I’d never seen any man naked before. I wasn’t seeing him naked now, just the shape of him jutting from his body, almost pornographically explicit beneath the white terry cloth towel, cylindrical and huge. Were all men that large? My cheeks burned, but I stared down at him, fascinated, unable to look away.
Then I felt Edward’s gaze. “I took you for a virgin, but you truly don’t have any experience at all, do you?”
“I’ve had lots,” I lied. Our eyes met, and my shoulders sagged. “If you mean work. With men—none.”
“Not even with Jason?” he said incredulously. “No experience with sex, of any kind?”
The burn of my cheeks had turned radioactive now, and I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ve been kissed once or twice.”
“You’re twenty-eight!”
“I know,” I snapped. To hide my embarrassment, I turned away to grab the oil. He’d had a purely physical reaction, I told myself, the automatic response of his hungry male body to the touch of any female. It wasn’t that he wanted me. Not in particular. It couldn’t be.
Could it?
I did a quick comparison between his perfectly chiseled body, his power and wealth and his incredible masculine good looks—and what I had on offer.
Nope.
If you lose an inch of moral high ground, rush back to it as quick as you can, Mrs. Warreldy-Gribbley advised. Clearing my throat, I said reproachfully. “Keep this professional, please.”
“You first,” he said, sounding amused. Leaning his head back against his palms, he closed his eyes, and I remembered how he’d caught me staring.
Feeling foolish, I tentatively massaged the muscles of his chest, his arms, his shoulders. I was gentle with the injuries that still hadn’t completely healed, but even those were starting to disappear. He was no longer wearing bandages of any kind. There was nothing to keep my hands off his skin as I traced over the twisted muscles, the jagged scars. He was powerful, virile, sexy. He’d nearly vanquished the accident that had devastated his body. Heaven only knew what gaping wound still remained in his heart.
I looked down at him on the massage table. His eyes were still closed, but there was a twist to his lips I couldn’t read.
“What are you thinking?” I blurted out. I bit my lip, but there was no taking it back.
His dark blue eyes slit open infinitesimally.
“A dangerous question,” he murmured. “Better perhaps for you not to know.”
Was he thinking about the accident? The woman? Or something else entirely? “That’s silly.” I gave a stilted laugh. “Knowledge is never bad.”
“In that case...” His lips curved sardonically. “I am thinking, Miss Maywood, that it would be amusing to seduce you.”
A shiver ripped through my body. Wide-eyed, I stepped back from the massage table. “I work for you.”
“So?”
“I’m—in love with someone else,” I said weakly.
He abruptly sat up. “Not that it matters, but...” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
I stared at him. “Of course I’m sure.”
“You saw their picture, two movie stars gleaming together on the red carpet, entwined, stupid with love. He cheated on you, left you months ago, you never even slept together—but after all this time, you still love him? You’re still faithful? Why?”
Yes, why? My body echoed. Swallowing, I looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“It’s true what they say,” he said harshly. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
“Really?” I looked at him steadily. “And have all the women you’ve slept with burned the image of her from your brain—the woman you loved? The woman you almost died for?”
His lips curled, and a low growl came from the back of his throat. “Don’t.”
“Love doesn’t just disappear. You know that as well I do.”
“It can. It has. And you’re stupid to let it do otherwise.” Holding the towel around his hips with one hand, he rose to his feet. His eyes narrowed as he went on the attack. “How does it feel, knowing that your stepsister has everything—the career you want, the man you love?” He tilted his head. “And he probably wanted her from the beginning. He was likely using you, to get to her....”
“Shut up!”
“I feel sorry for you. How it must hurt to know they’ll never be punished for hurting you. That while you suffer, they’re making love in oblivious joy.” He snorted, his lip curling. “You’re so meaningless, they’ve forgotten you even exist.”
His face was close to mine, his expression cruel. My heart pounded with grief and pain. Then looking at him, I suddenly understood.
“You’re not talking about me,” I breathed. “You’re talking about yourself.”
The air between us was suddenly cold in a way that had nothing to do with the wintery bluster rattling the leaded windows, and the weak afternoon sun falling behind the bare black trees. His lip curled. He turned away.
“We’re done.”
“No.” Reckless of the danger, I grabbed his arm. “I’m trying to make you better,” I said in a small voice. “How can I, if I don’t understand the depths of your injury?”
Edward looked at me, his jaw tight. “You can see it. You’ve touched it with your hands.”
“Some wounds can’t be seen or touched,” I whispered. I took a deep breath. “Some go deeper. Let me help you, Edward,” I said pleadingly. “Tell me what you need.”
His dark blue eyes stared down at me, haunted. Then they turned cold and cruel as the Arctic. Still holding the towel loosely over his hips with one hand, he wrapped the other around the back of my head.
“Here’s how you can help me,” he said huskily. “Here’s what I need.”
And he pulled me against him in a hard, hungry kiss.
I didn’t have time to resist, or think; my body tightened, then melted against his. Edward’s lips were like silk, hot and fiery with need, his tongue brushing against mine. He held me against him, towering over me, strong and powerful and nearly naked.
Then his towel fell to the floor, and there was no nearly about it.
I was wearing a zip-up cotton hoodie, a T-shirt and knit workout pants, as always. But his skin scorched right through my clothes.
His hand moved slowly down my back, as the other cradled the back of my head, his fingers moving through my hair. I felt a whoosh and realized he’d pulled out my ponytail. My hair tumbled down my shoulders. He murmured words against my lips, his voice low, almost a growl.
“I want you, Diana,” he breathed, and claimed my lips savagely.
I’d never been kissed like this before. The pallid, tentative kisses of a brief college boyfriend had left me cold. Jason’s kisses, as I said, were pleasant, nothing more. This?
This was like fire.
Edward St. Cyr wanted my body. Not my soul. Not my heart. There was no respect in his embrace, no concern for my feelings. There was no emotion at all—just physical need and reckless desire.
But my hunger matched his. He made me forget everything—the past, my broken heart, my pain. When he kissed me, I almost forgot my name. He brought me to life, like a single hot ember from cold ash. He made my body blaze like the sun.
I