“Oh, for crying out loud,” I exclaimed, tossing my Kindle aside and getting up. Reading was a lost cause. I needed air.

Since I couldn’t get the image of Lucian out of my head, I would exorcise it by facing the scene of the crime; I would go swimming. Maybe a cool dunk in water would wash away my sin of voyeurism.

Deciding to ignore the bikinis I’d brought, I put on a conservative pale-blue retro one-piece that I could swim in without worrying about anything riding up or slipping. I was well aware of the hypocrisy of not wanting to flaunt my body to any potential observers when I was guilty of gawking the night before. But I wasn’t trying to get attention. I wanted to swim.

Sure you do, Em. Keep telling yourself that’s all you want.

I told my inner voice to shut the hell up and slipped a yellow sundress over my head. Slathered in sunscreen and floppy hat firmly in place, I grabbed my pool bag and headed out.

The grounds surrounding the main house were empty. In the distance, I heard the sound of a lawn mower or maybe hedge clippers, so there were people around somewhere. Sal had told me he planned to spend the day shopping for fabrics down in Santa Barbara. I had no idea what Amalie was up to, but I didn’t want to push myself on her. As for him, he said he was renovating the other guesthouses. I’d spied two of them tucked along the other side of the property, far more remote than mine. So maybe he was there.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for Lucian either. Even so, nerves jumped and punched around in my belly as I neared the pool. The heels of my slingback sandals clicked along the terra-cotta pavers. The pool lay still and deep blue in the sunshine. And though I was here to swim, I edged past it, as though Lucian might pop out of its depths and glare at me. Which was ridiculous, given that the water was crystal clear—without a hot man in sight.

At the far end of the pool was a pool house with italianate columns that held up a wisteria-covered terrace. The glass french doors to the pool house were open. I couldn’t help but peek in. The lovely living room was done up in French country style, with dusky-robin’s-egg-blue walls, sisal rugs, faded-yellow linen couches, and pretty alabaster lamps with blue shades dotted here and there.

A kitchenette was on one side, and behind a pair of open blue damask drapes, a white iron bed was tucked in the alcove on the other end. Several artworks were on the floor, propped up against the wall. A box filled with small vases and various decorative knickknacks sat beside them.

Someone was either still putting things up or taking them away. Then I noticed the pair of faded jeans lying in a lump by the end of the bed, well-worn work boots tossed next to them.

Blood rushed to my fingertips and then back to my cheeks. I knew those jeans.

It was his room. Shit, shit, shit.

Heart pounding, I spun around to make a run for it, and almost plowed into a wide chest. Double shit-sticks. Heat burned my cheeks as I grimaced, wishing myself away from this spot. But it was not to be.

The deep grumpy rumble of his voice cut through the thick silence. “Help you with something, Em?”

Swallowing down my dignity, I tilted my chin—because he was that damn tall—and faced him.

A shiver ran through me at the coldness in his pale-green eyes. He inspected me, as though he’d found a rat in his room.

I licked my dry lips and attempted to speak. The words escaped in a high crackling question. “No?”

Glacial eyes narrowed. “You don’t know? Is this something we need to discuss? Your propensity for responding to questions with an uncertain no?”

Ugh. This man was not going to turn me into a wimp. I lifted my chin, which unfortunately thrust my boobs out, not that he appeared to notice. “I was about to go for a swim.”

God, that sounded ridiculous.

His brow quirked, as though he agreed. “Pool’s back that way, Em.”

Em. I liked the way he said my name; so much feeling in one syllable. But not the smug humor in his eyes. “I am aware.”

“So what? You decided to snoop in here first?”

If I wasn’t the color of a tomato by now, it was a close thing. No matter. Act it out. “No, I didn’t decide to snoop. I wandered around the pool, saw the open door and—”

“Snooped.”

I growled. At least, it sounded like a little growl. Lucian did a double take, but his passive, unimpressed expression remained.

“Snooping implies I was going through your things. A quick glance inside a room is more of a . . .” My voice trailed off as I struggled for the right word.