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“Annie?” he asked, frowning. “What is wrong?”
She swiped a hand over her mouth and realized she’d been frowning too. “This isn’t the time. I should stay with the children and I want to hear the speech.”
“They’re fine with Mr. Gueye and Miss Veronique. You have time. The guest of honor’s plane hasn’t even landed.” His deeply melodic accent washed over her frayed nerves. “Now tell me. What’s wrong?”
She surrendered. For now. “I’m not sure.”
“What Khaali said bothered you.” He touched her elbow so lightly she almost missed the contact as he steered her farther away from the cafeteria. “Why?”
The television grew softer, the low hum from other classes behind closed doors giving a muffled melody of their life, the same year in and year out—until Samir arrived.
She walked alongside him down the deserted corridor, their students in good hands with the half-dozen other staff members watching over them. “It’s just a feeling, like when I knew my children were lying or maybe even just holding something back.”
“You have children?”
She stumbled over her own feet. How had she gotten this comfortable with him after one shared meal of beef and rice, followed by watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? “I did,” she answered carefully. “They’re gone now.”
“Why did you never tell me this?”
Because it was damn stupid to discuss her old life. “It’s painful to talk about the past.”
He tucked her into a supply nook, away from any possible prying eyes and nestled her among the stockpile of paper, paste, and pencils. “I would like very much for you to talk about your past with me, let me help share the pain so it is less.”
“When you speak, it sounds so poetic.”
He scowled, his proud cheekbones more pronounced. “You make me sound weak.”
“That was not my intention at all.” She touched his chest lightly and oh my, the scholar must work out. “It’s nice to be around a man who can express what he thinks.”
“The father of your children could not?” The scent of musk and sandalwood reached to her.
Exotic. Enticing. She felt so disloyal for wanting this man more than the one she’d married.
Her hand fell away from him and she clenched her fists by her side. “He was a good man and he put up with a lot from me.”
Sam cupped one of her hands in his, rubbing a thumb along the inside of her wrist until her fingers unfurled. “Where is he now?”
“He died a few years ago.” She gulped in bracing gasps of air, until the familiar smells of paste and paper helped balance out the scent of this man.
“I am sorry.” He squeezed lightly, offering comfort.
She accepted.
“Me too.” Any other words about that time in her life lodged halfway up her throat, loyalty and self-preservation holding them back. She needed to get away from Sam, now, before she did something she regretted. But she also needed a moment to compose herself before she faced anyone. “Waiting for the festivities to kick into high gear has the children restless. Perhaps I should get them a snack.”
“I will help.”
She looked back, guilt tugging her. “I really should stay…”
“Half the staff is with them.”
Her hand went back to his chest again. “Sam, I’m not sure this is…”
“I know.” He skimmed his knuckles down her cheek in the most sensual caress she could remember experiencing. “I am a poetic man, but I am still very much a man who is aware that you are very much a woman.”
Her knees already weak, she didn’t even pretend to protest when his mouth sealed over hers. She swayed into him, opened for him in a full-out kiss like she hadn’t experienced in… a long time, longer than even before she and her husband split. Sam tasted like cinnamon and felt like unmovable marble. Steady felt so very good after so long in a state of upheaval and fear.
The sharp bolt of desire that shot through her shocked her. She’d known him for a year, and yes, she’d been attracted to him. But this? This out of control, crazy need to tear away his clothes—have him peel hers from her body—the feeling blindsided her.
