He hauled himself out of the water and took a fluffy towel from the stacks Ronsard had put out for his guests, and which were constantly being replaced, and roughly swiped it over his torso. Though it wasn't one o'clock yet, he saw Niema coming toward him. She was dressed casually, in loose, drawstring natural linen pants and a blue camisole, with a gauzy white shirt worn loose over the camisole. She had pulled her thick dark hair back and secured it with a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes looked huge and luminous.
She checked a little when she saw him, as if she hadn't known he was there. He stood still, staring at her, then lifted his hand and beckoned her to him.
She hesitated for a long moment before obeying, just long enough for him to begin wondering if she was going to do something totally unexpected, like turning around and leaving, which would be taking the show of reluctance a little too far and might prod her unlikely protector into action.
But then she began walking slowly to him, and he knotted the towel around his waist to hide his response as he waited for her to join him.
>Chapter Twenty
Niema faltered as she approached John and slid her sunglasses on her nose to hide her expression from him. Good God, the man should put on some clothes before she had heart failure. Greedily she drank in the strong lines of his torso, the well-defined muscles of arms and shoulders, the ridges down his abdomen. His legs were the most powerful she had ever seen, the long muscles thick and sinewy in the way that showed he did it all, running and swimming as well as strength training.
Water still sparkled on his shoulders and in the hair on his chest. He had roughly towel-dried his hair and raked his hand over it to restore some semblance of order. He looked wild, and dangerous, and she ached inside with the need to touch him.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood like a redwood, waiting for her to reach him. At least the towel hid part of those legs. How could he look so lean when he was clothed, when he had muscles like this?
Then she reached him, and a tiny smile curved his hard mouth, a mouth that looked as if it never smiled at all and yet he made the effort for her. This was Temple, she thought, not John. John smiled and laughed. When he was himself, he was an expressive man- unless he was playing another part, unless he had been someone else for so long that even John Medina was just a role for him now.
"For a minute there, I thought you were going to turn and run," he said in a low voice. "Don't be that reluctant."
"I know what to do." She sat down in the chair he held out for her, not caring if she sounded irritable. She was irritable. She hadn't had much sleep, and her nerves were raw.
He stood behind her, looking down, and she felt his stillness. Then he put his hand inside her open shirt and lightly smoothed his palm over her bare shoulder, the movement slow and absorbed, as if he couldn't go a moment longer without touching her. Only the thin straps of her camisole obstructed him, and they might as well not have been there. She shivered as that warm hand moved over her, pushing the shirt away just enough that he could stroke that one shoulder and upper arm. It was the most restrained, sensuous touch she had ever experienced, and her entire body reacted, nipples pebbling, stomach tightening.
Then he gently restored the shirt to her shoulder and moved around to take the chair across from her. When his back was turned she saw the thin, four-inch scar on his left shoulder blade. Even knowing it wasn't real, she couldn't tell how it was applied. It certainly looked genuine.
Then he sat down facing her, and she blinked in astonishment at the small diamond stud in his left ear. His ear wasn't pierced; she would have noticed before if it had been. And he hadn't been wearing an earring last night. Well, if the scar was fake, the pierced ear could be, too; he probably had the stud glued on. And the altered hairline looked real. All these small identifying characteristics were fake; with them removed, he would never be identified as Joseph Temple, despite having the same face. As long as there were no dental records tying them together, or DNA samples to compare, he was unidentifiable.
A waiter in black shorts and white shirt approached. "May I serve you anything from the bar?"
"We'd like to order lunch," John said, his French perfect.
"Of course, sir."
He ordered puff pastries filled with chicken in cream sauce for appetizers, potato soup, and a cheese and fruit tray afterward. Thankful she wouldn't be expected to choke down a full meal, including a meat course, Niema looked around at the beautifully landscaped courtyard. It was becoming more crowded now as others elected to have their lunch by the pool rather than inside. The murmur of conversation, punctuated by splashes, laughter, and the dink of silverware, made it reasonable that they would lean together over the small round table.
John adjusted the umbrella shading them to protect her from the sun, and also to partially block anyone's view of them from the house. Before he sat down he plucked his shirt from the chaise beside him and pulled it on over his head. She almost mourned as those pecs and abs disappeared from view, but admitted to herself that at least now she'd be able to concentrate better.
"I've been in Ronsard's office," he said, pitching his voice so that only she could hear. "I have the door code and got a good look at his security system. What's on the agenda for tonight?"
"It's fancy dress every night. Buffet dinner, dancing, just like last night."
"Good. People will be moving around, so it'll be difficult to keep track of us. We're going to dance every dance-"
"Not in high heels, I'm not. I'd be crippled."
"Then don't wear heels."