Eight weeks earlier
In the moonlight, the froth on the gently breaking waves shone like delicate, white lace on black velvet. The rhythmic rush of water across sand was hypnotic. Damp salt air clung to their skin and invaded their noses.
Jake stoked the fire in the chimenea on the patio of his Rosarito Beach house. Sparks, like brief-lived fireflies, spiraled upward, and warmth spread through the night air.
“This is terrific,” Angela said, reclining contentedly on a chaise lounge.
“Glad you like it.”
“What’s not to like? But this is hardly a secluded little place near the beach as you described it.”
“Are you saying that was a lie?” Jake asked, chuckling and settling back on his lounge.
“Not a lie, but definitely an understatement.”
“How would you describe it?”
“Hmmm. A spacious bungalow with no prying eyes in sight, nestled on the sand with not a blade of grass between it and the ocean.”
“You sound like a real estate agent. I just didn’t want you to expect too much. It’s far from fancy.”
“Unpretentious. One of the many things I love about you.”
The “L word” rolled easily off her tongue, but when her ears heard it, she gasped softly. Jake flinched. She watched a pained expression skim across his face. He glanced away toward the waves and swallowed hard. She wordlessly begged him to say something to break the awkward silence because her own mind seemed paralyzed.
An interminable time passed, filled only with the sounds of the sea. He refused to look at her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Swinging his legs off the lounge, he grabbed a Corona bottle from the small table between them and stood.
“I’m empty. Do you want a fresh one?” he asked, heading inside.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
She heard the patio door slide open and then close behind him. Her chin drooped to her chest, and she sighed heavily.
With one word, she had ruined a fantastic weekend. It was a cliché, but undoubtedly, there was some truth to it. And the possibility of that truth had spooked Jake. He wasn’t the kind of man who fell in love or wanted women falling in love with him.
Although it had never been her plan either, she could no longer deny or defy it. She was in love with Jake Stone. Which meant, of course, the pain would only be worse when he disappeared from her life. And she was well aware of when that would happen: as soon as he tired of screwing her. Jake’s patience, protectiveness, and possessiveness weren’t borne of love but of lust.
Tears stung her eyes. She was sure his twelve-step recovery program would eventually achieve its goal. She wanted it to succeed; she needed it to succeed. For four years, she had agonized over her failure to heal her libido. Why was it so hard? What was so devastating about the rape that had forced her mind into amnesia and her sexuality into oblivion?
Every day now, she felt stronger, more confident. Soon, she and Jake would have sex. Finally, she would not just survive; she would conquer her demons. Unfortunately, in the process, she was losing her heart to a man who didn’t want that part of a woman’s body.
At least this man would leave behind a wonderful gift: her restored sexuality.
Thirty minutes passed, and Jake hadn’t returned. Angela drained her Corona and languidly dragged herself from the lounge. It was late, and they wanted to get an early start Monday morning for the drive back to Coronado.
Inside, the bungalow was dark and quiet. She locked the patio door and dropped her beer bottle into the kitchen trash.
“Jake?” she called softly into the darkness.
“In here.”
She squinted to see him sitting in the recliner in the living room with his back to her.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good night,” she said.
“Fine. I’ll be in later. Good night.”
She stopped in the hallway.
“It’s just a cliché, Jake. It didn’t mean anything,” she said without turning.
“Of course not.”
* * *
“No, no, no.” Angela jolted awake. “Bad dream, bad dream,” she repeated like a mantra.
“Easy, babe, easy,” Jake whispered, reaching across her back to hook his arm around her. She resisted his attempt to pull her against him so his hand rested on her hip instead. “Relax, it’s me.” He kissed her cheek. “The nightmare?”
“Yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head, distracted by something with more substance than a dream.
The warmth of his hand penetrated the gossamer gown until her bottom bore a fiery handprint brand. It drew her focus away from the imaginary fright and toward his very real touch. Involuntarily, her muscles tightened beneath his hand. She watched his gaze wander down her body to the curve within his palm.
“I know what’ll help,” he said hoarsely. “A simple massage. There’s nothing sexual about it. I want you to relax.”
But there was nothing simple about it.
With incredible tenderness, Jake rubbed her from head to toes. The pressure varied from featherlight to probing. The texture changed with fingernails, fingertips, or palm. And the warmth—the delicious heat—was ubiquitous.
True to his word, he never touched any explicitly sexual points, but during the massage—which indisputably became a caress—her entire body transformed into one, all-encompassing, erogenous zone. Even as her external muscles relaxed, a deeper, more carnal part of her coiled tighter and hotter.
The contrast evoked shudders of pleasure.
“Angela?” he whispered huskily.
“Hmmm?”
He cleared his throat. “Touch me.”
She kept her eyes closed, but her hand crept from beneath the pillow and stroked his cheek. He caught her pinkie with his lips and sucked it into his mouth. He pushed and pulled her finger back and forth between his lips suggestively and then circled it with his tongue. Angling his head back, he let her finger slide out of his mouth.
“I don’t mean touch my face.”
His fingers left her back and rearranged something under the sheet. Then he caught her hand, kissed the palm, and placed it on his bare chest.
Her eyes opened to his Cheshire cat grin. “What’re you doing?”
“Helping you touch me.”
Her gaze lowered to the fingers grasping her wrist. He began to slide her hand slowly down his torso. She jerked. He stopped but tightened his grip.
“Stop it, Jake. Let go.”
“Easy, now. This is the next step: you getting comfortable with my dick. Then we’ll work on getting comfortable with me touching your…uh…intimate spot.”
He moved her hand a few inches downward, but she yanked it free and clutched it under her chin.
“I don’t want to.”
“C’mon. You can do it. It’s not going to bite you. A dick is only flesh and blood. Touch it. Stroke it. Squeeze it, but not too hard. Okay?”
“No.”
“Angela, you’re in control. It’s not going to hurt you.”
“I know you’d enjoy it, but I can’t do it.”
“This isn’t for me.”
She arched her eyebrows. “It’s not?”
He grinned. “All right, a little. Didn’t the massage put you in the mood?”
She hesitated. “Yes, it was wonderful.” She gulped. “I’m sorry, Jake. I hate to admit it, but I guess I’m afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No, just that part of you.”
“Liar.” He rolled her onto her back. “You’re not afraid of my dick. You’re not afraid of me physically at all. What you’re scared of is psychological. You’re afraid I’m going to leave after I fuck you.”
She winced. “Stop it. Don’t be crude.” She pushed his hand away.
“Admit it. You don’t believe I care for you, so obviously I’m only in this to get laid. Am I right?”
She cringed. “Can you blame me? Tonight, I used the ‘L word’ in a silly cliché, and you freaked out and froze up. What am I supposed to think?”
“Damn.” He jumped off the bed and spread his arms in exasperation. “I’ve never been this emotionally involved with a woman before, but that’s not good enough for you. Lady, I wouldn’t hang around this long just for sex. And I’d never force you to do anything against your will. I thought you knew me better than that.”
“Liar. You’re a shadow. Sometimes I feel like you hide the real you. But I know all I need to know: You’re a man.”
Jake’s mouth fell open. His voice dropped to an incredulous whisper. “I see. All men are the same. Modern-day cavemen. Grab the bitch by the hair, drag her into the cave, and fuck her until we get bored. Is that what we do?”
“Close enough.”
* * *
Jake stood at the edge of the flagstone patio, overlooking the rocky hillsides and drinking his second large tumbler of J.D. He and Angela had driven back from Mexico that morning. It had been a miserable ride. They’d spent an hour waiting in line with hundreds of other cars at the San Ysidro border crossing. Smiles and conversation had been strained. When he had pulled up in front of her Coronado condo, she’d pecked him on the cheek and fled from the car.
Although they had both apologized for the argument, her wary animosity swirled just beneath the surface. Angela had revealed a deep-seated philosophy much darker than the classic Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. Her fundamental belief was that men are predators, women are prey. Jake feared they had taken two steps backward over the weekend.
As he absently lifted the glass to his mouth, the cell phone rang in his pocket. Extracting it quickly in hopes it might be Angela, he swore at the information on the screen.
“What the hell do you want?” he growled in greeting.
“Good afternoon to you, too.” Jake didn’t reply so the Contractor continued. “When are you going to finish the job?”
“You said I had three months.”
“It’s been two. You never take this long.”
“I am this time. What’s the problem?”
“The Agency is getting antsy.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“You’re not having any more stupid thoughts about reneging on the contract, are you?”
“Fuck off, asshole. I do this my way.”
The mechanical voice laughed. “You always do. But the Agency has an interesting offer.”
Jake’s jaw clenched, but he remained stoic.
“How does an extra ten grand sound?” the Contractor asked.
“For what?”
“For delivery by the end of this week.”
* * *
Angela unlocked the front door of her condo and waited. For the third date in a row, Jake kissed her chastely, whispered good night, and walked away.
“I wish you’d quit pouting like a little boy,” she called.
He stopped, sighed, and slowly looked back over his shoulder. “Pouting?”
With her hands planted on her hips, she marched around to stand in front of him. She should have read in his steely eyes that he was itching for a fight.
“Definitely pouting,” she said tightly.
“About what?”
“The other night.”
“Which night?” he snapped.
“Okay, smart-ass, play dumb. But you know damn well ‘which night’ and ‘about what.’”
“Go on.”
“You’re pissed because I wouldn’t do what you wanted me to.”
“And that was?”
She smirked. “Fondle you.”
“Fondle me?” He arched a brow.
“Cut the crap, Jake, and quit answering me with questions. You wanted me to fondle your…your penis, but I wouldn’t. Now you’re pouting to punish me.”
A growl of frustration rumbled in his throat. “Shows how little you fucking know me. Yeah, I was disappointed you couldn’t touch me—or fondle me, as you so aptly put it—but not for my sake as much as yours. I thought you were ready to confront the awful violence done to you, but you weren’t. Since that night, I’ve been trying to avoid putting you in the position again since you’re obviously not ready for that step. So, that’s what I’m fucking pouting about. May I go now?”
Her smugness faded. “That’s a pretty deep answer.”
“Well, I’m a deep kinda guy.” He cringed as if he regretted the unintentional double entendre.
Angela’s repentant gaze searched his eyes. “I’m trying, Jake, really I am. I want to be a complete woman again. More than ever since—”
“I know, and I don’t want to spook you. The right time will come. I should go now.”
He turned away and strolled toward the Corvette. He hadn’t gone but a few steps when she caught his arm and pulled him around to face her.
“I’d like to try again. Tonight.”
“Are you sure? There’s no pressure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d like to see…and touch…you. Who knows? It might grow on me.” She smiled coyly at her own wordplay.
He chuckled and reached for her. “Ya never know.”