“Playing dirty,” Lucas says. “Isn’t that what that’s called?”
I flush. “It’s called playing to win,” I say, marching past him.
His broad shoulders take up so much space. I circle by on the pool side, and then, because I’m angry and in a bad mood, and maybe—just a little bit—because I want to see what he’ll do if we touch, I pass too close. But he moves at the same moment, leaning ever so slightly my way, as though he had the same idea. And I go glancing off him and . . .
“Shit!” I splutter.
. . . right into the pool. The shock of the fall leaves me gasping. I gulp for air, treading water, mascara stinging in my eyes.
“You arsehole!” I shout. “You just pushed me in the pool!”
“I did not,” he says, crouching down and reaching a hand to help me out. He tucks the note into his back pocket with his other hand, and as anger surges through me, as my sodden clothes drag at my limbs, I have an idea.
There’s more than one way to get that note wet.
I lunge for Lucas’s hand and pull hard. He’s squatting, balanced on the polished toes of his shoes—I overbalance him.
He descends into the water like a giant rock. Just tumbles in, slow motion, still curled up with his knees to his chest. Despite the anger swirling in my belly, I find myself laughing—more at the surprise of it than anything. I can’t believe I actually just pulled him into the pool.
He bursts up through the surface and his eyes find mine immediately. They’re sparkling with anger. I let out a nervous eep. He’s actually pissed off now. I’ve seen Lucas annoyed more times than I can count, but I’ve hardly ever seen him really raging. It’s kind of . . . God. Is it bad that it’s kind of sexy?
He says something long and presumably very insulting in Portuguese. I swim backwards to try to create a bit of distance between us, but he’s a lot bigger than me, and it only takes one swipe for him to grab my leg.
“You,” he says, voice low and furious, “are not going anywhere.”
He actually lets go of my leg the moment I kick it, but I don’t swim away again, I just bob there, trying not to grin. The rush of anger has gone as quickly as it came; now I am having to work very hard not to nervous-giggle.
“You push me, I push you,” I say. My shirt snags at my skin as I move—it is not comfortable swimming in clothes. “If you’re going to do something, Lucas, you need to live with the consequences.”
“I did not push you.”
“Well, OK, technically I didn’t push you, either,” I say, and I know my grin is winding him up, which just makes it even harder not to smile.
“You are so childish,” he spits, swiping at his eyes and advancing on me.
“What are you going to do, dunk me?”
“Something like that, yes,” he says, and then, with both hands, he sends a huge wave splashing down over my head.
I splutter, gasping. “Oh my God!”
I splash him, too. He splashes me back. We’re soaking and the water’s churning and my back has hit the edge of the pool now, my shirt slick as silk against my body. When the water settles, Lucas is right in front of me, arms braced on either side of mine, hands gripping the ledge. His chest is heaving. His eyes still have that spark in them, but as we face each other, dripping, his cheek twitches ever so slightly.
“You can smile,” I tell him, leaning my elbows back on the pool’s edge, my soaked shirt pulling taut. “It’s not dangerous.”
He smiles. I take that back. This wet, dark-eyed Lucas is a different beast from the uniformed man who stands beside me at the front desk. With his white shirt clinging to the muscles of his chest and droplets gleaming on the skin of his neck, he’s not just offensively handsome, he’s hot.
“I’m going to win our bet,” he promises me, his voice low. We’re so close I can see the flecks and tones in his brown eyes. “You know I am. That’s why you do things like pull me into swimming pools and try to destroy phone numbers.”
“I didn’t . . .”
I stop talking. His gaze has dipped, eyes moving over me. I feel a droplet of water chase another over my collarbone, down to my sodden shirt, and I watch him catch that tiny movement, pupils flaring.
“Yes?” he prompts.
He looks at my lips. And for a wild, daring moment, I think I might kiss him—snake my arms over his shoulders, pull our wet bodies flush . . .
I take an uneven breath.
“I saved the number in my phone. You know I’d never do something that might actually harm the hotel. Not even to piss you off.”