Three
Emma took dictation on a letter he was writing to his attorney. She was barely aware of what she was writing down. It had upset her, that blatant, unbridled anger. But what had followed it had upset her even more.
She was vulnerable with him. It was surprising, because he was so much older than she was, almost a generation. But when he touched her, the years fell away. She felt far different with him than she’d ever felt with Steven, and it scared her.
She tried to tell herself that he was just very experienced with women. That was what it was. But there had to be an attraction in the first place. He’d been amused by her reactions, but then he’d gone silent. He was still silent, in between dictation. He was frowning, as if he was worrying a puzzle in his mind.
“Read that back,” he said when he finished dictating.
She read the letter to him.
He drew in an irritated breath and ran a restless hand through his thick, wavy hair. “I hate not being able to read my own damned letters,” he muttered.
“It will get easier as you go along,” she said quietly.
His head lifted and turned, as if he was trying to see where she was. “Do you think so?” he asked with a rough laugh. “I very much doubt it.”
“We all have trials in life,” she said simply. “We get through them. Everything passes away—grief, anger, hope, joy, all of it. It’s both a blessing and a curse.”
“What have you gotten through? Are you even old enough to have had trials at all?”
She started to tell him about her father, then quickly bit her tongue. There were going to be pitfalls, working for him. Here was one of the biggest. She remembered telling him, when he was sighted, about Dolores, and her father, and the boy who’d broken their engagement when he found out her father ran beef cattle.
“We all have trials,” she replied.
“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.
She knew she’d never told him that. She doubted that Mamie had, or that he would have bothered to ask. “I’m twenty-three,” she said softly.
“Twenty-three.” His face was impassive. His eyes were narrow. His lips compressed. “Twenty-three.”
She couldn’t see into his mind or she might have been surprised at why he reacted that way to her age. He was seeing doors closing. She was twenty-three. He was thirty-eight. Her life was beginning. He was approaching the middle of his. Even if he’d been interested—and he was—her age put him off.
He leaned back in his chair and drew in a long breath. “My brother died on this lake,” he said abruptly.
“Your brother?”
“He and his wife were on a houseboat. There was a party. It was late on a Friday night. A couple of teenagers in a motorboat came flying around one of the coves and hit it broadside. My brother and his wife drowned in the time it took rescue people to get here and start looking for them.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she understood, too well, too late, his overreaction to her speeding in Mamie’s boat.
“He was the last living relative I had,” he replied. “We were close.” He glanced her way. “Do you have family, Emma?”
She hesitated. “Yes. My father lives on a small farm in North Carolina.” There was no reason for him to check that out, after all.
“Are you close?”
“Not so much. He’s very independent. But my mother and I were. She was very sweet and gentle.”
“How did she die?”
She swallowed. “She died in childbirth.”
A shadow passed over his broad face. “Unusual, isn’t it, in this day and age? Any decent obstetrician should be able to call in specialists if there are problems.”
“She was in labor for a long time and she had a hidden heart condition. She died of a heart attack.”
“I see. And the child?”
“A little girl. She was stillborn. They said she’d been dead for several days. They couldn’t save her.” That wasn’t the whole truth. She wasn’t telling him that her father had let her mother lie in childbirth for two horrible days, or that she’d died, ironically, while he was delivering a calf out in the pasture several miles from the house. By the time he finally got home to a sobbing Emma and a still, cold wife, it was too late to save her.
Emma’s father had delivered Emma at home, and he’d planned to do the same with his second child. Apparently it had never occurred to him that he should have taken his wife to the hospital when she started complaining of chest pain. She’d had an undiagnosed heart condition that the stress of prolonged childbirth had caused to go critical. She’d died of a massive coronary.
It had hurt, so badly, to lose her mother, especially at such a young age. Emma had watched her die, helpless to do anything. She had managed to live at home until graduation, but the minute she had a job, she moved to town and never looked back. Emma had nothing to do with her father at all these days. She wasn’t certain that she’d even be willing to ask him for help in a dire emergency. Or that he’d give her any. He was rarely sober enough to care about anything, anyway. He did manage to go out to work on the ranch, enough to keep it going, but his drinking was such a problem that he now had a huge turnover in cowboys.
Emma was ashamed of the way he behaved. Although his ranch was in Comanche Wells, everybody knew about him in nearby Jacobsville, where Emma had worked at the local café. At least she hadn’t told Connor about the drinking when he was sighted. She’d been too ashamed to admit it, even to a stranger.
“Emma?”
“Oh. Sorry. I was...lost in the past,” she confessed.
“You were with her when she died, weren’t you?” he asked suddenly, as if he knew.
She hesitated. “Yes.”
He crossed his long legs. “My sister-in-law was pregnant when she died.” His eyes glittered. “She didn’t want the baby. She said so, often.”
“Then why...?”
“My brother would never have married her if there hadn’t been a child on the way. She bragged about it, about how she’d snared him with the child, and that he’d have to support it, and her, until it came of age. She’d have everything she wanted, she’d said, and she laughed at him.” His eyes closed. “He was a sweet man. I tried to tell him what she was like, but he was naive. He’d never been in love before, and she was a good actress. He only found her out when it was too late.”
“That’s a shame, for a woman to do that to a man,” she said quietly. “We had a sweet old fellow in our church who’d been married to the same woman for fifty years. When she died, a widow down the road sweet-talked him into marriage. Then she took him for everything he had, even sold the house out from under him. He went to live with his son, and she called him every night to laugh at how gullible he’d been.” She sighed. “He killed himself.”
“Why?” he asked, shocked.
“He loved her,” she said.
“Love,” he scoffed. “I fell in love when I was a teenager. I soon learned that it’s just a euphemism for sex. That’s all it is, a chemical reaction.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right,” she said. “But I’d like to keep my illusions until I grow as crotchety as you are.”
His eyebrows arched. “Excuse me?”
“Crotchety. That’s what you are,” she explained patiently. “You’re rude and overbearing and your temper could curdle milk.”
He chuckled softly. “Feeling brave, are you?”
“I can type.”
“That’s an excuse?”
“A woman who can type can always get work,” she explained. “So if you fire me, I’ll just go right out and look for another job.”
He stretched lazily, still smiling. “Always the optimist. Doesn’t anything get you down, young Emma?”
“Worms.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Worms. You put them on a hook and drown them in an attempt to catch fish that you also have to kill in order to eat them. It’s so depressing. Imagine how the worm feels,” she teased.
He burst out laughing.
“You look nice when you laugh,” she said softly.
“I don’t, often,” he said a minute later. “Perhaps you’re corrupting me.”
“That’s my evil influence, all right. I’ll have to look up my pitchfork.”
“Back to work, my girl,” he said. “Read me the next letter in the stack.”
“Email doesn’t have stacks.”
“Sure they do. Get busy.”
She grinned. “Okay.”
* * *
That night, something woke her. She couldn’t think what. She sat up in bed, frowning, and looked around. The house seemed quiet. There was nothing going on outside, either. She got out of bed in her flowing cotton nightgown with its puffed sleeves and slipped on her matching housecoat, tossing her hair in a pigtail over the back of it. She crept to her door and opened it.
Maybe it was her imagination...no! There it was again. A moan. A harsh moan.
She walked down the hall, frowning. The sound grew louder. She stopped at a door and knocked.
“What the hell do you want?” came a rough, angry voice from behind the door.
She opened the door a crack. “Mr. Sinclair?” she called softly.
“Oh. Emma. Come here, honey, will you?”
She hesitated. “Do you...wear pajamas?”
He laughed even through the pain. “Bottoms, yes. Come in.”
She opened the door and walked in, leaving it open behind her.
He was sitting on the side of a huge, king-size bed. A brown paisley duvet was thrown back from brown sheets. Pillows were scattered everywhere. His head was in his hands, propped up on his broad thighs.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“No. I hurt like hell. Go into the bathroom and look in the medicine cabinet. There’s a bottle with blue-and-white capsules in it, for migraines. Bring me one, and a bottle of water out of the minibar in the corner.”
“Mini what?”
“Minibar.” He lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was drawn with pain. “Like a small fridge,” he explained kindly.
“Sorry. I’ve never seen one.”
“They have them in most hotels,” he pointed out.
“Well, I’ve never stayed in a hotel. Or a motel.” Which was true. Mamie traveled, but Emma stayed home and took care of the house and typed drafts for Mamie’s new books. She walked into the bathroom, unaware of his raised eyebrows.
She found the bottle, read the directions, popped one out into her palm and closed the lid. She put the bottle back, then went to find the water.
“Open up,” she coaxed. He opened his mouth and she put the capsule on his tongue. It was intimate. It was also sexy, to feel his mouth that way. She tried not to react as she opened the bottle of water and put it carefully into his hand.
“It’s open,” she said.
He then lifted the water to his chiseled lips and took a long swallow. The feel of Emma’s fingers near his mouth affected him, even through the pain. He winced. “Do you have migraine headaches, Emma?”
“No.”
“Anyone in your family have them?”
“No.” She was going to mention that her employer, Mamie, did until she realized that she wasn’t supposed to know Mamie. “I had a friend who had them,” she managed. “They were pretty awful.”
“Awful is a good word to describe them. They make you sick as hell, and then they give you a headache that makes you want to bounce your head against a wall.”
“I never get headaches,” she said.
“Mine weren’t this bad until I was blinded,” he said.
She winced. She hadn’t realized how it was going to feel, watching him suffer and knowing that she’d caused it. She’d blinded him. It was very hard, trying to live with that. She wanted to tell him the truth, but every day she waited made it more impossible.
“Sit down,” he said. “There’s a chair by the bed. Stay with me for a minute, until it eases.”
“Of course.”
He hadn’t moved much. She noticed the faint olive tan that covered him from the waist up, the muscles in his big arms. He was gorgeous without his shirt. A thick mat of hair ran from his chest down to the waist of his burgundy pajama bottoms, and probably past it. She flushed. She’d never seen a man in pajamas before, except on television or in movies. He was very sexy. And he didn’t look his age at all.
“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” he asked after a minute.
“I figured that talking wouldn’t really help the headache.”
“Good point.”
“Have you had them all your life?”
He nodded and winced, because the movement hurt. “My mother had them. Terrible headaches. We had to drive her to the emergency room a lot, because they got so bad.”
“Wouldn’t a doctor come to the house for you? I mean, you’re very rich...”
He smiled. “I wasn’t always.”
“Really?”
“I inherited a small private air service from my father. I studied business management and parlayed it into a bigger private air service. I absorbed a company that made baby jets, and added a regional air taxi service that had gone bankrupt. It took a long time, but when I hit it big, I hit it big.”
“Empire builders.”
“What was that?”
“You’re an empire builder,” she said simply. “I read about them when I was in school. Men like Carnegie, Rockefeller, Sinclair. Men who started with nothing but had good brains and strong backs and earned fortunes.”
“It was a little easier in their day.” He chuckled. “No income tax back then, you see.”
She cocked her head. “You own one of the biggest airplane manufacturing corporations in the world,” she recalled. “One article said you test-flew the planes yourself.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
His eyebrows arched.
“I mean, you’re rich. It’s risky, right, testing planes?”
“Very risky.”
She was silent. She didn’t push. She just waited.
He drew in a long breath. He didn’t usually discuss personal things with staff, not even with Barnes or Marie. But she was different somehow.
“I got married when I was eighteen,” he said after a minute. “She was beautiful, inside and out. She had black hair and blue eyes, and I loved her beyond measure. At that age, I thought I was invincible. I thought she was, too. We went on this vacation. It was before cell phones were popular, when you usually had to have a landline to talk to people. We were on an island with no outside communications except a line to the mainland, to be used in emergencies. It was a quiet place just for honeymooners. The boat ran once a week. We had the time of our lives, lying on the beach, cooking for ourselves. She was five months pregnant with our child.”
Her lips fell apart. She stared at him.
“She’d been healthy, perfectly healthy. The doctors said it was risky, to go off like that, but we were young and stupid. Something went wrong. She was in agony and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to call for help, but there was a storm and the lines were down to the mainland. I couldn’t even manage to build a fire and signal, because of the rain.” He lowered his head. The memory was still painful. “She died in my arms. The baby died with her. At least, I suppose it did, because I had no idea how to save it. It would have been too soon in any case. When the boat came to bring supplies, I was half-mad. They took me off the island, put me in the hospital and sedated me. My father and mother, and her mother, came to make the arrangements for her and to bring me home.” His face hardened. “I never wanted a child after that. I hated the whole idea of a baby, because a baby cost me Winona.”
She grimaced. What a tragic life he’d had. Now she understood his attitude about love. He’d had one great love, and now he’d convinced himself that love and sex were the same thing. It was a shame. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t even imagine how that would feel.”
He hesitated a minute before he spoke again. “I’ve had brief affairs, but I never let a woman get close again. And I make sure there will never be another child. I thought about having a vasectomy, but my doctor talked me out of it.” He shrugged, then clenched his jaw. “Every woman who came along wanted a child. I told them that if they got pregnant, I’d insist on a termination.”
The words chilled. He was the sort of man who would love a child if he had one. But he was obviously determined never to let that happen. To Emma, who loved children, it was a blow. She caught herself. Why should it bother her? She was just his assistant. She sat up straighter. “It’s sad, to blame a baby for something that wasn’t its fault,” she said very quietly.
“The baby killed Winona,” he said harshly.
She felt his sorrow, his rage. “You know, we think we’re in control. That we can decide what happens to us by the actions we take. But life isn’t like that. We’re like leaves, floating down a river. We can’t even steer. We have the illusion of control. That’s all.”
He sat up. “And now we can talk about God and how He loves people and takes care of us,” he scoffed.
“No. We can talk about how there’s a plan to every life, and that what happens to us is part of it. If she’d been meant to live, she would have.”
His eyes began to glitter. “Twenty-three, and already a philosopher,” he said sarcastically.
“I’m not bitter, the way you are,” she said. “I haven’t had bad things happen to me.” That was a lie, but she couldn’t tell him the truth. “So I see things from a different perspective.”
“Pollyanna.”
She smiled. “I guess I am. Optimism isn’t expensive. In fact, it’s cheap. You just have to take life one day at a time and do the best you can with it.”
“Life is a series of tragedies that ends in death.”
“Oh, that’s optimistic, all right.”
A half smile touched his hard mouth. “Happiness is an illusion.”
“Sure it is, if you think that way. You’re living in the past, with your heartache. You don’t trust people, you don’t want a family, you don’t have faith in anything, and all you live for is to make more money.”
“Smart girl.”
“Now you’re all sarcastic,” she said. “But what I’m trying to say is that you don’t expect any more from life than a struggle and more heartbreak.”
“That’s what I get.”
“And are you happy?”
He scowled.
“It’s an easy question,” she persisted. “Are you happy?”
“No.” His jaw tautened. “Nobody is happy.”
“I am,” she said.
“What makes you happy?”
“Birds calling to each other in the trees. Leaves rustling when they turn orange and gold and there’s just the faintest nip in the breeze. White sails on the lake just after dawn. Crickets singing on a summer night. Things like that.”
“How about nights on the town? Dancing in a nightclub? Going to a rock concert? Watching the Grand Prix in Le Mans?” he mused.
“Martians playing in dust storms? Because I’m just as likely to see the latter as the former. Not my world.”
“I’ll take my dancing in a nightclub before your crickets on a summer night,” he said sardonically.
“Glitter. That’s what you have. Glitter. It’s an illusion.”
“So are crickets. I’m sure they only exist in cartoon form and star in Disney movies.”
“I give up.”
“You might as well. You’ll never change my perspective any more than I’ll change yours.” He chuckled.
“How’s your head feeling?”
He blinked. The question surprised him. “Better.”
“Probably all the talk about crickets and rustling leaves,” she said pertly.
“More than likely the hilarity over your concept of happiness.”
“Whatever floats your boat,” she told him. She stood up. “If you’re better, I’ll go back to bed.”
“You could stay,” he pointed out. “We could lie down and discuss sailboats.”
She laughed softly. “No, thanks.”
“Have you ever been in love, Emma?” he asked, curious.
She drew in a breath. “I thought I was once,” she said. “We got engaged. But it didn’t work out.”
He didn’t like that. It surprised him, that he was jealous, when she was far too young for him and an employee to boot. She’d been engaged. Even religious people had sex when they were committed. It changed the way he thought of her.
“Why didn’t it?” he asked.
She didn’t dare tell him the truth, because she’d told him about her ex-fiancé before he was blinded. “We discovered that we didn’t think alike in the areas where it mattered,” she said finally. “He wasn’t at all religious...”
“And that matters?” he chided.
“It did to me,” she said stiffly.
He cocked his head and looked toward the direction of her voice. “You’re a conundrum.”
“Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Now you’re getting nasty. I’m going.”
“How about bringing me another bottle of water before you leave me here, all alone and in pain, in the dark, by myself?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re a grown man! You’re always by yourself in the dark,” she muttered as she opened the minibar and pulled out another bottle of water.
“Not always,” he said in a deep voice that positively purred.
She blushed, and she was glad he couldn’t see it.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m putting it right here on the night table... Oh!”
While she was talking, he’d reached out and caught her around the waist, pulling her across him and down onto the bed with him.
He was very strong, and she felt the warmth of his body as he made a cage of his big arms and trapped her gently under the light pressure of his broad, muscular chest.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she began nervously.
He lifted one big hand and touched her hair. “Just be still,” he said quietly. “I want to see you. This is the only way I have, now.”
Guilt made her lie still in his arms as his fingers traced her eyebrows, her forehead, her high cheekbones and straight nose. They lingered on her rounded chin and her soft, bow-shaped mouth. From there they went down to her throat and stilled on the pulse that was surely visible as well as if he’d been able to see it. Her heartbeat was almost shaking her and she had to fight to get in a breath of air.
“You’re nervous,” he said softly.
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“No need. I’m curious. Surely you did this with your ex-fiancé?” he chided.
She pushed gently against his chest. Her fingers tingled in contact with the hard, warm muscle. “What I did with him is not your business, Mr. Sinclair,” she said uneasily. If he could have seen it, her face was flaming red.
He didn’t like her assertion that it wasn’t his business.
“I’m just curious,” he said sarcastically. “Did that religious thing tie you in knots when you slept with him?”
“Religion is all I’ve had most of my life, Mr. Sinclair. Please don’t ridicule me because I believe in something more powerful than human beings.”
She was so devout. But he’d never felt closer to anyone. The thought shocked him. She was an employee. She was a glorified typist. She had no knowledge of sophisticated living, of men, of the world. Or did she? He’d had too much of women who pretended innocence and were more experienced than he was.
He traced her soft mouth and felt her teeth on the full lower lip. “Stop that,” he said, tugging at it.
She swallowed and drew in a shaky breath. The feel of him was like a narcotic on her senses. He smelled of soap and the faint, lingering scent of aftershave or cologne. He was muscular without being blatant, and as his chest rose and fell, it seemed to her that his own breathing was none too steady.
“Are you on the pill?” he asked suddenly.
She pushed at him, growing frantic when she couldn’t move out of the cage of his arms.
He laughed. “All right,” he said. “Calm down. I get the idea. First you fall in love, then you get in a committed relationship, then you have sex.”
She almost corrected him, that nothing short of a wedding ring was going to get her into any man’s bed, until he laughed again. “It’s not funny,” she muttered angrily.
He took a long breath. There was a lingering smile, but no more amusement. “You fight for your ideals, don’t you, young Emma?” he mused. “I don’t agree with them. But I respect you for them.”
“Thanks. Can I get up, now that we’ve agreed that I’m living in the past?”
His fingers traced her soft mouth, feeling its helpless response. The house was very quiet. The only sounds were her quick breathing, and the furious beat of his own heart. The medicine had relaxed him a little as it took the pain away. Perhaps it had relaxed him too much.
“I’m hungry, Emma,” he whispered, bending slowly to her lips. “I want to see how you taste.”
The last word was almost a groan as he found her mouth with his and possessed it with a tenderness he hadn’t felt since Winona. He could feel Emma’s uncertainty as his mouth teased hers, explored it softly, parted her lips and moved against them with slow, sweet sensuality.
Emma wanted to fight. But it was like a drug. He was tender, and methodical. He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. He enticed. He coaxed.
Her lips were parting on their own now, following his as they lifted and tempted her, taunted her. He laughed, deep in his throat, at her sudden yielding. So much for her high moral tone. She was as hungry for this as he was. He drew in a quick breath as he felt her hands flatten in the hair over his muscular chest, and reacted to it helplessly. It had been years since he’d been so quickly aroused with a woman.
He wanted to drag her against him and let her feel his hunger, but he hesitated. Even if she was only doing lip service to her morals, he didn’t want to dampen the hunger she was beginning to reveal. He caught her upper lip in both of his and tasted it underneath with his tongue, brushing and lifting. He felt her hands on his upper arms now, her nails digging in involuntarily as she lifted toward him.
His hands slid under her back, under the robe, and he eased down against her, the pressure of his chest even through her gown causing odd, sweet sensations all over her untried body.
One big, strong hand came around to toy with the cotton under her arm. She caught it with a tiny gasp, because even through her robe and gown, his touch was electrifying. But his mouth covered hers again and her fingers relaxed more and more until they moved away. She didn’t want to stop him, anyway. He was making her body sing. He smoothed his fingers over her rib cage, his thumb brushing just the side of her firm breast and making her quiver. He slid it around, over her hips, down to cover her flat stomach.
Why should he suddenly think of babies? His own breath caught against her mouth. A child. He groaned. His mouth became suddenly insistent, demanding. He moved down against her.
Through the gown and robe, she could feel his chest rubbing against her pert little breasts, brushing his chest, arousing him. His hips brushed hers and she felt the changing contours of his body.
A sound worked its way out of her throat and up into his mouth. He recognized it for what it was.
So did she. Even as she heard herself moan, she knew she had to stop him. This could never happen. He was a man who had disposable lovers. She was the woman who’d blinded him. She couldn’t—didn’t—dare let this go any further.
Her hands pressed hard against his chest and she drew her mouth from under his, not without a little shudder of anguish. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don’t...!
He lifted his head. Odd, that he had a sudden image of white roses and lace flash in his mind.
He moved away from her and fought to catch his breath. It was hard to let her go, because she tasted like heady wine.
He felt her begin to relax as he lifted himself away from her. But his fingers still moved on her rib cage, very slowly, teasing near her breast. He felt her reaction to even that innocent touch. She wanted him. She might not be ready for intimacy, but she wouldn’t resist long, if he insisted. He was sure of it.
Emma was torn between what her body wanted and what she knew she had to do. His touch kindled a hunger that was totally unfamiliar. New. It wasn’t the lure of sex, either. It was something more, something sweeter.
He drew in a last, steadying breath. “You’re very slender, Emma,” he said softly. “How much do you weigh?”
She laughed. “A hundred and ten,” she said, surprised.
“You’re tall.”
“Well, not so very. Just five feet and six inches.”
His hand lifted, reluctantly, and found her hair. It was braided down her back. He smiled. “You don’t let it loose at night?”
“It tangles.”
“I suppose so. What color is it?”
“Blond. Pale blond.”
“And your eyes?”
She smiled. “They’re brown. Dark brown.”
“An interesting combination.”
“I’m not pretty,” she added quietly. “I have regular features, but they’re not beautiful. Nothing like...” She bit her tongue. She was going to say, like that woman who’d cooked him a soufflé once that he complained about. She’d been beautiful. But the woman he’d hated, who’d blinded him, had remembered that. The woman she was pretending to be wouldn’t have known about the soufflé, and he’d have snapped at the memory like a fish biting a worm. She had to be careful about what she said to him.
“Nothing like...?” he asked.
“Nothing like the sort of women you probably know,” she said instead.
He shrugged. “They all start to look alike after a while. Feel alike. Sound alike.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ve gotten jaded in my old age, Emma. Women come and go. Mostly they go. I’m thirty-eight. I’m slowing down. I sent the last one away a couple of weeks ago. The one you put through to me recently,” he added with pursed lips.
“Oh, dear.”
“You’ll learn who gets to talk to me and who doesn’t.”
“Do they take numbers and stand in line?” she wondered.
He chuckled. “Not quite.”
It felt comfortable, lying in bed with him. She liked it very much.
“I should go to bed,” she said.
“I guess you should.” He sat up and felt for her arm, pulling her up gently with him.
“Is your head better?” she asked as she got to her feet.
“Much better.” He cocked his head and smiled wickedly. “If I get another migraine, will you come back?”
She laughed softly. “Not without some promises from you first.”
“Coward.”
“You bet.”
He drew in a breath and stretched lazily. Watching him, Emma almost moaned at the way he looked, half-dressed. He was beautiful, like a painting. Like a sculpture.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she said abruptly, because she realized she was enjoying the sight of him a little too much.
“Thanks, Emma,” he said suddenly.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad your head’s better.”
He just nodded.
She went out and closed the door.
He groaned and put his head in his hands. His body was in agony. She wasn’t like his other women, and he wanted her. But she’d expect a commitment, a wedding, the whole nine yards if he gave in to his urges. So what the hell was he going to do now?
Down the hall, Emma was wondering the same thing. She loved kissing him. She loved having him hold her. She should have resisted more. Instead, she’d enjoyed everything he did to her.
It had felt like descriptions she’d read in one of the romance novels she loved to read. She’d dreamed of a kiss like that from a man who’d love her and marry her and make a home with her.
But she had to keep in mind that Connor was a millionaire—maybe even a billionaire. He lived life in the fast lane. Casinos and shows on Broadway and all things glamorous. She’d never fit into that world. And she’d better remember that he didn’t want marriage or children. It would be madness to get involved with him, even in an innocent way.
Beneath all that was the memory that she’d blinded him, that he couldn’t see because she’d gone wild in a speedboat on a lake where one had killed his only brother. She shivered as she thought of the vengeance he was likely to take if he ever found out who she really was. It had been insane to do this, to think that he might soften if he got to know her, that she could tell him and he’d forgive her. This was a man who never forgave anyone, who repaid in kind every transgression. This was a man who didn’t know what mercy was.
She didn’t sleep much. By morning she’d made a decision. It wasn’t an easy one.