HE WAS sitting alone at one of the waterside tables,
looking out over the rustic platform that jutted out from
the rocks. A man who had produced a ripple of excitement
among the female bathers and had had pulses fluttering
like the white fringes of the blue sun umbrellas he was
now studying with such careless arrogance even before he
had stepped out of his dinghy and come ashore.
Now, under the raffia canopy of the beach restaurant, with
her sunglasses shielding her eyes from the bright Italian
sun, Mel Sheraton's interest was unwillingly drawn to him.
Probably in his mid-thirties, olive-skinned. His strong
black hair, combed straight back from a high forehead,
reached almost to his shoulders, marking him at once as a
man who flouted convention. She couldn't see his eyes
because he too was wearing shades, but instinctively she
knew that they would miss nothing, that behind them lurked
a brain that was hard and shrewd. But it was that profile!
Those well-defined cheekbones and that grim mouth and jaw,
carved as the rocks to which the white Moorish houses of
Positano — partially obscured by the jutting headland —
clung dramatically, that filled her with a sudden,
disquieting unease.
"OK. He's a dish all right, but you don't have to eat him
all at once." Karen Kingsley's words cut through Mel's
absorption, bringing her attention back to the dark-haired
young woman sitting opposite her.
"Who?" she parried, with a prudent sideways glance down
across the umbrellas to the three young people who were
splashing about in the sparkling blue water. Checking, as
she had been doing ever since they had finished lunch.
"Oh, come on, Mel. If you hadn't noticed before, he's been
looking at you ever since he arrived."
When, Mel thought tensely, she had done her level best to
ignore him. Even so, she had been aware of the power of
his presence when, after securing his boat beside the
little wooden jetty, he strode across the planking and
mounted the steps to a table just metres from their own.
"Don't be silly," Mel responded, lifting her glass to take
a long draught of her mineral water. "If anyone, he's been
looking at you, not me."
Karen had worked as a model until leaving England two
years ago when, newly married, she had emigrated with her
artist husband and was now devoting all her time and
energy to his small and modern gallery in Rome. But Karen
was outstandingly beautiful with her fine, patrician
features and expensively bobbed hair, and her shorts and
sun top emphasising her long, willowy limbs. Quite a
contrast to what Mel considered were her own average
features, a body that was unimpressively petite and
mutinous auburn hair that went its own way even after the
most expert attention.
"You know that's not true. And even if he had been
remotely interested — which he isn't — he'd already have
noticed the wedding ring and discarded me as unnecessary
hassle," Karen assured her. "Don't tell me you're immune,
not to someone like him, because I shan't believe it, not
least because of the way you've made a point of
deliberately avoiding looking at him all the time he's
been sitting there."
"Good grief!" Bright tendrils that refused to be
constrained in their twisted topknot stirred faintly
against Mel's startled face. Was it that obvious?
"Yes," Karen emphasised in response to her friend's un-
spoken query, and they both burst out laughing.
Karen was a good friend, Mel thought. They had met when
the model had been promoting the newest sports saloon to
come out of Germany in an advertising campaign undertaken
by Jonathan Harvey Associates, of which Mel was Sales and
Marketing Director. Karen had driven all the way down from
Rome to join her here in Positano two days ago. Tomorrow,
before the rest of the team arrived, she would be driving
back and taking Zoë with her, leaving Mel free to devote
her time and effort to the week's conference that she and
Jonathan were hosting on the firm's behalf, and Mel
couldn't help but feel enormous gratitude to her friend.
Out of the corner of her eye, however, she was aware that
the little bubble of merriment just now had produced a
subtle glance from behind those dark lenses, even though
the man was still engaged in conversation with the waiter.
"I'm not immune," she stressed more seriously, careful not
to look his way. "But I do have Zoë to think about." Which
was why she had insisted on having a couple of days here
alone with the child, ahead of schedule. She didn't even
feel guilty any more about putting Jonathan off when he
had suggested flying out earlier, joining them today. Just
self-contained, she thought resolutely, hardening herself
to the caress of the sun on her neck and bare arms, the
scent of suntan lotion, sweet herbs and the delicious
aroma of barbecued fish. All of them were combining to try
and make her drop her guard, forget the lesson she had
learnt a long time ago, of how devastating the power of
sexual attraction could be. It had cost her everything.
Almost.
Instinctively, her eyes returning to the swimmers, Mel saw
the twelve-year-old striking out, away from the others.
Any further and she would have to consider calling her
back, she decided with an anxiety she knew wasn't entirely
justified. After all, Zoë"s two teenage companions, who
were staying in the hotel, had promised to look after her.
Besides, she wasn't that far from the shore, Mel assured
herself in an attempt to dispel her unnecessary worries.
And Zoë was a brilliant swimmer. As Mel's sister Kelly had
been...
A blade of something, long-buried and acute, sliced
unexpectedly through Mel and, for a few moments, from the
familiar shape of the girl's head and the trick of light
and water that made the dark chestnut hair gleam almost
black, Mel had a job convincing herself it was Zoë
swimming out there and not Kelly.
The warm breeze passing through her white beach tunic
nevertheless made her shiver, and mentally she shook the
disturbing images away.
Momentarily off guard, her glance strayed to a pair of
broad shoulders beneath the stretch fabric of a white T-
shirt, down over bronzed, bare forearms to a fit, lean
torso. From where she was sitting she was able to assess
that his legs, exposed by dark shorts, were hair-roughened
and strong, that his feet were lean and as bronzed as the
rest of him in their very masculine flip-flops and without
warning an un-bidden excitement uncoiled in her stomach.
Then she glanced up, realised with shaming self-
consciousness that the waiter had gone and that she was
looking straight into those hidden, yet all-seeing, eyes,
and for several eternal seconds she couldn't look away.
Caught in the snare of his regard, she felt the pull of a
sexual magnetism so great that the animated conversations
around her, the chink of glass, the ring of cutlery,
seemed not to be part of her world. All that existed was
the racing of her blood and that burning gaze she could
feel as tangibly as the dappled sunlight through the
raffia canopy as it moved over the soft curve of her
forehead with its fine dark brows, over her small straight
nose and full, slightly parted lips to the long line of
her throat, emphasised by the wide slash neckline of her
tunic. Down and down his eyes slid, making her startlingly
conscious that she wasn't wearing a bikini top. After her
swim in the hotel pool before lunch, she had popped up to
the room she shared with Zoë and simply substituted briefs
and the tunic for her wet swim-wear. And now, because of
that shiver — at least she tried convincing herself it was
because of the shiver — she felt the betraying tingle of
her breasts and realised that their hardened peaks were
straining against the soft cotton. Though she couldn't see
his eyes, she could feel them playing on her breasts, and
suddenly his mouth quirked as though he thought himself
solely responsible for their shocking betrayal.
Mortified, she turned sharply away, her heart hammering.
She was being silly, she thought, shaken. It couldn't
be...!
Hardly daring to think, turning her attention seawards in
involuntary escape, she froze, colour draining from her
flushed face.
"Oh my God!" she whispered, springing to her feet. "Oh my
God!"
"What is it?" Karen asked, but the query was lost beneath
the scrape of Mel's chair on the stony surface and the
clunk of her tumbler hitting the vinyl tabletop, spilling
a pool of melting ice across it as Mel's knee struck one
of the legs.
She wasn't even aware of it in her desperate bid for the
terrace. Zoë was in trouble, she realised, sick with fear.
The two teenagers who had sworn to keep an eye on her
weren't even conscious of what was happening. The girl
hadn't left the comparative shallows of the rocks and the
boy was too preoccupied with his snorkelling to notice
anything. But Zoë was trying to swim and, from the frantic
splashing of her flailing limbs, was finding it almost
impossible even to stay afloat. Mel heard her scream then,
the sound ringing ominously across the bay.
"Zoë!" Mel shrieked, heading for the steps to the sun-
deck, but, quick to assess the situation, the man had
reached them first.
He must have leapt to his feet an instant after she had,
Mel realised distractedly, and now he was clearing the
wooden steps two at a time.
Fear tearing at her chest, Mel tried to keep up, failing
miserably to match his speed as he raced across the
platform and on to the jetty. She wasn't even aware of
people stirring beneath the umbrellas, or that some of the
bathers were already on their feet. Her attention was
solely with the man who, poised for a fragmented second,
was suddenly plunging into the sea, his body like a dark
arrow, before he surfaced, tossing water out of his eyes,
arms slicing through the water in a powerful front crawl.
With a mixture of horror and fascination, Mel watched the
gap closing between the man and the child, blind and deaf
to the onlookers behind her. The teenage boy, suddenly
wise to Zoë"s screams, had already started to swim out to
her. But the man had reached her first and, with a sigh of
weakening relief, Mel saw him catch the frightened girl in
his capable arms and turn effortlessly with her back
towards the shore.
"It's all right. She's all right." Mel felt a gentle arm
go around her shoulders. Karen's, she realised, only
conscious then of the sounds of expressed relief coming
from behind her on the terrace, of people drifting back to
their loungers.
"I shouldn't have let her swim out there on her own. I
shouldn't have let her," Mel repeated, bitterly
reproaching herself. "I should have said "no" and not let
her persuade me, not given in."
"You can't wrap her up in cotton wool," Karen stated
philosophically. "Of course you should have. She's a
stronger swimmer than you are, and besides, she wasn't
alone."
"Wasn't supposed to be," Mel grimaced, angry. She
shouldn't have been stupid enough to trust anyone that
young to look after Zoë, she thought, still blaming
herself, rushing forward the instant the man lifted the
coughing, limping child on to the jetty.
"Zoë." Her arms going gratefully around the slim, sodden
girl, she was oblivious to the man who was now hauling
himself on to dry land. Water seeped through her thin
tunic and, where the garment had slipped off one shoulder,
ran coldly from Zoë"s long dripping hair on to Mel's
heated skin.
"It's all right. I'm all right," was the coughed, almost
impatient, response from the twelve-year-old. Zoë hated
fuss, and Mel knew she wouldn't allow herself to be
discouraged for long. "I just got cramp..." But, as the
girl tried to walk, her face twisted in anguish and
quickly Mel urged her down on to the decking where,
kneeling, she straightened the young limb and gently drew
Zoë"s left foot upwards towards her shin.
"There's no harm done." The deep voice drifted down to Mel
as she massaged the tightly bunched muscles in the girl's
calf. A voice that, despite those Latin looks, uttered
only perfect, unaccented English. A voice she would never
have forgotten in a million lifetimes. For a few brief
moments though, she hadn't realised he was there.
Now she became aware of the long, powerful legs planted
firmly beside her, of the water running from him, around
his tanned bare feet. He must have kicked off his shoes
prior to taking that dive, Mel's brain registered, as it
started to get back into gear. "The leg will probably be
sore for a day or two, but your sister's a plucky little
lady. It might not be a bad idea to keep a close eye on
her over the next few days. These cramps have a habit of
recurring."
Zoë, clearly beginning to feel more comfortable, was
grinning at the man's obvious mistake, but right then Mel
couldn't share the child's amusement.
Still struggling with self-recrimination, gratitude and
now a deepening dread, Mel placed the young foot gently
down on the decking and rose swiftly to her feet.
"Thank you..." She couldn't go on, rendered speechless as
she tilted her head to meet harshly sculptured features.
"Vann. Vann Capella," he offered, obviously imagining that
she was waiting for him to introduce himself. Not for one
moment that she was stunned into silence by this
unbelievable trick fate seemed to be playing on her.