Page 95 of Dagger in the Sea

A noise unfurled in Turo’s throat and I glanced down at him. When I met Turo it was as if a flash of lightning had gone off, blinding me for a second. Startling, thrilling. A whip lashing me. A shock I couldn’t ignore, a shock that jump-started a new rhythm to my sluggish heartbeat. His firm grip on me, his initial arrogant perusal which then transformed into a rush of desire. We talked, we laughed and danced, and that fierce and mesmerising arousal he incited in me was both scary and exciting.

Why did it scare me? Because Turo’s brand of arousal was intense and jolting, it shook me from my uncomfortable comfort zone. A comfort zone I’d created and bound with wire fencing because I’d made so many wrong choices in the past. One extreme to the other. And the one time I was sure I’d found it with the very wrong and very right person, it blew up in my face.

Literally.

I’d been playing it safe with Alessio. And in the process I’d gotten lazy, frightened, full of self doubt, and I hated myself for it, hated my restlessness, my dissatisfaction with everything. The shooting made me realize that there was no hiding, that I was only wasting my time. Those gunshots had pierced my fog, penetrating it.

And in the clearing of the haze, there was Turo DeMarco.

Escaping to Andros with Turo was like gulping down a cocktail in one swallow on a dare. But I’d dared myself. Heady, sweet yet sour, steadying, overwhelming. Today we’d made each other laugh, relaxed in each other’s company. Flirted. Yet frosted over his flirting was not the pleasant white dusting of sweet icing sugar. His was a firm coating of something not so sweet, something darker, sharper. Underneath the shadow of that tense bravado of his, I recognized the glowing smoulder of grief and anger.

I knew it well.

I didn’t know how much time we’d have here in Andros, and I didn’t want to think about it in terms of days or even hours. Coming here was about escaping the world’s demands, danger, and just bloodybeing. No noise. Andros was special to me, and I’d never shared it with anyone before in all the Greek island holidays of my youth. Turo’s obvious enjoyment of it today had made my heart swell. It meant something to me, his enjoyment of this place.

I slid my knuckles against his sharp jaw. He stiffened, his eyes opened. Those eyes bunched then relaxed. That mouth curved into a smile for me.

Stunning.

That was the word he’d used earlier to describe the view from the veranda of the hotel, but he was stunning. Him. His scent of fresh lemon and musk floated over me, and a liquid calm spread through my veins after the tense morning, the blustery ferry ride, the driving and the swimming. I didn’t want to move, to speak. To break the spell unwinding between us.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked, his voice throaty.

“You did.”

He raised his head. “That’s two naps today.”

“The Mediterranean agrees with you.”

Taking in a breath, he stretched out a hand and gently touched the side of my cheek. “You agree with me.”

My face heated. “I thought we’d walk into town and have a drink, decide on what to eat.”

He sat up. “A drink would be good.”

“I know just the place.”

“I’m sure you do.”

I got up and applied a quick swipe of shimmery lip gloss as Turo took me in from head to toe, and my insides hummed under his keen observation. He had a discerning palate and a discerning eye. His admiration was suddenly very important to me; I wanted it.

We strolled into town along the shoreline, Turo scanning the crowd as we went. A motorcycle howled past, and I flinched, brushing against him. He took my hand in his, his warm fingers enfolding mine, and the pressure in my chest eased.

“Here we are,” I said, leading him up a broad set of whitewashed stone steps to Capriccio, a bar café with a small terrace on the second floor. Whitewashed stone banquettes dotted with pale blue pillows lined the veranda, with high tables and matching chairs in the center. We settled into one of the high tables which offered an unobstructed view of the sea. Large straw lanterns hung over us, swaying in the damp breeze blowing off the water.

I ordered a mojito.

“Grey Goose on ice with a lot of lemon and lime,” Turo told the waitress.

Our gazes hung on a sky smudged with thick swathes of bright pink and deep red, pale cerulean blue and indigo. In the distance, on the other side of the bay, a buttery yellow illuminated the edges of the mountains. The colors of the calm sea kept transforming. Ashy blue, deep pink.

The waitress brought us our drinks.

“To that glorious sunset,” I said, raising my icy cocktail stuffed with mint leaves.

Turo clinked my glass with his.“Yiá mas.”He swallowed and the muscle along his jaw ticked, eyes narrowed for a moment. Something wasn’t right.

“Excuse me—” His curt tone stopped the waitress. “This needs more lemon.”

---