She unlocked the door, picked up the book of poetry she’d taken out earlier, and went to sit on the bench under an open porthole. Reclining back against the bulkhead, she arranged her hair, bringing it over one shoulder to run down the front of her shirt. Barefoot, she stretched one leg out before her and bent the other in what she hoped was a fetching position, then propped the open book of poetry up on a knee, holding the page open while she daydreamed. As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Drawing a deep breath to bolster her courage, she lifted her head and bid him enter.
Ian came in carrying a bottle and two glasses. Her eyes met his, and in the diminishing light of the cabin, she saw something—desire perhaps—flicker in them. She hoped so. It would make this entire seduction e
