“Please have a seat,” I say, reaching into the cupboard. “Oh, shoot!”

“What’s wrong?”

I turn around and he’s halfway between standing and sitting in a chair at the table.

I smile at the awkwardness of his pose. “I forgot to buy a corkscrew when I went to the store today.”

He chuckles as he stands up and grabs the bottle of wine off the table. “That’s okay. I can open it without a corkscrew. Do you have a sharp knife?”

He takes the two long strides it takes until he’s almost face to face with me. I stare at the bottle of wine in his hand until I remember I have to be confident. Looking up into his eyes, I’m caught off guard by the inquisitive look on his face. One eyebrow cocked, self-assured smile, just waiting for me to produce a sharp knife. Probably so he can stab me in the heart.

I let out a coquettish giggle. “Of course I have a knife.”

My hand disappears behind me and whips out my knife in a flash. He scrunches his eyebrows together, dissatisfied with this display.

“You carry a knife on you?”

“Single woman in a new town.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, then he slowly reaches for my knife. I smile as he gently slips the handle out of my grip and turns toward the sink. He holds the top of the bottle over the basin and, in one swift motion, he chops off the top two inches from the neck of the bottle. A good third of a cup of red wine spills out and into the sink, but he rights the bottle before anymore is lost.

I step forward and peer into the sink at the few chunks of glass and red liquid splattered over the porcelain and can’t help but feel impressed. “Quite crafty, aren’t you…?”

“Nicolas,” he reminds me. “But you may call me Nick.”

And how could I forget? Nicolas with the perfectly bronze skin and shiny green eyes. And the fascinating knife skills. I’ll have to keep an eye on you, Nick.

He smiles then reaches for a towel on the counter. “I’ll clean it up.”

I try to take the towel from his hand, but he doesn’t let go. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll clean it up.” His smile softens as he lets go of the cloth. “You can pour the wine.”

He reaches around me and grabs the drinking glasses, then he grabs the bottle and takes them both to the table. I mop up shards of glass and wine with the dish towel and toss them all, towel included, into the garbage bin beneath the sink. I wash my hands and take a seat across the table from Nick.

He slides my glass of wine across the table. “To new places,” he says, raising his in the air, “good lighting,” —he winks—“and new friends. Salud!”

We clink glasses and I bring mine to my lips slowly, waiting for him to take the first sip. Then it dawns on me that it doesn’t matter if he drinks that whole glass. Since I was too busy cleaning up the mess in the sink, I didn’t watch him pour my wine. I can’t drink this.

I set the glass down gently on the table as he takes a couple of gulps.

“You don’t drink wine?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’ve never actually drunk alcohol before and my father told me never to accept a drink from a stranger unless they too are willing to drink from the same glass.”

I feel a twist of regret in my stomach for bringing my father into this.

“Your father sounds like a smart man.” He reaches for my glass of wine and downs the whole thing in a few gulps, then he sets it down on the table looking very satisfied with himself. “See. No poison.”

I smile as I reach for the half-empty bottle and pour us both another glass. I have to blend in. I have to immerse myself in the island culture. Drinking a glass or two of wine per day is supposed to be good for you.

Still, I wait for him to take the first sip, then I take mine. The wine is acidic and musky with a sweet berry finish. I like it.

“So what kind of things do you photograph? Nature, architecture, people…?” he asks.

Though his Spanish accent is very noticeable, he speaks English quite well. And his voice is smooth and crisp. I can understand every word he says.

I take another sip as I contemplate his question, then I flash him a girly smile. “People.”

As expected, this response makes him feel comfortable enough to allow his gaze to linger on my albino left eye and the white patch of skin that covers most of the left side of my face. A photographer who looks like me would be expected to shun people. And the old Alex most certainly did. But Alyssa is different. She embraces her flaws.

It makes you different. Different is good. Daimon’s voice is still so clear in my mind. His words so soothing. How is it that the man who killed my father, the man I killed just four days ago, still has the power to fill me with such warmth and longing? The very thought of him should send me into a tirade. He deceived me! He used me and my body and he didn’t even have the guts to confess he murdered my father.

He also didn’t have the courage to kill me.

Or so he claimed. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But that’s why I’m here on this island. I’m going to find out if anything Daimon said to me the night of the masquerade ball was true.

I drain the rest of the wine from my glass and set it down. “I photograph anything, but mostly people. I do portraits. Would you like your portrait taken?”

His gaze continues to roam over my face, then he smiles. “I would like that.”

“Excellent.” I fan my face as I suddenly feel flushed. “What do you do for a living?”

“I make sunglasses.” I let out a soft chuckle and he shakes his head in dismay. “I know. It’s not as glamorous as being a beautiful photographer who travels the world, but it pays well.”

“And you’re here on vacation?”

“Yes. I don’t know for how long. I’m staying in my Great-Aunt Marta’s house. She passed away eight years ago, so the house has been empty. I’m going to relax for a little while. Restore the house and maybe the garden. I’m … I’m trying to, as they say, find myself.”

“At your age?” I clap my hand over my mouth and he laughs.

“I’m only thirty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Most women lie to make themselves younger. This whole situation with Daimon aged me two years in the span of four days. I knew he was bad for me.

Bad in all the right ways? asks a sexy French voice in my head.

No!

Oh, God. I’m going nuts.

Nick stands up suddenly and this snaps me out of my Daimon-haze. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes. It’s almost sundown and I still have a water heater to install. Or I won’t be able to shower tomorrow.”

I stand up and follow him toward the door. “That would be unfortunate.”

“For who?” he asks quickly and I hesitate. He laughs as he reaches for the doorknob. “I’m kidding, Alyssa. It was very nice meeting you. I’m sure you’ll be seeing me very soon for that portrait. Shall I bring my Heart of the Ocean necklace?”

I grab the edge of the door as he steps outside and does a half-turn so I can see him from the side with the sun setting behind him. He has a great ass.

“Alyssa?”

My gaze snaps up, away from his ass to his face, and he’s grinning. “Yes, sure. That would be great. See you later.”

I close the door and lean up against it, savoring the way the cool steel feels against my skin through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I’m flustered by his good looks and sense of humor. He’s so congenial. But, still, all I can think of right now is Daimon.

What would he think of me having a drink with another man? He would not like it one bit. I guess it’s a good thing he’s dead.

Chapter Two

His body is so solid. That’s all I can think as my fingers bump along his ab muscles and down to his thick erection. I wrap my fingers around him and he smiles as the shower water cascades over his glistening muscles.