White sandy beaches. Crystal-clear water washing over coral reefs. Lush, dense foliage below enormous palm trees. Soft, lilting music. The scent of sea and soil and sweet, sweet flowers wafting on a balmy breeze.

Paradise.

Tahiti really was paradise, Delia McCray thought as she looked out over the small table where she sat.

The last night of her vacation.

A trio of Polynesians played guitar, ukulele and drums to one side of the wooden dance floor, where her half brother Kyle and his wife, Janine, and Kyle's and Delia's half sister Marta and Marta's husband, Henry, swayed to the sounds.

Delia smiled at the sight. The five-day trip had been her treat, a reward for everyone's hard work. It was also her own first vacation in ten years — so it wasn't something she'd done lightly — and it was heartening to see how much everyone was enjoying it.

Despite the fact that the three McCray children weren't full-blooded siblings, they'd been raised by the mother they'd shared and they were close. They'd always looked out for each other, and it was nice that they'd been able to have this time together. Even if Delia was aware of being odd man out at moments like this when the two couples paired up.

Her focus settled on Kyle, who was holding Janine close and saying something to her that made her laugh. Delia had no idea what he'd said, but she smiled, too, warmed even from a distance by what they shared.

Kyle was the baby of the family at twenty-eight and Delia couldn't help feeling proud of him, of the man he was. The man he'd made of himself in a houseful of women.

Kyle was un-tall, as he liked to say, but he was lean and wiry, and while he had Delia's same white-blond hair, his hazel eyes and ruddier skin color were more like Marta's.

Marta, who danced into Delia's view just then and diverted her attention, was the middle child at thirty-two.

As Delia watched, Marta pressed her cheek to the shoulder of her husband, Henry. Henry laid his cheek atop Marta's short-cropped black curls, and his hands dropped lovingly to his wife's curvaceous hips.

It wasn't any surprise that no one ever guessed that Delia and Marta were sisters. They looked nothing alike. Marta's nose was a bit hooked at the end, while Delia's was turned up. Marta's eyes were a mishmash of brown and green, while Delia's were decidedly blue. Marta's lips were fuller, Delia's skin was much more pale, and they'd never been able to trade bras because Delia couldn't even begin to fill one of Marta's. But despite the external differences, they were soul mates.

"You could be out there dancing, too..." Delia smiled at the deep voice that came from behind her, feeling the scant brush of breath against the ear her very straight, blunt-cut shoulder-length hair was tucked around.

Andrew. "I could be out there dancing if I had a partner," she countered, braver and more flirtatious than she would ever have been if she were home in Chicago. Or without the liquid courage provided by the sour-apple martinis she'd been drinking.

Andrew came around to set a tray full of fresh drinks on the table and — again under the influence of the liquor that was making her head light — Delia's gaze went unabashedly to the man she'd only met the day before. He was handsome enough to cause even the splendor of paradise to fade into the background.

Andrew.

She knew him only as that, since they hadn't exchanged last names. He was tall, at least six feet, with broad shoulders, a strong back and pure, solid muscle, the only bulk he carried.

His hair was a sun-streaked light brown and he wore it a bit long on top.

His face was an interesting combination of refined features and a touch of ruggedness that carved the edges of his jaw and his nose into sharp angles. His brow was square. His cheekbones were pronounced. His lips were slightly on the thin side and his eyes were so dark a shade of brown they were the color of Columbian coffee beans.

With looks like his, he seemed to be the kind of man who would squire models on each arm and not fraternize with lesser mortals, yet since they'd met he hadn't appeared to notice any of the women who had ogled him. He'd just fit in as one of the guys — one of the McCrays — and if he were aware of how he put height-challenged Kyle and paunchy Henry to shame, he didn't show any sign of it.

Or maybe he was just so comfortable with his own striking good looks that he forgot about them.Anything was possible, Delia conceded, acknowledging to herself that she didn't actually know anything about Andrew except that he was good company and had been able to tell them where the best spot on the island was to snorkel.

He'd arrived at the resort the day before, had overheard them talking at dinner the previous evening about their plans for their last day in Tahiti and he'd offered his advice. And since he was apparently as familiar with their surroundings as any native, when he'd also offered to show them the spot he'd suggested, they'd taken him up on it and spent the day with him.

As thanks for his guidance, the McCrays had invited him to have dinner with them. And now here they were, at the palapa — the open-air bar and dance area covered by a thatched roof only a few yards from the water — savoring the last few hours of their final evening in Tahiti.

Well, the McCrays' final evening. Andrew wasn't leaving.

He was, however, holding out a hand to Delia just then.

"I'd love to be your dance partner," he said with a smile that flashed perfect white teeth and created a dimple at the left corner of his mouth.

"You don't have to," Delia demurred, some of her bravery flagging suddenly.

"I do, though," he insisted. "These are my dancing shoes."

His own dark eyes dropped to his feet and Delia's followed, albeit somewhat slower as her glance drifted down his taut, polo-shirted torso to his narrow waist, to hips caressed by khaki slacks, to thighs thick enough to hint at their existence within his pant legs.

He was wearing deck shoes, not dancing shoes — without socks — and Delia had to quell a tiny shiver of something that almost felt like arousal at the sight of nothing more than a fraction of an inch of naked foot between the vamp of his shoes and the break of his slacks.

At home, deck shoes and no socks would have been a turnoff. But then at home she also wouldn't have been in nothing more than a tight, spaghetti-strapped camisole that she usually only wore underneath things, a brightly colored sarong tied at her waist over her bikini bottoms and sandals. But she wasn't at home. She was in Tahiti. On vacation.

And anything goes, she thought.

Andrew was still holding out his hand to her, waiting for her to take it, to accept his invitation to dance.

"Come on," he said in a deep voice that tempted and cajoled at once.

Why not? Delia asked herself, taking the plunge. And his hand. And getting to her feet at the same moment Andrew's extremely handsome face erupted into a grin.

"Good girl! I knew you had it in you," he praised, teasing her.

He led her to the dance floor and swung her into his arms. The movement sent Delia's head spinning, warning her that she really was already under the influence of alcohol.

It didn't matter, though. Not when she felt so good. Not when everything seemed right with the world.

Marta gave her a thumbs-up over Henry's shoulder when she caught Delia's eye, bestowing sisterly approval and encouragement of Delia letting down her hair — an uncommon occurrence.

Delia only smiled in return as Andrew pulled her closer and proved he was as adept at dancing as he'd been at everything else they'd done today.

And it was nice. Nice not to be odd man out anymore. Nice to feel a man's strong arms around her — something that hadn't happened in a long, long while. Nice to be where she was, who she was, with her family and this very pleasant, personable stranger. Nice to be oh-so-relaxed and fancy-free, with nothing to do but have a little fun. Nice, for once, to just go with the flow....

And that was exactly what Delia did for the remainder of the evening. She danced with Andrew and Henry and Kyle. She drank more — and more — sour-apple martinis. She laughed and flirted and had a good time until one by one the other people in the palapa disappeared. Until Kyle and Janine wandered off to their bungalow. Until Marta and Henry wandered off to theirs.

Until Delia was left all alone with Andrew, on the dance floor yet again.

His arms were slung low on her hips. His hands were clasped together at the small of her back. Her arms were hooked over his shoulders. Her brow was against the wall of his chest. His chin was on the crown of her head. And they were barely swaying to the lazy strains of a very slow song.

"Why is it that vacations take so long to get here and then end so soon?" she lamented in a singsongy, dreamy voice.

Above her, Andrew chuckled a throaty chuckle that was all male. "I don't believe in ever letting them take too long to get here," he said. "And who says it has to end? You could change your plans. Stay..."

Delia laughed. She sounded giddy to her own ears but she didn't care. "Stay?"

"You could send Kyle and Janine and Marta and Henry on their way and stay," Andrew said. And unless Delia was mistaken, he was serious.

She lifted her head from his chest to peer up at that face that was too good to believe. "I can't stay," she said, not sounding serious even though she was.

"Sure you can. A few phone calls can arrange anything. I know the owner of this resort — I stay here often. I'll get him to let you keep your bungalow. And I'll be here...."

That last part was the real enticement.

Again Delia laughed. "No, no, no," she said un-firmly.

"Yes, yes, yes," he responded, dipping forward enough to press a kiss to the spot just above her ear.

The kiss surprised her. He hadn't done anything like that before. But somehow it didn't shock her. Or put her off. It was just another thing that seemed nice. And tantalizing. Like him.

"No, no, no," she repeated, still not strongly and not even sure herself whether she was saying no to his suggestion that she remain in Tahiti or to that kiss. But either way, it didn't have enough force to mean much.