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“Is that how you lived?” she asked.
He nodded. “I did general construction work, yes. In the beginning, I couldn’t even manage that much. But then I started carving, even when I was still recuperating. It was one of the things that called to me, calmed me. When Marie put the wood and chisel in my hands... I felt less like a shadow for the first time in weeks. Or I might have gone out of my mind completely.”
Priya turned to give him her back. He had a feeling she’d turned to hide her expression. That cloak of armor falling into place once more. It infuriated him and intrigued him, even more, if that was possible.
Still, he followed the line of her spine with his eyes like a greedy puppy eying its treat.
“Okay,” he said, his voice gruff. “I’ll have to jerk on the zipper hard.”
Palms spread on the wall in front of her, she braced herself. The movement arched her back toward him. “Do your worst. I won’t break.”
Was she aware of how sensuously challenging that sounded? Or was eight years of slumbering libido making him hear things he’d only dreamed of?
Shaking his head, he covered the little gap left between them. The scent of her coiled through him instantly. This time, when his fingers landed on her shoulders, she shivered and for an infinitesimal second, her spine arched toward him again.
His mouth dried.
With a loud huff of breath, her shoulders squared, as if she was willing herself to shed that awareness. But Christian had no such self-control and he wasn’t sure he’d employ it even if he had.
The soft hitch of her breath, the silky glide of her hair along his knuckles, the barely there graze of her backside against his front—awareness slammed into him like the punch of his pugilist friend back on Saint Martin.
Bracing one hand on one slim shoulder, he tugged at the lip of the stuck zipper. His fingers slipped on it, and Priya fell back against him with a jerk. Every time her curvy bottom grazed his groin, his muscles curled.
A groan ripped from his mouth.
“What?” she asked, facing ahead.
“This is...a special kind of torture,” he whispered. “You won’t understand.”
“Because you assume I don’t feel the same pull toward you? Because you think I didn’t miss you as much as you did me? Because you think I don’t find it extremely disconcerting to look at you and see the man I trusted above everyone else, only to have my mind whispering that you’re a stranger to me now...” She pressed her cheek to the cold tile, her shoulders tense. “Believe me, Christian, I’m right there with you.”
The barely banked anger in her tone—at this situation, the confusion and the pain—was like a cooling wind against his own fury.
“That I’m holding it together doesn’t mean I’m not also falling apart,” she murmured cryptically.
Head jerking up, Christian wondered how she knew what he’d needed to hear. He squeezed her shoulder, the pad of his thumb making mindless forays over her neck. His breath settled. For the first time in years, he felt like he wasn’t alone.
On the next try, the zipper ripped open with a tearing sound. The fabric of the dress immediately flapped aside, revealing the line of her spine and a swath of silky brown flesh. He swallowed as his gaze dipped to the lush curves of her bottom barely covered by lacy white panties.
Longing coiled through him, heating up every limb and muscle.
She turned around and he jerked his gaze upward. Her long silky hair had dried and covered the slopes of her breasts revealed by the slipping dress. Her eyes held his, a steadiness in them. “I’m glad you’re back, Christian,” she said, with a tilt of her mouth that made his gut twist with want. “In here,” she said with a hand on her chest, “beneath all the confusion and the anger and the ground being ripped away from under my feet.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll leave now so you can have your bedroom back.”
“No,” he said, raising his hands and stepping back. “No, stay. This is your room now. Your house. I’ll take the guest room.”
Her eyes big in her fine-boned face, she nodded.
He felt like that nine-year-old boy who’d suddenly lost his parents all over again. Damn it, he had to get a grip on himself. It wasn’t fair to expect more from her tonight. Even though all he wanted was to talk to her. Or listen, rather. He had an overwhelming urge to hear about all that she’d done in the last eight years. He didn’t want to miss a single bit of it.
“We have a lot to catch up on,” she added, obviously thinking the same thing. “Why don’t you get a good night’s rest and we can talk tomorrow—”
“I’m too wired to sleep.”
“So am I,” she said, a sudden resolve entering her eyes. “If you’re sure you aren’t too tired, I’ll meet you in the library for a drink.”
He considered her with a smile. Neutral ground—that’s what she was going for. Not quite strangers but not quite a husband and wife, either. Maybe not even friends, for all they had known each other intimately once. “I don’t drink anymore.”
When he’d have turned away, she called his name in a soft whisper.
