‘No, you look sexy.’ He gave a wicked smile and lowered his mouth to hers once more, his lips and tongue working a seductive magic that made the world spin. Then he lifted his head reluctantly and gave a resigned shrug. ‘Sorry about that. Just couldn’t help myself. Once bad, always bad, or so it would seem. You just had a lucky escape, Flora Harris. Five more minutes and we would have been in the middle of a practical scientific experiment involving frozen body parts and libido.’ Without giving her time to respond, he called to the men on the shore. ‘Back off, guys. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ And then he plunged back into the waves and swam away from her with a powerful crawl.

* * *

Nodding to the locals who were toasting his health, Conner raised his glass to his lips and tried to decide whether he should be grateful or just punch them.

Five minutes more and he would have been completing the corruption of Flora.

So he should be grateful, obviously. If he’d followed the episode to its natural conclusion, Flora would now be steeped in embarrassment and regret.

He remembered her anguished gasp when she’d realised that they’d been spotted. Even in the semi-darkness he’d been able to see the burning colour of her cheeks.

Narrow escape for her. And for him, he told himself firmly. It was hard enough being back on Glenmore, without having that on his conscience.

He drank deeply, trying to obliterate the memory of the way she’d tasted and the way her body had felt pressed against his. She’d been lithe, slender, slippery from the seawater—

‘Conner MacNeil, am I drunk or are you really sitting there drinking cranberry juice?’

Conner looked at Jim. ‘You are drunk. And I am sitting here drinking cranberry juice.’

Jim focused on the glass in his hand. ‘It looks disgusting.’

‘It is disgusting.’ But not as disgusting as Evanna’s home-made lemonade, he thought with wry humour. Something stirred inside him as he remembered Flora standing on the grass, clutching a picnic basket.

‘When I offered to buy you a drink…’ Jim lifted a finger and waggled it in his direction ‘…I meant a proper drink. A man’s drink. What are you? Wimp or man?’

Dismissing thoughts of Flora’s soft mouth, Conner gave a careless lift of his shoulder. ‘Wimp, obviously.’

‘Leave the man alone.’ Nick Hillier, the island policeman, slapped Conner on the back. ‘A hero can relax in any way he chooses. Personally, I’m just glad it’s not alcohol. It will save me the bother of arresting him for drink-driving later.’

Jim hiccoughed lightly. ‘Your old man knew how to drink.’

An uncomfortable silence fell on the group of men who’d had less to drink than Jim, but Conner simply nodded. ‘He certainly did.’