While I stared at him, he stared at the water, as though it might give him an answer. To what, I had no idea, but a trickle of concern crept along my back. Because he seemed lost. I could be entirely wrong about that, but it was part of my craft to study body language. His was fairly screaming defeat.

Standing a bit straighter, I wondered if I should call out to him. But what to say? I hadn’t a clue. I should leave him to his privacy. I was about to do just that.

Then he moved.

All thought flew from my mind when he pulled the shirt from over his head, revealing the elegant sweep of his back, the hard-packed muscles rippling under smooth skin. Arms, chiseled like a god’s, reached down and . . .

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” I murmured fervently.

He pushed his jeans off and bared an ass that was, frankly, spectacular. Those tight globes flexed as he kicked the jeans away with one long leg.

Turn away. Get out of here.

I shouldn’t look. I coveted my privacy, and I was blatantly watching Lucian strip naked. He deserved his privacy too. But I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t move. He was . . . glorious. My fingers gripped the railing, holding on tight.

The light of the pool gave his skin an unworldly greenish cast. He rolled his shoulders . . . unf . . . and then dove in. The water rippled outward in his wake. I actually shivered with lust as I tracked him along the bottom of the pool, a pale arrow of flesh darting through the turquoise glow.

Silently, he surfaced on the far side of the pool, then neatly turned to do laps. Perfect form. Long strong arms. Clean, steady strokes.

Édith Piaf kept singing as Lucian set a steady but brutal pace. He went at it lap after lap. I grew fairly dizzy with rude thoughts about his stamina. The night was cool, but my flesh was hot. God, that water looked so good. I could practically feel it running over my fevered skin.

My heart thudded against my ribs in time to the beat of his arms slicing through the water with a chuff, chuff, chuff. I didn’t blink. I fooled myself into thinking I had to keep watching over him. Make sure he was okay.

The thinnest of excuses. But there was something about the way he attacked the water, the way his body moved, that could not be ignored.

“Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” began to play when he finally stopped, resting his arms at the closer end of the pool. He floated there, for a few seconds, catching his breath maybe. Water dripped from his hair into his face.

I should go. I need to go.

In a moment.

Music swelled over the night, proud, hopeful, bittersweet.

I felt it all around me. All around him. And, in that moment, I ached for Lucian. I didn’t know why he hurt, or what drove him. But I wanted to put my arms around those broad shoulders and hold on.

Then he planted his big hands on the side of the pool and, with an effortless push, thrust himself up and out of the water.

“Sweet mercy . . .” My knees went weak, and I gripped the rail to keep from falling over. Oh, Édith, I don’t regret anything either.

His body was a Bernini sculpture come to life—Triton looking down on mere mortals. Water sluiced over rippling planes of muscles, trickled down dips and cut grooves, heading straight toward . . .

His dick. Even from far away, it was impressive. Long and thick with a wide head and plump balls. My lips parted, heat flushing my cheeks, and my nipples tightened.

Lucian ran his hands through his dripping hair, pushing the shining dark mass back from his clean, strong face. Not pretty or model handsome. He was too blunt for that, all hard lines and aggression. But beautiful just the same.

And bleak. My happy bits cooled off. His expression was utterly bleak. Cold as ice. I could wax poetic about his looks all night, but it wouldn’t change the fact that this man was ultimately a stranger. One who was remote and closed off as a frozen wall. I grew up with men who wore that expression. I’d run from those men. And today, he’d all but run from me. I needed to remember that and keep my distance.

Slowly, I backed away. Down below, Lucian moved around, whether to gather his clothes or swim again, I didn’t know. I didn’t look. I shouldn’t have looked to begin with, shouldn’t have let myself get caught up in the fantasy of him.

CHAPTER SIX

Emma

My little house had a kitchen, but I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever need to use it. I woke from a surprisingly restful sleep, given that it was haunted by images of a certain naked man swimming endless laps, to find the sun shining and my spirits high. When someone knocked on the door, I wrapped myself up in a robe and answered to find Sal carrying a big wicker picnic basket.