Losing Control - By Robyn Grady Page 0,29

thoughts racing, Cole contained his grin. She was embarrassed and uncertain and probably nudging toward really annoyed at this point. But she'd set the agenda and, as far as he could see, she'd left herself no room to back out.

"Just leave what's in the zipped pouch," she finally said.

"Sure. You go mix yourself a pina colada and leave all the work to me." He set a fingertip to his cheek. "Although shaking cocktails must be my job, too. Maybe wiggle your toes in the sand until I can be of further service."

Passing on his way inside the bungalow, Cole rolled a hand - a theatrical motion from forehead to waist - while, feeling robbed, Taryn moved down the steps and into the clearing.

Above her, palms fronds swayed and clacked in a gentle sea breeze. Like a balm, the sun's heat soaked into her skin. The salty scent drifting in from the Pacific was nothing short of drugging. Paradise. She'd promised herself, no matter what, she would find a little time to unwind.

But she'd been kidding herself. While Cole was around that would never happen. Yes, she'd planned to put him on the spot with that "women are revered" policy. She'd wanted him to squirm but more so think about setup in relation to ratings ramifications for her show. Not for one minute did she buy his spiel about being happy to serve. She had the biggest feeling he was up to something. Something that might leave her squirming instead of him.

A rustling in the brush drew her attention. From a mass of ferns, a boy aged six or seven appeared. He had the biggest, brownest eyes Taryn had ever seen. Wearing that blue-striped tee and toothy grin, he was positively disarming. Striding right up, he gestured toward her feet then indicated she should sit in a deck chair positioned to one side of the bungalow steps.

Wanting to ruffle his mop of clean dark hair, she laughed. "Thank you, but I'm not tired." She crouched to speak face-to-face. "What's your name?"

But the boy was already scurrying off back into the ferns. The next second, Cole's voice boomed out from the bungalow.

"Where do you want me to put these?"

She swung around. Cole stood in the doorway. He held her bikini top in one hand, her bottoms in the other.

After the blush had whooshed up from her toes to her crown, she got her mouth to work and very calmly asked, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Unpacking, as per instructions."

"I told you to stay away from the zip."

"These were right on top."

As he jiggled the top then the bottoms in turn, her thoughts rewound. Usually she put her delicates in a zipped compartment to keep them separate and easy to access. But when she'd remembered her bathing suit this morning at the last minute, she'd shoved it inside her case on top of everything else.

And, honestly - so what? They were two pieces of Lycra. Women had worn them for decades. And yet the way he was holding them, the ties twined loosely around those strong tanned fingers, she felt so suddenly flustered, as if he'd removed them not from her luggage but fresh off her body. His next comments made it all ten times worse.

"Interesting work attire, Miss Quinn." He pushed a sigh out over the hint of a grin. "And I thought you were serious about this weekend."

That flustered feeling stirring her insides swelled into something far more dangerous. She'd known he was hatching something he'd find amusing. Something to put her in her place. She strode up the steps and snatched both pieces from his grasp. Incredibly, he didn't laugh, didn't even smile. Rather he glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck, as if he felt uncomfortable, which, under the circumstances, she found difficult to believe.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What's that look?"

"I thought I'd better mention now..."

"Mention what?"

"There's only one bed?"

After a moment of numb shock, she hacked out a laugh. Ridiculous. "Of course there's more than one bed."

When she'd received her reservation details, she'd been assured of two bedrooms. And on opposite sides of the hut.

"Maybe you should have booked separate bungalows," he said, "just to be sure."

"You heard the woman at the desk. There are only five other bungalows and they're all taken."

Her words trailed as reality tunneled in and set like reinforced concrete. There'd been a terrible mix-up, and even if she had any hope another guest might consider swapping for a single-bedroom