Free One Reckless Night by Sara Craven Page B

stars burned on the tall candles lit round its edge. There was also an ice bucket, she realized, chilling champagne and two glasses.
      She said on a little gurgle of amusement mixed with an odd shyness, 'It looks like the setting for a Roman orgy.'
      'Fine.' He loosened the sash on his robe and dropped it casually to the floor before sliding hers from her shoulders. 'I'll be Antony if you'll be Cleopatra. Sorry there's no asses' milk, but they don't deliver at weekends.'
      It wasn't much of a joke, but she was grateful for it, their shared laughter easing the way for her into this new and unexpected level of intimacy.
      She lay back in the scented water, supported by the curve of his arm, and drank the wine he'd poured for her, feeling the bubbles tingle in her head, knowing that she must be dreaming-except that even in her wildest dreams she'd never devised anything like this.
      And when the glass was empty, and he took it from her hand, she leaned back against the padded headrest, her smile a frank invitation, and heard his breath catch, saw his eyes darken with purpose.
      And then...
      'No one's washed me since I was a baby,' she protested, half seriously, as he began very gently to massage soap into her skin.
      'Then you've missed out badly.' He applied a dab of lather to the tip of her nose, and, with more minute attention, to each nipple. Her body clenched deliciously at his touch, and his slow smile told her that he was totally aware of her reaction. She looked into his eyes and saw the dazzle of the candle-flame reflected there. She leaned forward and kissed his lips.
      His hands moved on her, caressing her softly, like the rippling of the water against her body, his touch expressing his delight and his growing need. A need that she shared.
      Their coming together was almost leisurely, a slow, lingering enfolding. Zanna felt almost weightless in his arms, her hair floating on the water like a mermaid's as she surrendered herself. And at first the pleasure was gentle too, like the advance and reluctant ebb of a midsummer tide. Until, suddenly, the seeking became urgent, the swift ferocity of desire carrying them away, overwhelming them so that they were drowning in each other, mouths frantic, arms and legs entwined as their todies strove for satiation.
      And then the final wave lifted them, engulfed them, and threw them, gasping and crying out, onto a shore where, dazed and shaken, they found a kind of peace waiting for them.
      She awoke slowly, and lay, momentarily disorientated, staring around her. Then sat up abruptly, in something close to panic, as she registered the unfamiliar room, the rumpled bed-and her own nakedness. And, most salient of all, the body of the man beside her, totally relaxed in deep, unmoving sleep.
      For a moment she was completely still herself, gazing down at him as the first shock waves began to resound through her mind. And as she began to remember in detail a wave of shamed, incredulous heat swept through her body.
      Was it possible that she-Zanna Westcott-had really allowed this to happen? That the cool shell she'd built around herself and believed to be impregnable had been so easily shattered-and by a stranger, at that. A man she'd only just met and certainly had no reason to trust. A village mechanic, for heaven's sake-a caretaker to whom she wouldn't have given a second thought in normal circumstances.
      Dear God, she thought, swallowing. I must have gone mad.
      But ever since she'd come to this place, she seemed to have lost touch with reality, she reminded herself, as if she'd been bewitched, held in the toils of some spell. Or was she simply making excuses for her own inexplicable, unforgivable loss of control?
      Whatever, she was awake now, and back in her right mind. And her overriding need was to get out of this bed, out of this house and safely away before he woke too.
      Slowly, and with immense care, she began to ease herself towards the