The Snow Gypsy(31)

“I suppose we could dance first, though, couldn’t we?” He tossed a bone through the air. It landed with a small splash in the waves. “Do you like dancing?”

Rose nodded. “I have to warn you—I’m not very graceful. I hate to think what Lola would say if she saw me.”

“Well, she won’t, because she’s safely tucked up in bed.” He slid across the space between them, slipping his arm around her waist. “I’m glad you’re not skinny, like her,” he said. “I love this.” He ran his fingers along the curve of her hips. “And this.” His hand found the bare flesh in the small of her back where her blouse had come untucked from her skirt. She felt his fingers slip beneath her waistband, setting off a throbbing pulse of lust. When he bent his head to kiss her there, she could smell the sharp citrus fragrance of the oil in his hair. They rolled over onto the sand in a steamy embrace, pulling at each other’s clothes.

But there were people everywhere. Rose tried to sit up, struggling to quench the blaze in her belly. “Cristóbal . . . I . . .”

“I know.” He placed a finger on her lips. “Not here.” He jumped to his feet and helped her up. “There’s a place farther along the beach,” he said. “No one will see us there.”

“But I . . .” She faltered, afraid of what her body was begging her to do.

“Ah! You want to dance first?” His face split into a grin. “That’s okay. We can do that.”

Hand in hand, they stumbled over the sand to the bonfire, where couples were circling the flames in a wild, galloping waltz. Cristóbal took her by the waist and pulled her close. She could feel the hardness of his body as he pressed against her. There were violins playing, the notes pouring out in a delirious shower of sound. As the music soared he lifted her up, tossing her into the air as if she were no heavier than a piece of driftwood, then catching her under the arms and spinning her around until her legs flew out behind her.

“Enough?” He chuckled as she caught her breath.

“I’m very hot.” She fanned herself with her hand. “Shall we go for that swim?”

As they made their way through the tamarisk trees and over the sand dunes, she wondered what on earth she was doing. It had been a long time since she had given herself to a man. The last person she had made love with had been a British fighter pilot called Jim Russell. She hadn’t been in love with him. She had liked him, admired him. But there hadn’t been the primal passion she felt for Cristóbal. She had gone to bed with Jim because he was convinced he was going to die. And he had been right. Three weeks after their first night together, he had been shot down over the English Channel.

That had been more than two years ago. It had left her numb, as if that part of her had gone into hibernation. The shutting down of the physical side of her nature had been compounded by the failing health of her mother. But Cristóbal had suddenly reawakened what had been slumbering inside her. Was it right to let herself go? To surrender her body to someone she was unlikely to see again after tomorrow?

A bird flew overhead, letting out a long, poignant cry. She glanced upward at a sky studded with stars. Was it the romance of it—this Gypsy fiesta with its crazy, exuberant atmosphere, taking place amid the untamed beauty of the Camargue? Was that what was making her throw caution to the wind? Looking at the stars—at the vastness of the universe—made her own actions seem utterly insignificant. Did it really matter what she did tonight?

She could hear the waves gently lapping the sand. Cristóbal was already pulling his shirt over his head. She could see the taut outline of his chest.

“Come on—it’s not cold!” He stepped out of his trousers, turning toward the sea as he kicked them onto the sand.

Rose unbuttoned her blouse, throwing it on top of his clothes. Then she wriggled out of her skirt and her underwear, almost tripping in her haste to run after him. The shock as she plunged into the water took her breath away. Her teeth began to rattle, but he pulled her to him, stilling them with the warmth of his lips and tongue. She felt as if she were floating out of time, to a place where nobody but she and he existed.

Locked together, they moved from the sea to the sand. She felt its coarseness against the wet skin of her thighs as their bodies writhed, snakelike, at the water’s edge. His mouth was on her neck, traveling down to her breasts. He circled her belly button, licking away the droplets of salt water. She moaned as he edged lower. Then, in a sudden, deft movement, he was on top of her. Inside her. As she climaxed, it flashed across her mind that she might get pregnant. For a fleeting moment she allowed herself to imagine the child they might have—a little girl like Nieve, with Gypsy curls and laughing eyes.

A wave washed over them as he rolled off her. The spray stung her eyes, bringing her sharply back to reality. Broken shells scraped her elbows as she pulled herself up. What was she thinking of? To get pregnant by a man she’d only just met—a man she was unlikely to see again after tomorrow—was a stupid idea. It was one thing to fantasize about having a child without the ties of marriage, but to bring up a baby on her own . . . that would be a monumental struggle, wouldn’t it?

But Lola did it.

The thought flashed through her mind as she pulled on her clothes, swiftly followed by the realization that whatever the rights and wrongs, it was too late now.