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She needed to find gainful employment and a cheap place to stay—not get mixed up with a sex god like Zane Montoya. The man was way too distracting.
Getting out of bed, she stretched, feeling all the little aches and pains and tender spots Zane had left behind to remember him by.
He’d woken her twice during the night, both times bringing her expertly to orgasm before finding his own release. He’d located and exploited every erogenous zone she had, with the focused, thorough precision of a man who knew his way around every inch of a woman’s body.
But each time she’d reached for him, eager to explore his magnificent body and exploit his limits in return, he’d distracted her, by swirling his tongue or stroking his finger across some super-sensitive part of her anatomy, or simply insisting that he’d never last if he let her have her way with him. And while that might very well have been true—she certainly hoped so—the last time she’d collapsed into his arms, dawn peeking through the pretty gingham curtains, she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep feeling sated and sexy—and the tiniest bit disappointed.
She examined her face in the bathroom mirror, the reddened patch of whisker burn under her chin and the sleepy afterglow still making her eyes shine.
Get away with you, woman.
How typically Celtic of her, somehow managing to find fault with the most stupendous sex she’d ever had.
She should be thanking the man, and rejoicing in the generosity of his lovemaking, not criticising him for his perfection. If it hadn’t been for Zane she would have continued to believe that her experience with Brad was as good as it got.
Reaching into the shower cubicle, she turned on the tap full blast, set the temperature a notch below scalding and stepped under the stream.
And anyway, she was never going to see Zane again, so none of this mattered…She’d made a promise to him, and herself, to be out of the cottage today and the quicker she packed her stuff and got going, the better.
But as she shampooed her hair and soaped the scent of Zane Montoya, Latino-Lover Extraordinaire, off her skin she knew in a tiny part of her heart what he had done to her, and for her, all through the night, would always matter—even if she hadn’t been able to do the same thing for him.
By mid-afternoon she’d showered, made herself a hearty meal—most of which she hadn’t eaten—laundered the bed linen, scrubbed out the kitchen and phoned her father to tell him she was great and everything was going brilliantly. At least that wasn’t as much of a lie now as it had been in the last few weeks.
And now she was ready to move on. Almost.
She flipped Zane’s card over in her fingers. And stared at the phone. Should she call him? To say goodbye, and thanks? It seemed like the polite thing to do.
The heavy weight that she’d been busy ignoring all day rose up her throat. She placed the card by the phone, pulled the sketch she’d made of the hummingbird the morning before out of her rucksack and scribbled a note on the back in pencil. She then counted out twenty dollars from her purse and placed it with the sketch beside his card, her fingers trembling.
She stared at the meagre offerings, and knew she was taking the coward’s way out, but she simply couldn’t afford the luxury of a goodbye. It was always better to be self-sufficient. The blockage in her throat already felt suspiciously like an emotional involvement that had snuck up on her when she wasn’t looking—and she mustn’t pander to it.
Zane wasn’t responsible for her, she was responsible for herself—and while last night had been wonderful, it wasn’t only the sex that had been spectacular. The feeling of safety and security as she’d fallen asleep in his arms had been even more seductive, but she couldn’t afford to count on it, or him.
Hefting the rucksack onto her shoulders, she turned to leave, when the loud rap on the door startled her.
Zane. Bugger.
She debated pretending she’d already left, but decided that was too cowardly, even for her. She dropped the rucksack, and opened the door.
Her heart thundered as she stared at the man leaning casually against the doorframe, wearing dark trousers, a pristine white shirt and a seductive smile she knew only too well. The lead weight in her throat expanded alarmingly.
‘You didn’t call,’ he said.
‘I know. I didn’t have time.’
‘Yeah?’ He pushed away from the frame, his eyes fixed on her face for several potent seconds, before his attention strayed to the rucksack—and the sketch and money she’d left by the phone. He brushed past her, the spicy scent she remembered doing strange things to her insides.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up the sketch and then flipping it over.
She closed the door—and realised her clean getaway was history.
After reading the note, he glanced at her rucksack and the small pile of crumpled bills again. Then the narrowed gaze returned to her.
‘Thanks for the picture—it’s really cool,’ he said, the tone measured, but she could see the muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘But you’re gonna have to explain the rest.’ He held up her note. ‘Were you about to run out on me?’
&n
bsp; Shame mixed with the hormones raging in her belly, making her voice come out on a husky whisper. ‘I told you I was leaving today. I didn’t think you really wanted me to call you.’
