The Tycoon's Mistress. Sara Craven

the music, only faint, but unmistakably Greek, with its strong underlying rhythm. Cressy paused, breathless from her continued climb, and listened, her brows drawing together.

      She swore softly under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve come all this way in this heat, only to find someone else’s beach party.’

      She was going to walk on, but then sudden curiosity got the better of her, and, letting the music guide her, she moved quietly through the scrub and stones to the edge of the cliff. There was a track of sorts leading down to the pale crescent of sand below, but Cressy ignored that, moving to slightly higher ground where she could get an overall view of the beach.

      The first thing she saw was a small caique, with faded blue paint and its sails furled, moored just offshore. But that appeared to be deserted.

      Then she looked down, and the breath caught in her throat.

      Below her, alone on the sand, a man was dancing.

      Arms flung wide, head back, his face lifted to the sun, he swayed, and dipped to the ground, and leapt, his entire body given over to the sheer joy of living—and the raw power of the music.

      And totally absorbed in his response to it, thought Cressy. Clearly nothing else existed for him at this moment.

      She dropped to her knees in the shelter of a dried and spindly shrub and watched, amused at first, but gradually becoming more entranced.

      She’d seen demonstrations of syrtaki at the hotel, of course, but never performed with this wild, elemental force.

      This man seemed completely at home in his solitary environment, Cressy told herself in bewilderment, as if he was somehow part of the sea, and the rocks, and the harsh brilliant sunlight, and shared their common spirit. Or the reincarnation of some pagan god…

      She halted right there.

      Now she was just being fanciful, she thought with self-derision.

      He might be a wonderful dancer, but what she was actually seeing was a waiter from one of the hotels on the other island, practising his after-dinner routine for the tourists.

      But not from my hotel, she thought. Or I’d have remembered…

      Because he wasn’t just a beautiful dancer. He was beautiful in other ways, too.

      He was taller than average, and magnificently built, with broad, muscular shoulders, narrow hips and endless legs, his only covering a pair of ragged denim shorts which left little to the imagination.

      The thick, dark hair, curling down on to the nape of his neck, gleamed like silk in the sunshine, and his skin was like burnished bronze.

      To her shock, Cressy found her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulses drumming in unaccustomed and unwelcome excitement. She realised, too, there was an odd, trembling ache deep within her.

      What the hell am I doing? she asked frantically, as she lifted herself cautiously to her feet and backed away. I’m an intelligent woman. I go for brains, not brawn. Or I would if I was interested in any kind of involvement, she reminded herself hastily.

      Besides, this brand of obvious physicality leaves me cold. I’m not in the market for—holiday bait.

      She was being unfair, and she knew it as she walked on, her pace quickening perceptibly.

      After all, the lone dancer could have no idea he had an audience. He’d created his own private world of passion and movement, and if its intrinsic sensuality had sent her into meltdown then that was her problem, not his.

      All the same, she was glad when the music faded from earshot. Although the image in her mind might not be so easy to dismiss, she realised ruefully.

      ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t like it,’ she said under her breath, lengthening her stride.

      A further five minutes’ walk brought her to another cove, and this one was deserted, she noted as she scrambled thankfully down to the sand.

      She stood for a moment, listening to the silence, then spread her towel in the shade of a rock, kicked off her canvas shoes, and slipped out of her navy cotton trousers and shirt to reveal the simple matching bikini beneath.

      The sea was like cooling balm against her overheated skin. She waded out until the water was waist-high, then slid gently forward into its embrace, breaking into her strong, easy crawl.

      When she eventually got tired, she turned on her back and floated, her eyes closed against the dazzle of the sun.

      She felt completely at peace. London, the office and its problems seemed a lifetime away. Even the rift with her father no longer seemed quite so hurtful—or so insoluble. Eloise had driven a wedge between them, but—with care—wedges could be removed. Maybe she’d needed to distance herself in order to see that.

      Back under her rock, she towelled herself down, applied sun cream with a lavish hand, drank some more water, then lay down on her front. She reached behind her and undid the clip of her bikini top. A suntan might not be fashionable, but it was inevitable that she would gain a little colour in this heat, and she didn’t want any unsightly marks to spoil the effect in the low-backed dresses she’d brought.

      She felt bonelessly relaxed, even a little drowsy, as she pillowed her cheek on her folded arms.

      There’s nothing I can’t handle, she told herself with satisfaction as she drifted off to sleep.

      She would never be certain what woke her. There was just an odd feeling of disquiet—a sudden chill, as if a cloud had covered the sun—that permeated her pleasant dream and broke its spell.

      Cressy forced open her unwilling eyelids. For a moment she could see nothing, because the dazzle of the sun was too strong.

      Then, slowly, she realised that she was no longer alone.

      That there was someone lying on the sand beside her, only a few feet away. Someone tall and bronzed in denim shorts, who was—dear God—smiling at her.

      She wanted to scream, but her throat muscles seemed suddenly paralysed. And she couldn’t move either because she’d undone her top.

      When she found her voice, it sounded small and husky. ‘What do you want?’

      His smile widened. His mouth, she saw, was firm, although his lower lip had a betrayingly sensuous curve, and his teeth were very white. For the rest of him, he had a straight nose, just fractionally too long for classical beauty, strongly accented cheekbones, and deepset eyes the colour of agate flecked with gold.

      He also needed a shave.

      He said, ‘Why did you not come down and dance with me?’ His voice was deep, with a distinct undercurrent of amusement, and he spoke in English.

      It was the last thing she’d expected him to say, and for a moment she was stunned. Then she rallied.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘Ah, no.’ He shook his head reprovingly. ‘You should not tell lies—especially when you are so bad at it. Your eyes will always give you away.’

      ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Cressy said with hostility. ‘And also impertinent. You know nothing about me.’

      ‘I know that you were watching me from the cliff, and then you ran away.’ The return was imperturbable.

      ‘I didn’t run,’ Cressy said with as much dignity as she could evoke when she was lying, prone, wearing only the bottom half of a bikini. ‘I just wanted to find some peace and quiet. And I didn’t mean to disturb you. Please go back to your—rehearsal.’

      ‘That is finished for the day. Now it is time to eat.’ He reached behind him and produced a small rucksack.

      Cressy groaned inwardly. How on earth was she going to get rid of him, she wondered wildly, without insulting his Greek machismo? She was uneasily aware of how isolated this little beach