Pirouette

Published by: eXtasy Books

Author : Evelyn Starr

ISBN :978-1-55410-668-4

Page :99

Word Count :24750

Publication Date :2010-08-24

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats : Pirouette (pdf) , Pirouette (prc) , Pirouette (epub) , Pirouette (mobi)

Category : Erotic Romance

Product Code: 978-1-55410-668-4

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Hedy, the spirit, naiad, whatever she is, has just caught Aaron spying upon her in the worst way any man can spy upon a woman.

Aaron Keller is a man suffering serious delusions. Convinced the redhead who’s captured his heart long after he'd thought he had no heart left to capture is a naiad. A spirit of the magical fountain in which he finds her dancing. And that means he’s a man in trouble. Because Hedy, the spirit, naiad, whatever she is, has just caught him spying upon her in the worst way any man can spy upon a woman.

She was the most incredible thing Aaron Keller had ever seen.

Here.

In the middle of Godawful. nowhere.

Fascinated and startled, he sank to his knees behind a screen of thick underbrush. Heedless of puddles that stained the knees of his khakis, and sharp-edged gravel that tried to slice through to lay ruin to living flesh beneath…heedless, too, of dripping trees and coastal Delaware drizzle that poured enormous quantities of clammy moisture down the back of his neck, he leaned forward. Closer to the screening shrubbery. Parted it with shaking hands, and peered through the narrow gap. Peered hard and long, eager to get a better look at the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She was a redhead. And she was magic.

At some point one of Aaron's hands dropped from the branches it held back, narrowing the gap through which he peered.

He hardly noticed.

Finding his crotch, the hand began to massage. And he was glad for the first time…very, very, infinitely glad…that the parcel of land lay so far back from the highway.

As the agent had warned at closing, the place was way the hell off the beaten path. It was rough going, and almost impossible to find, with only a pair of sunken and crumbled gateposts to mark its forgotten location. The long, overgrown road was rutted beyond belief, rutted to what Aaron could only describe as pure and unadulterated hell. Rutted so badly that he'd finally had to abandon his Range Rover and take to foot. Because even that stout and sturdy old vehicle was no match for boulders the size of cottages and washouts so deep they might as well be the Grand Canyon.

On foot.

Which was just the damned luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

In the Rover, he'd have missed the fountain. Would never have heard the sounds that had drawn him straight to it, in a bad mood with aching feet and damp nearly to the bone. Clammy-damp, uncomfortable-damp, and mad as a hornet at the goddamned historical preservationists who'd tried to fight him and thwart him at every turn. Who'd thought they had some kind of sacred right to stand up to him. To ruin his plans.

That was when he'd heard the sound of distant water.

Not the sound of steadily-falling rain, because that wasn't really rain at all, as much as a miserable and floating, cloying and penetrating damp. And not the sound of rushing and swishing waves upon the not-too-distant beach, either. He'd heard a musical tinkling. An enchanting sound of laughing droplets.

The sound of a fountain, where no fountain should be.

On his land.

The woman in the fountain was dressed in something pale. Something fluttery, with floating points around her thighs. Something completely unrevealing and yet, when touched by drizzle and the foaming spray of the fountain in which she cavorted, something so absolutely revealing she might as well have been wearing nothing at all.

Hair like fire burned its way down her back. It played around her hips and thighs, flirting with the tattered hem of the indescribable garment she wore.

Flesh like living alabaster gleamed faintly golden in sparking rays from her circle of jetting, curving water. She moved atop some kind of bare marble platform. Something set at the exact center of that circle of jets.

She was a statue. Sprung to life through magic she herself had wrought.

Magic.

Without his input or his permission, Aaron's hand massaged harder, stroking the swollen and aching ridge of flesh beneath the front of his khakis.