he scrolled through her compositions, his eyes widening at the three dozen songs contained in the file.

‘You wrote all these?’ he asked.

She nodded, feeling self-conscious as he paused at a particularly soul-baring ballad about unrequited love and rejection. She’d written that one a week after Zaccheo had gone to prison. ‘I’ve been composing since I was sixteen.’

His eyes narrowed on her face. ‘You’ve had two million pounds in your bank account for over a year and a half, which I’m guessing is your shareholder dividend from your father’s deal on my building?’

Warily, she nodded.

‘That would’ve been more than enough money to pursue your music career without needing to work. So why didn’t you use it?’ he queried.

She tried to shrug the question away, but he caught her chin in his hand. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘I suspected deep down that the deal was tainted. I hated doubting my father’s integrity, but I could never bring myself to use the money. It didn’t feel right.’ Being proved right had brought nothing but hurt.

He watched her for a long time, a puzzled look on his face before he finally nodded. ‘How was your session with Ziggy Preston?’ he asked.

She saw nothing of the sour expression he’d sported that night in the club. ‘Surprisingly good, considering I’d thought he’d have me on the blacklist of every music producer after your behaviour.’

An arrogant smile stretched his lips. ‘They’d have had to answer to me had they chosen that unfortunate path. You’re seeing him again?’

She nodded. ‘When we get back.’

‘Bene.’ He rose and held out his hand.

She slipped her feet into one of the many stylish sandals now gracing her wardrobe and he led her outside to the jetty.

Climbing on board, he placed her in front of the wheel and stood behind her. She looked around, expecting Zaccheo’s right-hand man to be travelling with them. ‘Isn’t Romeo coming?’

‘He had business to take care of in Rio. He’ll meet us there.’

The trip took twenty-five minutes, and Eva understood why the Ilha S?o Gabriel was so popular when she saw it. The island held a mountain, on top of which a smaller version of the Cristo Redentor in Rio had been erected. Beneath the statue, bars, restaurants, parks and churches flowed right down to the edge of a mile-long beach.

Zaccheo directed her to motor past the busy beach and round the island to a quieter quay where they moored the boat. ‘We’re starting our tour up there.’ He pointed to a quaint little building set into the side of a hill about a quarter of a mile up a steep path.