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The posh woman giggled. ‘What does that mean?’ she said, her voice eager with curiosity.
There was a slight pause. Maddy sat back down on the toilet seat, annoyance catching in her throat. Hadn’t Rye suffered enough without these women gossiping about him as if he were a piece of meat?
‘He’s impotent, darlin’. Can’t get it up.’
Maddy gasped at Marta’s blunt statement, her astonishment masked by another even louder gasp from Marta’s companion.
‘You’re joking. But he was the most sought-after stud in London.’
‘I know, it’s devastating,’ Marta replied, not sounding remotely devastated.
‘That’s so ironic it’s almost funny,’ the posh woman continued, sounding both scandalised and amused by the juicy titbit of gossip.
Maddy’s stomach clenched, her anger choking her.
How dared these women make fun of Rye’s accident? And they were totally wrong about his abilities in bed. If he’d been briefly impotent after the accident, he certainly wasn’t any more. She could testify to that.
But, rather than bursting out of the cubicle to set them straight, she found herself anchored to the seat as confusion and inadequacy drowned out her outrage.
A part of her had always wondered why Rye had found her so irresistible. Why he had pursued her. Why he had wanted her so much—a man who could have any woman.
In the weeks since their first few days together, all those silly worries had faded away. Their sex life had been amazing. All his attention, all his eagerness and enthusiasm in bed had bolstered her confidence, not just in her sexual abilities but in so many other areas of her life.
But what if it had all been built on a lie? What if it was her inexperience that had been the real turn-on all along? Had she been his Little Miss Fixit in bed without even realising it?
Was that the real reason he’d become distant in the last few weeks? Because now he was fully recovered he was bored with her?
The thundering in her ears made it impossible to hear the rest of the conversation between Marta and her friend. She felt as if she’d been rooted to the toilet seat for an eternity when she realised she was alone.
Forcing herself to leave the safety of the cubicle, she
washed her hands on autopilot, the face that stared back at her in the mirror bleached of colour, all the sweet excitement, all the enthusiastic certainty of a few minutes before sucked out of her.
Rye swore softly as he glanced at his watch for the fiftieth time.
What was she doing? Replumbing all the toilets? She’d been in there over twenty minutes. And, not only that, he’d narrowly avoided bumping into Marta, which would have soured his mood completely.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he propped his butt against the lobby wall and forced his gaze away from the door of the Ladies Lounge. As he stared at the other guests milling around in the lobby, he tried to swallow down his desperation and a sharp frown creased his brow.
What the hell had happened to his careful plan to back off, to gradually let Maddy go? He’d done all the right things in the last two weeks, even though it had nearly killed him, but he was more desperate to be with her now than ever.
He’d made sure they went out every night since she’d been in London, determined to avoid the intimacy they’d shared in Cornwall.
Several times she’d suggested cooking a meal for him in the penthouse but he’d vetoed the idea, determined not to succumb to the urge to keep her all to himself. If they started living in each other’s pockets again, he’d be sunk.
But, every time he deflected her suggestions, he heard the confusion in her voice, saw the hurt in her eyes and it had crucified him.
And, before long, the evenings out had become a major chore. The noise and glamour of London’s most exclusive nightspots didn’t hold the appeal they once had. And having her with him only made him more aware of how shallow and pointless his old life had really been. He hadn’t just missed Maddy. He’d missed the quiet, soothing intimacy of their evenings together in the cottage.
Even so, he’d stuck to his guns—refusing to give in to the weakness.
He’d planned to be politely supportive tonight but not too supportive in case she got the wrong idea. But after she’d gripped his hand during the show, her body vibrating with nerves, his protective instincts had come to the fore. And then when she’d stepped onto the catwalk to take her bow, her face flushed with stunned pleasure, her lush, toned figure in that show-stopping dress making him cross-eyed with lust, he hadn’t been able to contain his excitement or his pride a moment longer.
When she’d stepped into his arms on the dance floor and swayed against him to the old-fashioned waltz, he’d found himself holding onto her a bit too tightly. With the weight of her head nestled trustingly on his shoulder, her intoxicating scent making him instantly hard, he was convinced he could have tap danced if she’d wanted him to.
His impatience to get her upstairs, to get her undressed, to claim her in the most basic way possible confirmed what he already knew—and had been desperately trying to deny for weeks. That he didn’t just want her any more. He needed her. He depended upon her. In a way he’d promised himself he’d never depend upon anyone again.
He shifted uneasily against the panelled wood, glanced back at the still unmoving door to the Ladies. And felt as if he were teetering on the edge of an abyss.
