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Carpet muffled the sound of his shoes on the stairs. He heard water running in the guest bathroom and, without bothering to knock, pushed open the door of the bedroom where she was staying.
She’d already put her mark on the place. Her straw hat decorated with cherries hung over one poster of the bed, and, although the flower-filled vase on the chest of drawers bore Patrick’s artistic touch, the bright yellow teapot containing the same kind of wildflowers that grew near the pasture fence could only have been arranged by Emma. She had books open everywhere, along with a folder of her research notes, a pink lotion jar, and an enormous bar of Cadbury dark chocolate, with the wrapper peeled back to expose the jagged edge where she’d nibbled at it.
The clothes she’d discarded lay on the bed, along with a lavender bra printed with little white daisies. A matching pair of bikini panties lay on the carpet next to her sandals. He stared at them for a moment, then wandered around the room before picking up her jar of lotion. He unscrewed it and took a sniff.
Baby powder, flowers, and spice. Even in his not-quite-sober state, the symbolism wasn’t lost on him.
He carried the jar to an overstuffed chair, sat down, and stretched out his legs. He dipped a finger inside and pulled out a fat pink curl of lotion, then rubbed it against his thumb. It was silky and utterly feminine. He brought it to his nose and thought about how women’s things could lull men’s senses. But not his—never entirely—because mixed with all that soft and silky femininity was a female’s need to reshape a man to fit her image of what she thought he should be.
His own manhood had been so hard won that he’d never been tempted to put it at risk by letting another woman get a stranglehold on him, especially an opinionated one. There was a private place inside him that made up who he was, and nobody ever touched that. Yet somehow today Emma had done it. Not knowingly. But it had happened, and now it was going to end.
As he rubbed the lotion into his palm and replaced the lid of the jar, he thought that women weren’t the only ones who could manipulate. His need to survive as a man had made him a master at the subtle art of getting what he wanted without giving up a thing.
The bathroom door swung open. She gave a hiss of surprise as she saw him and fumbled with the bath towel. He glimpsed breasts rosy from her shower, soft nipples, and damp ringlets of pubic hair a darker shade of butterscotch than the curls sticking to her cheeks. Blood surged to his groin.
“Bugger!” She finally managed to secure the towel. “You scared the life out of me! What are you doing in here?”
“Back a little late, aren’t you?”
Emma felt her heart kick an extra few beats from fright. He looked dangerous—sensuous lips thinned, violet eyes hooded. Something had happened to set him off. “I had no idea you’d be waiting up.”
“You must have forgotten that I’m responsible for you.”
“Rubbish. I’m responsible for myself. Now you’d better leave.”
He uncoiled from the chair and studied her for a long, hard moment. “Did you manage to give it away tonight?”
It took her a moment to absorb what he was saying, and then an indignant reply leaped to her lips. At the very last minute, however, she discovered that her curiosity was stronger than her displeasure. What was bothering him enough to make him look like a Cold War interrogator? “Are you asking if I had sex with Dexter tonight? Is that what this is about?”
Unfortunately, her directness didn’t make him back down an inch. “It might have been tough with Ted looking on. But maybe the two of you managed to get rid of him.”
Which to do first? Put on her robe or dump a pitcher of flower water on his head? She decided to stick with this a bit longer. “We dropped him off at his house about three hours ago.”
“So you and Dexter have been alone since then? Just the two of you.”
The flower water was too far away. She marched to the closet and pulled out her robe. “And I enjoyed every minute I spent with him.” She shoved her arms into her robe, yanked the towel out from beneath, and secured the sash. “If you have anything else to say about this—and I strongly advise against it—we can talk in the morning.”
“Nothing happened between you and Dex, did it?” A strange expression had come over his face. Almost . . . relief?
“The passion of his lovemaking was exceeded only by my screams of ecstasy.”
He came toward her, but he seemed to be speaking to himself. “Of course nothing happened. I knew that all along.” One of his hands curled over the bedpost. “But something could have happened, which is why I’m telling you right now that I don’t want you alone with him again.”
“If you’d been around this morning,” she pointed out, “I wouldn’t have been.”
“I wasn’t planning to be gone for long.”
“I didn’t know that, did I?” She dumped her clothes on a chair.
“From now on, you will. First thing tomorrow, we’re heading for the range. Then the rest of the
day is yours.”
“Thank you. Now good night.”
He didn’t budge. “It’s still early. Let’s go for a swim.”
“I just took a shower.”
