Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(29)

Robert stood rooted to the spot, his mouth dry, breath quickening, as she tucked her fingers beneath the hem of her tiny sleeveless tunic, then dragged it up and over her head.

Heat seared him, racing through his veins and pooling in his groin.

Was that a bra? Those two tiny scraps of sleek black fabric that cupped her full breasts the way his hands itched to, barely covering the pale pink crests and held in place by the thin black straps whose purpose had eluded him earlier? More plump, pale flesh than he had anticipated rose above the edges, the shadowed valley between them drawing his hungry gaze.

Despite the fact that almost every inch of her skin was coated with dried blood, Robert found himself consumed with lust the likes of which he had not experienced in years.

“Mayhap I am not as honorable as you think I am,” he admitted hoarsely.

Unconcerned, she handed him the sleeveless tunic, then started unfastening the front of her breeches.

“Mayhap I only offered to wash your garments in hopes of distracting myself from”—his gaze returned to her breasts—“other things.”

Her eyes met his, then slid away. “Oh.” He thought her cheeks darkened a bit. “Well, just pretend we’re at the beach and this is a bathing suit,” she mumbled, tucking her thumbs in the waistband of her breeches.

“You make a habit of walking along the shore garbed so— By the saints!” he practically bellowed.



Bethany jumped. “What?” Eyes wide with alarm, she scanned their surroundings.

Try though he might, Robert could not look away. He knew he should, but he could not. Nor could he pick his jaw up from where it had landed on the ground. All he could do was stand and stare and go up in flames.

Bethany’s breeches now lay bunched around her ankles, leaving her long, slender legs and almost everything else bare. The only thing that shielded her… modesty… was a V-shaped piece of shiny black material that formed a triangle at the juncture of her thighs and narrowed to two thin strips that disappeared over her hips.

“Robert?”

For a moment, he thought he would not succeed in dragging his gaze away.

How those black scraps tempted him, beckoning him to abandon all honor and let his hands and mouth go exploring.

“Robert? You’re starting to make me a little nervous.”

He imagined so, slavering over her the way he was, like a wolf wishing to dine on a ewe.

“Not to mention self-conscious,” she added.



At last, he managed to close his mouth. Clearing his throat, he tried to remember what he had been saying. “You wander along the shores garbed so sparsely?”

She glanced down and stepped out of the breeches. “Actually, no. I sunburn too easily. But I’ve seen women at the beach who wore less.”

“Less than that?” he asked incredulously.

Her brow crinkled slightly. “Aye. Lots of times. Especially during spring break.”

He didn’t know what spring break was, but surely she jested.

“Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing him dubiously.

All right? Nay, he was not all right. He trembled with need. He was on fire. He was a breath away from losing both his control and his sanity. And she seemed completely oblivious to the effect her near nudity had on him.

Robert bent to scoop up her breeches and froze. “Your feet!”

“What about them?”

“Why did you not tell me they were injured?” Dropping the bundle of clothes he held, he knelt and reached for her left foot.

“They aren’t. What are you—?”

She rested one of her hands on his shoulder as he carefully placed her cool foot on his bent knee and stared at her toes in dismay. She had shown no sign of injury, no limp or other evidence, so he had not thought to ask.

Swearing silently, Robert berated himself for letting her walk from the campsite when he obviously should have carried her.

“Oh,” she said, understanding lightening her voice. “Robert, that’s not blood. That’s nail polish.”

Robert squinted down at the red that coated her toes and realized that it only covered the short, perfectly shaped nails at their tips. “Nail polish?”

“Yes. I don’t paint my fingernails very often. I have to keep them short because I spend so much time at the computer. And with all of the criminals and quote-unquote good ole boys I have to deal with, I’ve found that it’s best not to add too many feminine frills to my appearance. So I paint my toenails instead.”

This time Robert failed to decipher most of her words, apart from her admission that she painted her toenails. What a peculiar practice. He drew one finger across the nail of her big toe. Smooth, shiny, and oh-so-red. Peculiar indeed.

Yet he could not deny that it looked quite appealing next to her alabaster skin.

Again he frowned. That alabaster skin was as icy as the river water. Sliding his hand across the top of her foot and around her narrow ankle in an attempt to infuse some warmth into her, Robert made a second, even more astonishing discovery.

“Beth, you have no hair on your leg.”

“I know. I just shaved.”

“You shaved the hair off your leg? For what purpose?” Had she been ill? Was she recovering from some fever as well as the attack she had suffered?

“Legs plural. And I did it for the usual reasons.”