He drew nearer. His eyes intent. Seeing nothing but her.
She clutched a tangerine in each palm.
He stopped. The toe of his boot nudged her foot. That vast chest loomed barely a foot from her eyes. A crumb of soil tumbled down his cheek and he swiped at the dirt on his face.
A distraction. Ha! Using all her strength and weight, Thea pressed her tangerine-laden palms against his chest. Solid as a castle wall, he did not budge an inch.
Perfect!
The tangerines exploded under her palms, against his chest, and the tart scent of citrus filled the air. He yelled his protest as his arms flew up like wings on a startled bird, and his ribcage shifted beneath her hands. Relentless, she smeared the crushed fruit down the front of his waistcoat, leaving a triumphant trail of pulp and juice and dirt.
Then the giddy recklessness made her giggle, made her linger, made her hook a finger inside the waistband of his breeches. She tugged it an inch from his body, and—
“Oh no you don’t!” he cried.
—dropped the crushed tangerines inside.
Her feet were light as air and she danced away before he could react, darting around to put the solid width of the table between them, from where she could gloat in safety.
When he looked up at her, his body was as still as a cat on the hunt, and his eyes gleamed with predatory intent. Thea’s breathy laugh did nothing to distract him, and her body thrilled in anticipation of his revenge.
He slid a few steps to his left. She danced the opposite way, keeping the table between them. He slid back; so did she. He feinted one way, and then the other, and each time she kept her distance.
No catching her! Perhaps they would pass days this way, dancing around the table, until he—
He leaped onto the table.
A single bound of virile athleticism and he was back in control. Whichever way she ran, he had only to pounce and he’d be there first. Catching her. And then?
Thea backed away, her bottom meeting another bench, and drank in his magnificence as he stood on the table, like a sculpture displayed for her pleasure. With a wince, he tugged at his waistband, then ignored any discomfort and nimbly picked his way between the pots.
At the near edge of the table, he paused. Their gazes tangled. His eyes dared her to move. He twitched. She sidestepped. He pounced.
The second he landed, his hands slammed down on the bench on either side of her. Thea arched backward, and he leaned over her. His toes nudged hers, and his legs pressed against her skirts. He did not touch her but she felt him everywhere.
“Got you,” he whispered.
One hand shifted firmly onto her waist. She responded by pressing a palm to his bicep, the firm muscle hot through the linen of his shirt.
Then his other hand slid over her cheek and jaw, the fingers sliding into her hair, caressing her ear, and gliding back down, until his thumb touched her lips. She could not look away from the compelling heat in his eyes, as he traced the outline of her mouth. A warning, perhaps, or an invitation.
She let her lips part. Her own invitation.
Again he spoke, the delicious promise in his near-whisper curling over her skin like smoke.
“Now I have caught you, what shall I do with you?”
His head lowered, unstoppable as the tide. Thea let her eyelids flutter closed as his lips settled on hers, warm and sure and open. His kiss was full of purpose and triumph, as though kissing her was a long-sought prize and the one thing he absolutely had to do that day, and he was doing it with every ounce of focus he had.
It made kissing him the most important thing in her world too.
Pushing into him, Thea fumbled for his hair, his shirt, needing to hold him tight, tug him closer. His tongue touched hers, sending new and exciting sensations swirling through her. Again she had that odd fancy—that his kisses entered her body like living things and gathered between her thighs, where they bounced around eagerly, making her tingle and hum as she yearned both to let them out and hold them in.
With a groan, he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her against him as he kissed her deep and hard. He was everywhere, engulfing her, stoking her senses until they clamored with craving. He made another growl-like sound, deep in his throat, and she pressed harder into him, wanting more of that sound. More of him. The taste and feel of him were new, unimagined, splendid, and she needed more, more, always more.
Her hand slid inside his shirt. That was new and exciting too, and demanded exploration: the satiny skin, the firm muscles, the heat that was so like and so unlike her own. One of his thighs pressed against her, and she pushed into him, craving more of that hardness.
Then abruptly, he released her and stumbled away, robbing her of his heat, leaving her clutching at air.
Thea tried to breathe. She did not want to breathe. She wanted him.
But he was backing away, all the while hissing between clenched teeth.
“Rafe? What’s wrong? What did I do?”
He shook his head, holding up one hand in a gesture of “wait.” His mouth worked, and when he spoke again, it was in the hoarse, airless whisper of a man holding his breath.
“Tangerines.”
Giggles bubbled up inside her and she struggled to smother them, as Rafe stumbled away. He turned his back to her, rested his forehead on a pillar, and slipped his fingers into his breeches. Thea craned her neck to look, then remembered herself and sat back on the bench.
“Um.” The sound came out breathy and unsteady, matching the rest of her. “I hope the tangerines did no damage.”
“Simply…a little crowded in there.”
He tossed the offending fruit to the side, and Thea hastily averted her eyes. She smoothed down her skirts, as if that might soothe her unruly body, while he stood motionless, his forehead still resting on the pillar.
Then he thumped the pillar with one fist. He muttered something that sounded like, “I keep forgetting. One look and I forget,” and once more he thumped the pillar, the muscles in his back shifting under his shirt.
This was not about the tangerines anymore.
Thea waited. No words came to mind, and she occupied her restless hands by rearranging her clothing. She tugged up her bodice, brushed off the dirt, and shook out her skirts. Straightened and breathed and squeezed her tormented thighs.
All the while, Rafe faced away. His broad back rose and fell with his deep breaths, and by the time he finally turned around, Thea was settled enough to perch on the bench, gripping its edges.
His expression was pained. Too late, she remembered he believed they were married, and she’d have a hard time putting him off because clearly she did not want to put him off. But she had to put him off, because…because…oh yes, because he thought she was Helen, and they weren’t truly married, and soon she would leave, and while she was eager for adventures, she had not anticipated an adventure like this. As she fumbled for words to delicately imply it was that time of the month, he spoke in a harsh rasp.
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“Oh. Oh.”
Oh no. How naive of her, not to read the clues. Never having children, he said. Ignoring his bride. Never demanding his conjugal rights. Needing medicine to ease his pain. Indifferent to his wife’s lineage.
When he said “I can’t,” it must be because he couldn’t.
The poor man. No wonder he was grumpy.
“Was it the jaguar?” she asked softly.
“Hmm?”