“Not unless he asks me,” she agreed.
“You aren’t marrying him even if he does.”
“How do you plan to stop me?” she asked curiously.
“Guess.”
She cocked her head, staring up at his stubborn face. “Why bother? You don’t want me, except in bed. I want someone who can love me.”
He shifted restlessly. “Maybe love can be taught,” he said uncomfortably. He stared down at her hands on his chest. “Maybe you could teach me how.”
She didn’t feel as if her feet were touching the floor anymore. Could she possibly have heard him say that?
“I’m only twenty,” she reminded him, “and your ward, and you don’t want commitment—”
His mouth covered hers in midsentence, tenderly probing, pushing at it, savoring it. “Kiss me, Abby,” he whispered into her mouth.
“I don’t want—” she tried to protest.
“Love me, baby,” he breathed.
Her arms slid under his jacket and around him. She pressed close, holding him, giving him her mouth with all the wonder and generosity of her love for him. She felt his lips smile against hers, heard his soft breathing, and then he increased the pressure of his mouth and his arms and she went under in a maze of stars.
A long time later, he groaned and his mouth slid to her throat, his arms contracting as he tried to breathe. “That,” he whispered roughly, “was a mistake.”
She could hardly get her own breath, and she knew it was much harder for him. She smoothed his cool, thick hair, gently soothing him, comforting him as he fought for control.
Her lips pressed light, undemanding kisses to his cheek, his temple, his closed eyelids. He stood very still, giving her that freedom with a sense of wonder at how it felt to be caressed so tenderly.
His eyes opened when she stopped. “That was a nice touch,” he whispered, cupping her face in his warm hands. “Have you been talking to Misty again, or did you just think it might calm me down?”
“I read it in a book,” she confessed, lowering her flushed face.
“Reading about it and doing it are pretty different, aren’t they?” he asked gently.
“Yes.” She was still trying to breathe properly. Her fingers toyed with a button on his patterned shirt. He was warm, and she loved the feel and smell and closeness of his body towering over her.
“I’ve never made love to a virgin,” he whispered. His mouth touched her forehead with breathless tenderness. “I’d have to hurt you a little, maybe, at first.”
She felt waves of embarrassment wash over her at the vivid pictures in her mind. His big, nude body over hers in bed, covering her, his hands holding her…
“Does it always hurt?” she asked shyly.
“Not for a man,” he whispered, lifting his eyes to hers. “Not for you, either, if I could keep my head long enough to arouse you properly.”
Her heart was going like a trip hammer. “H…how…would you?”
He kissed the very tip of her nose. “Go out with me and I’ll show you.”
“On a date?” she whispered.
“Um hmm.” He nuzzled his cheek against hers. “Tomorrow night. I’ll take you to Houston. We’ll wipe out the bad memory of that last time there. We’ll dance and walk.” He brushed his mouth over her ear. “Remember, I have an apartment there,” he said slowly.
She closed her eyes. “No. I won’t go to your apartment.”
“It isn’t the last century,” he whispered. “We could be alone. We could make love.”
Her face flamed. “No,” she repeated.
“Abby…”
She pulled away from him, hating her own inhibitions and his attitude, as well. If he’d loved her, it might have been different. But he didn’t. He wanted her. And after that first time, she’d be just like every other woman he’d slept with. She’d be just another one of Calhoun Ballenger’s conquests, an ache that he’d satisfied and forgotten. A used toy.
“I have work to do,” she said, and tried to smile. “And…I don’t think I’ll go to Houston with you, thanks all the same.”
He realized only then what she thought. He’d made it sound as if he was going to round off the evening with a night in bed. He’d made it sound cheap, and that hadn’t been his intention at all. He’d meant that he’d make love to her, very light love, and then he’d take her home. He hadn’t meant—!
“Abby, no!” he burst out. “I didn’t mean what you think!”
She opened the door. “I have to go.” She went out, and he followed her, intent on having things out. But as he reached for her, Justin came in with two businessmen. Abby escaped into the bathroom, shaking, broken inside by hopelessness and rejection. Calhoun not only didn’t love her. Now he didn’t even respect her.
Abby was grateful that business kept Calhoun occupied for the next two days. She could hardly bear the thought of seeing him when he knew so well how she felt about him. And now that he’d reduced their relationship to a strictly physical one, some of the joy had gone out of life for her. She hadn’t expected that he’d actually proposition her. But if inviting her to his apartment wasn’t a proposition, what was it?
She managed to avoid him when he was in the office that Thursday and Friday, since things stayed hectic. Abby was training a new secretary, and Calhoun seemed reluctant to discuss their private lives around the other woman. She was a year older than Abby, bright and quick-witted. And, unfortunately, already stuck on Calhoun. She had a habit of sighing and batting her long eyelashes every time he passed her desk. Abby was glad Friday was her last day. Having to watch Calhoun with a potential new conquest—the girl was blond and very pretty—was just unbearable.
There was a small farewell party for Abby late Friday afternoon. Justin and Mr. Ayker and the women who worked in the office had taken up a collection to buy her a beautiful cardigan in a pale yellow shade. There was a cake, too, and Justin made a brief speech about how valuable she’d been to them and how they hated losing her. Calhoun wasn’t there. Abby left with mingled relief and disappointment. Apparently she wasn’t even going to get to say goodbye to him. Well, that suited her. She didn’t care if he was glad to be rid of her. Not one bit.
She cried all the way to Mrs. Simpson’s house because she didn’t care.
Tyler was right on time to take her to dinner. He looked good dressed up. He was wearing a navy blazer with tan slacks, a white shirt and a natty blue striped tie. He looked elegant and very masculine. His green eyes danced as Abby came downstairs in a gray crepe dress with a full skirt and a low, crosscut bodice with fabric buttons. Her hair was neatly styled, and she looked elegant and sexy.
“You look pretty,” he commented with a slow smile.
She curtsied. “So do you. Good night, Mrs. Simpson,” she called out. “I’ll be in by midnight!”
Mrs. Simpson came to the doorway, grinning. “Mind that no good-looking woman tries to take Ty away from you,” she teased.
“No chance of that,” he replied carelessly, smiling down at Abby. “This dishy lady is enough for me. Good night, Mrs. Simpson.”
“Good night,” the older woman replied. “Have fun.”
Tyler walked her out to his white Ford,