Her Hottest Summer Yet. Ally Blake

him all slippery and salty. Because after a few long moments it was just about all he could think about. Especially when with another grimace she hooked an arm over his shoulder, the other cradling the back of his head, and stretched her leg sideways, flexing her foot, easing out the cramp, her eyes fluttering closed as her expression eased into bliss.

      He ought to have cleared his throat, or shifted her into a less compromising position, but with those odd eyes closed to him he got a proper look. Neat nose, long curling lashes stuck together with sea water, mouth like a kiss waiting to happen. If he had to have his paddle disturbed, might as well be by a nice-looking woman...

      Tourist, he reminded himself.

      And as much as the tourist dollar was his life’s blood, and that of the entire cove, he knew that with all the Hawaiian shirts and Havana shorts they packed, it didn’t leave much room for common sense.

      And those were just the uncomplicated ones. The ones who were happy to come, and happy to go home. Lanky Yankee here—a city girl with clear dibs on herself—had complication written all over.

      “You all right?” Jonah asked.

      She nodded. Her eyes flicked open, and switched between his and finally she realised she was curled around him like seaweed.

      Light sparked in the green depths, the brown splodge strangely unmoved. Then, with a quick swallow, she slid her gaze down his bare chest to where they were joined at the hip. Lower. She breathed in quick, rolling as if to separate only to send a shard of heat right through him as she hit a sweet spot with impressive precision.

      “May I—?” she asked, rolling again as if to disentangle.

      Gritting his teeth, Jonah grunted in response. Having a woman be seaweed on him wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But out here? With a tourist on the verge of cramp? Besides which she was a bossy little thing. Skin and bone. Burn to a crisp if he didn’t get her indoors. Not his type at all.

      “This is nice and all,” he said, boredom lacing his voice, “but any chance we could get a move on?”

      “Nice? You clearly need to get out more.”

      She had him there.

      With that she got to it, lifting a leg, the edge of a foot scraping a line across his bare belly, hooking a hair or two on the way, before her toes hit the board, mere millimetres from doing him serious damage. He shifted an inch into safe territory and breathed out. And finally they were both facing front.

      Not better, he realised as The Tourist leant forward to grip the edges of his surfboard, leaving nowhere for him to put his hands without fear of getting slapped.

      Especially when, in place of swimmers, the woman was bound in something that looked like a big-girl version of those lacy things his Gran used to insist on placing on every table top—all pale string, and cut-out holes, the stuff lifted and separated every time she moved, every time she breathed.

      “Did you lose part of your swimmers?”

      With a start she looked down, only to breathe out in relief. “No. I’m decent.”

      “You sure about that?”

      The look she shot him over her shoulder was forbearing, the storm swirling in her odd eyes making itself felt south of the border.

      “Then I suggest we get moving.”

      With one last pitying stare that told him she had decided he was about as high on the evolutionary scale as, say, kelp, she turned front.

      Jonah gave himself a moment to breathe. He’d been on the receiving end of that look before. Funny that the original looker had been an urbanite too, though not from so far away as this piece of work, making him wonder if it was a class they gave at Posh Girls’ Schools—How to Make a Man Feel Lower Than Dirt.

      Only it hadn’t worked on him then, and didn’t now. They bred them too tough out here. Just made him want to get this over with as soon as humanly possible.

      “Lie down,” he growled, then settled himself alongside her.

      “No way!” she said, wriggling as he trapped her beneath his weight. The woman might look like skin and bone but under him she felt plenty female. She also had a mean right elbow.

      “Settle,” Jonah demanded. “Or we’ll both go under. And this time you can look after your own damn self.”

      She flicked him a glance, those eyes thunderous, those lips pursed like a promise. A promise he had no intention of honouring.

      “Now,” he drawled, “are you going to be a good girl and let me get you safe back to shore, or are you determined to become a statistic?”

      After a moment, her accented voice came to him as a hum he felt right through his chest. “Humility or death?”

      He felt the smile yank at the corner of his mouth a second too late to stop it. Hers flashed unexpected, like sunshine on a cloudy day.

      “Honey,” he drawled, “you’re not in Kansas any more.”

      One eyebrow lifted, and her eyes went to his mouth and stayed a beat before they once again looked him in the eye. “New York, actually. I’m from New York. Where there are simply not enough men with your effortless charm.”

      Sass. Bedraggled and pale and now shaking a little from shock and she was sassing him. Couldn’t help but respect her for that. Which was why the time had come to offload her for good.

      Jonah held on tight and kicked, making a beeline for the beach.

      He did his best to ignore the warmth of the woman beneath him, her creamy back with its crazy mass of string masquerading as a swimsuit.

      As soon as they were near enough, he let his feet drop to the sand and pushed the board into the shallows.

      She slid off in a gaggle of limbs. He made to help, but she pulled her arm away. Didn’t like help this one. Not his at any rate.

      Hull stood at their approach, shook the sand from his speckled fur, then sat. Not too close. He was as wary of strangers as Jonah was. Smart animal.

      Jonah took note and moved his hand away. “Stick to the resort pool, next time. Full-time lifeguards. Do you need me to walk you back to the Tropicana?” Probably best to check in with Claudia, make sure she knew she had a knucklehead staying at her resort.

      “How on earth do you know where I’m staying?” asked said knucklehead.

      He flicked a dark glance at the Tropicana Nights logo on the towel she’d wrapped tight about her.

      “Right,” she said, her cheeks pinkening. “Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

      “Yeah, you did.”

      A deep breath lifted her chest and her odd eyes with it so that she looked up at him from beneath long lashes clumped together like stars. “You’re right, I did.” A shrug, unexpectedly self-deprecating. Then, “But I can walk myself. Thanks, though, for the other. I really am a good swimmer, but I... Thanks. I guess.”

      “You’re welcome.” Then, “I guess.”

      That smile flickered for a moment, the one that made the woman’s face look all warm and welcoming and new. Then all of a sudden she came over green, her wicked gaze became deeply tangled in his, she said, “Luke?” and passed out.

      Jonah caught her: bunched towel, gangly limbs, and all.

      He lowered himself—and her with him—to the sand, and felt for a pulse at her neck to find it strong and even. She’d be fine. A mix of heatstroke and too much ocean swallowed. No matter what she said about how good a swimmer she was, she was clearly no gym junkie. Even as dead weight she was light as a feather in his arms. All soft, warm skin too. And that mouth, parted, breathing gently. Beckoning.

      He slapped her. On the cheek. Lightly.

      Then not so lightly.