“I’ve never been a terribly good sailor myself, but I like to watch. When I was young, my father had a sailboat. I was forever tangling up the lines or getting bashed by the boom. Eventually he got tired of it and bought a power-boat. I had a shot at waterskiing.”

“Did you have better luck?” he asked.

“Some.” She turned again and searched for the sexless skier. As she did, he or she took an impressive spill. Laughing, Eve leaned back on her heels. “That was about as good as I got, too.”

“So you prefer to swim.”

“I prefer to have control. That’s why I took up karate. I like making my own moves rather than being at the mercy of the wind or a towline or whatever.”

“Not at the mercy of the wind,” Alexander corrected. “You work with or outwit the wind.”

“Maybe you do.”

“I could teach you.”

Surprised—no, stunned—she looked up at him. It had been said casually, but she’d never known him to do anything casually. She could imagine herself sailing with him, the sun, the wind, his body gleaming in the shimmering light. She could imagine it too well. “Thank you, but my father already judged me hopeless.”

“You were a child.” The breeze ruffled her hair against his arm. “You’re not a child now.”

“No.” Unnerved and feeling foolish because of it, she looked out the window again. “But I doubt either of us will have much time for sailing lessons while I’m here. Work starts tomorrow.”

“And today?”

Her heart was pounding in her throat. It was ridiculous. She wasn’t subject to flights of fancy and wide swings of emotion. Meet it head-on, Eve advised herself. Meet it head-on and push it aside. She turned again and looked at him. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t—” When he reached down to brush the hair from her cheek, the words simply slid away.

“I think you do.”

“No.” She managed to find the strength to shake her head. “That’s impossible.”

“So I’ve told myself.” His fingers tightened on her hair. His eyes weren’t so secretive now. In them she saw need, and felt the longing grow in herself to fulfill it. “It becomes more difficult to accept.”

“Your Highness.” Her hand flew to his wrist when he framed her face. “Alex, please, this isn’t right.”

“The hell with right.”

He took her then, mouth, soul and heart, as the salt-scented breeze billowed at the curtains. Her hands were still at his wrists, her fingers clamping harder and harder, whether in denial or acceptance neither of them knew.