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rope or riding our bikes through congested city streets. It had been my little harbor of calm.
    “You really sang to the plants?” he asked. “No, now don’t get shy and defensive with me, Miss Bloom. I think it’s cute. But did you seriously have to have different songs for every kind of flower? Because that could cause problems with interplanting in the raised beds.”
    He was still mocking me playfully all the way up the path to the garden site, in the golf cart all the way back to the villa, all the way down the hall to the shower, which we shared. It was hard to say mad at the man while focused on bathing him, soaping his muscled body with my bare hands as he played with my wet hair and distracted me with kisses along my jaw.
    Only reluctantly did I turn off the water and follow him out to the bedroom to dress for dinner. I tried to pay attention to my own preparations—choosing a short, sequined black dress, then putting on a smoky eye and pale gloss and the amber and iris perfume he so enjoyed—when all I really wanted to do was watch Adrian Knight. From the way he combed back his wet hair with his fingers to the silky slide of the tailored white tuxedo shirt he slipped over his shoulders. I helped him with his tie without being asked and despite the fact that he didn’t need assistance. And he let me.
    He insisted on distracting me, of course, tracing his velvety lips along the curve of my eyebrow. His warm breath swirled against my skin, leaving goose bumps. I still wasn’t completely used to going without underwear, and beneath my short dress, the abrupt wetness of my eager sex made me feel chill and exposed. Adrian’s fingertips traced the underside of one of my breasts, and I felt my nipples rise and stiffen painfully against the thick lining of the cocktail dress.
    “Do you want me to beg to skip dinner, sir?”
    “I’d enjoy hearing it,” he said but then took in a slow, bracing breath. “But guests await, and duty calls. Both of us, Miss Bloom.”
    We walked out of the villa, nodding to the guard who had been posted at the door since the incident with the IBAMA investigator had shaken Adrian’s confidence in the safety of his haven. Up a winding cobble path and into the resort, through the kitchens bustling with busy staff and the Heyday Hollywood, starlet-sexy voice of Manuela calling out instructions, I trailed my dark Dom. And only as we emerged onto the upper balcony, awash in guests and music and the pleasures of good food and drink, did I realize he hadn’t wound my arm around his, as was usual. We were holding hands.
    My head fogged at the thought, at the intimacy. At the promise. But shouldn’t I have been more concerned with the defeat of my purpose for being here? How could I entwine my fingers so casually, so perfectly, with Adrian’s and hardly even notice because it seemed so natural? How could I believe for a moment longer I would spend another two months here on Ilha de Flor and not fall in love with the man?
    I greeted guests and laughed at quips and drained the first glass of champagne I could catch off a passing tray, then sipped at a second. There was no analyzing how I felt. I could barely manage the rush of my realization. My head started to buzz with the clamor of samba music and raised voices and the distant roar of the ocean, and all I could do was anchor myself with the feeling of my hand in Adrian’s.
    “Boa noite, Mr. Knight. I trust you remember me?”
    The rumbling voice and boisterous gestures of the short, portly man who accosted Adrian and me as we crossed the dance floor finally broke my stupor. I felt Adrian’s grip tighten over mine and noted the subtle stiffening of his posture.
    “Yes, Mr. Rego, I remember you,” Adrian answered in a tight voice, “but I thought you returned to Sao Paolo last week.”
    The swarthy, meticulously dressed businessmen agreed, “Oh, yes, I did, and quite dejected, Mr. Knight. I had to explain to my client that you had