Beneath the Veil of Paradise

Millie stood taut and still, starting to get angry. She hated guys like this one: gorgeous, flirtatious, and utterly arrogant. Three strikes against him, as far as she was concerned.

His gaze finally travelled up to her face, and she was surprised and discomfited to see a flicker of what almost looked like sympathy there. ‘So really,’ he asked, dropping the flirt, ‘why haven’t you painted anything?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Obviously. But I’m curious. I’ve been watching you from the bar for nearly an hour. You spent a long time on the setup, but you’ve been staring into space for thirty minutes.’

‘What are you, some kind of stalker?’

‘Nope. Just bored out of my mind.’

She stared at him; tried to figure him out. She’d taken him for a cheap charmer but there was something strangely sincere about the way he spoke. Like he really was curious. And really bored.

Something in the way he waited with those dark eyes and that little half-smile made her answer reluctantly, ‘I just couldn’t do it.’

‘It’s been a while?’

‘Something like that.’ She reached over and started to pack up the paints. No point pretending anything was going to happen today. Or any day. Her painting days were long gone.

He picked up her easel and collapsed it in one neat movement before handing it back. ‘May I buy you a drink?’

She liked the ‘may’, but she still shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ She hadn’t had a drink alone with a man in two years. Hadn’t done anything in two years but breathe and work and try to survive. This guy wasn’t about to make her change her ways.

‘You sure?’

She turned to him and folded her arms as she surveyed him. He really was annoyingly attractive: warm brown eyes, short dark hair, a chiseled jaw and those nice abs. His board shorts rode low on his hips, and his legs were long and powerful. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘are you even asking? I’d bet a hundred bucks I’m not your usual type.’ Just like he wasn’t hers.

‘Typecast me already?’

‘Easily.’

His mouth quirked slightly. ‘Well, you’re right, you’re not my usual type. Way too tall and, you know—’ he gestured around her face, making Millie stiffen ‘—severe. What’s with the hair?’

‘The hair?’ Instinctively and shamefully she reached up to touch her bobbed hair. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s scary. Like, Morticia Addams scary.’

‘Morticia Addams? Of the Addams Family? She had long hair.’ She could not believe they were discussing her hair, and in relation to a television show.

‘Did she? Well, maybe I’m thinking of someone else. Somebody with hair like yours. Really sharp-cut.’ He made a chopping motion along his own jaw.

‘You’re being ridiculous. And offensive.’ Yet strangely she found herself smiling. She liked his honesty.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘So, dinner?’

‘I thought it was a drink.’

‘Based on the fact that you’re still talking to me, I upped the ante.’

She laughed, reluctant, rusty, yet still a laugh. This annoying, arrogant, attractive man amused her somehow. When was the last time she’d actually laughed, had felt like laughing? And she was on holiday—admittedly enforced, but she had a whole week to kill. Seven days was looking like a long time from here. Why not amuse herself? Why not prove she really was moving on, just like her boss Jack had urged her to do? She gave a little decisive nod. ‘OK, to the drink only.’

‘Are you haggling?’

Interest flared; deals she could do. ‘What’s your counter offer?’

He cocked his head, his gaze sweeping slowly over her once more. And she reacted to that gaze, a painful mix of attraction and alarm. Dread and desire. Hot and cold. A welter of emotions that penetrated her numbness, made her feel.

‘Drink, dinner, and a walk on the beach.’

Awareness pulsed with an electric jolt low in her belly. ‘You were supposed to offer something less, not more.’

His slow, wicked smile curled her toes—and other parts of her person, parts that hadn’t curled in a long time. ‘I know.’

She hesitated. She should back off, tell him to forget it, yet somehow now that felt like failure. She could handle him. She needed to be able to handle him.

‘Fine.’ She was agreeing because it was a challenge, not because she wanted to. She liked to set herself little challenges, tests of emotional and physical endurance: I can jog three miles in eighteen-and-a-half minutes and not even be out of breath. I can look at this photo album for half an hour and not cry.

Smiling, he reached for the canvas she clutched to her chest. ‘Let me carry that for you.’

‘Chivalrous of you, but there’s no need.’ She strode over to the rubbish bin on the edge of the beach and tossed the canvas straight in. The paints, easel and stool followed.

She didn’t look at him as she did it, but she felt herself flush. She was just being practical, but she could see how it might seem kind of … severe.

‘You are one scary lady.’

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised, everything prickling. ‘Are you still talking about my hair?’

‘The whole package. But don’t worry, I like it.’ He grinned and she glared.

‘I wasn’t worried.’

‘The thing I like about you,’ he said as he strolled towards the bar, ‘is you’re so easy to rile.’

Millie had no answer to that one. She was acting touchy, but she felt touchy. She didn’t do beaches, or bars, or dates. She didn’t relax. For the last two years she had done nothing but work, and sunbathing on the beach with a paperback and MP3 player was akin to having her fingernails pulled out one by one. At least that wouldn’t take a whole week.

The man—she realised she didn’t even know his name—had led her through the beach-side bar to an artful arrangement of tables right on the sand. Each one was shaded by its own umbrella, with comfortable, cushioned chairs and a perfect view of the sea.

The waiter snapped right to attention, so Millie guessed the man was known around here. Probably a big spender. Trust-fund baby or bond trader? Did it matter?

‘What’s your name?’ she asked as she sat across from him. He was gazing out at the sea with a strangely focused look. The orange streaks were like vivid ribbons across the sky. He snapped his attention back to her.

‘Chase.’

‘Chase.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Sounds appropriate.’

‘Actually, I don’t generally do much chasing.’ He gave her a slow, oh-so-sexy smile that had annoyance flaring through her even as her toes—and other parts—curled again.

‘Charming, Chase. Do you practise that in the mirror?’