Ain't She Sweet? (31 page)

He stroked her other breast, gave her time to recover. Eventually, he tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear. “How long has it been for you?”

She drew a spiral in the soapy water on his knee. “Emmett got sick two and a half years ago.”

“You hadn’t had sex in nearly three years?”

“Not with another person.”

He chuckled. One of the candles sputtered. He shifted his leg to a position that was only marginally more comfortable, dabbled with her earlobe. She rested the back of her head against his shoulder. Falling in love wasn’t exactly a red-letter event, since she’d done it so many times before. It was her old weakness, but she’d believed she’d gotten past the point where she didn’t feel alive unless she fancied herself in love. Apparently not. At least she was smarter now, and she knew exactly what she had to do about it.

“We need music,” he said. “Bach, I think.” But instead he began singing “Ain’t She Sweet” in a surprisingly mellow baritone, which made her smile despite her mood. When he was done, he caressed her shoulder. “Promise me you’ll tell Jewel you changed your mind, darling. Promise me you’ll stay at Frenchman’s Bride.”

Men had called her a lot of things over the years—
honey, sweetie, babe, bitch
—but never
darling.
“My days at Frenchman’s Bride are over, Your Grace.”

“Why, pray tell?”

In spite of herself, she had to smile. “Being a kept woman and all that.”

“You’re hardly a kept woman. You work for me.”

“Sleeping with the boss and all that.”

“You’re determined to be difficult. Fortunately, I’m in an exceptionally fine mood.”

“You should be after what I did to you tonight.”

That managed to distract him for a couple of minutes. Not long enough, though, because he soon returned to the subject at hand. “We’re going to approach this rather amazing chemistry we have in a logical fashion.”

“Okay, but I’m having my lawyer draw up an ironclad prenup to make sure I get Frenchman’s Bride after our divorce.”

Instead of scaring him to death, she’d amused him. “You won’t put me off that easily.”

“You should be shaking in your boots. Except for one thankfully short-lived period during the worst of my drinking days, I tend to marry my lovers.”

“Now, however, you are a wiser, more mature woman.”

“Not that wise, dawg, and I’ve got a powerful hankering for you.”

“Stop toying with me. I’m not so easily frightened. I’ll admit that what’s happened has been fairly astonishing. We seem to be one of those odd flukes of nature . . .”

Easy for him to talk about flukes of nature. He didn’t have a neurotic compulsion to fall in love with everything in pants.

“. . . and I believe I’ve come up with a rather tidy solution to our dilemma.”

“I don’t have to write a term paper, do I?”

“Not unless you plan to make it highly erotic.” His thumb found a tight muscle in the back of her neck, and he gently kneaded it. “What we most need is time, a chance to let this thing between us run its natural course.”

“Colin, you only like low-maintenance women, remember?”

“I like you well enough.”

“Be still, my heart.”

She sensed his smile.

“You really are an extraordinary woman.”

“And I’m not even at the top of my game.” Her defenses weren’t as strong as they should be, and it was time to take harsher measures. She fumbled for the plug with her toe. “You might remember that I’ve caused you nothing but trouble since I got here. And, forgive me if I’m hurting your feelings, but I’ve lost my taste for getting involved with the wrong sort of man. Or any man, for that matter.”

“Nonsense. I’m exactly the right sort. No one could be safer for you than me.”

The naked, workingman’s body pressed hard against her didn’t feel the least bit safe.

“How exactly do you figure that?”

“We understand each other perfectly. I’m sarcastic and unpleasant. You’re headstrong and manipulative.”

“Bless our hearts.” She located the ring on the plug and tried to work it free.

“Exactly. Neither of us entertains any fantasies about the other, so we’re not in much danger of letting things get messy, now are we?”

The plug gave. “I’ve been married three times. Messy’s my middle name.”

“Which is exactly your problem. You get married. With me, that pressure will be off you from the beginning.”

Something ached inside her—not the fact that he didn’t want to marry her; she’d never go down that road again—but the knowledge that she was incapable of the uncomplicated, loving relationships that came so easily to other women. The time had come to play it straight, but she couldn’t do it with his body pressed so close, and she rose from the tub before she spoke.

“Making love with you has been the first thing that’s felt really good in a long time, but no matter how much I’ve been rationalizing it, this was a backslide for me.”

The hand sliding up her leg stilled at her calf, and he went all haughty on her. “I’m not some bloke you picked up in a bar.”

She stepped out of the water and wrapped herself in a towel. “You may find it hard to believe, but I do know how to take care of myself, and having an affair with you isn’t the way.”

“A little late to decide that.”

“You were more temptation than I could resist.”

He looked more thunderous than appeased.

“The worst part is, I’m just starting to realize we’ve screwed up a nice friendship.”

“Nonsense. We haven’t screwed up a thing.” Water sluiced over the hard planes of his body as he rose, and the gleam of candlelight over those ropey muscles made her want to sink back in the tub with him. “It’s possible to be both friends and lovers. Preferable, actually.”

“Not in the Universe of Sugar Beth.” She put more distance between them as he stepped from the tub. “It tends to be all or nothing with me, Your Grace, and the fact that I’m standing here without my panties four months after my husband died means I’m pretty much back to my old tricks.” Her voice faltered. “Which is a lot more depressing than even you can imagine.”

“He was in a coma long before he died. And from what you’ve said about the kind of man he was, I can’t believe he’d have expected you to live the rest of your life in mourning.”

“You’re missing the point. This isn’t good for me.”

“It was bloody well good enough for you half an hour ago.”

He refused to understand, which made it time to hit him with her full arsenal. “I don’t tend to separate sex and the illusion that I’m falling in love.”

The instant wariness in his eyes told her she finally had his attention. “Sugar Beth, you don’t honestly believe . . .”

“That I’m falling in love with you? Why not? Look at all the practice I’ve had. And if that’s not enough to send you running for the hills, it’s sure enough to make me grab for a pair of Nikes.” She took in a little air so she could get through the rest. “That’s why I’m dumping you.”

His concern faded, and indignation took its place. “Like hell. I’m not one of your toy boys, Sugar Beth. You can’t toss me aside just because you’re having one of your snits.”

“Have you listened to what I’ve said?”

“Every word. And all of it twaddle. You’re far too accustomed to having men roll over at your command. Well, this man doesn’t roll.”

“I’m sure your brain will kick in any minute now.”

He wrapped the threadbare towel low on his hips, spoiling a magnificent view. “There’s no need for all this drama.”

“Let me make it a little clearer. I’ve been involved with enough painful relationships to last a lifetime, and I’m not doing it again. Ever.”

“Agreed. Pleasure only.”

“You’re either stone-deaf or the stupidest man on earth.”

“Stop being so stubborn.”

She clutched the towel tighter and headed for her bedroom. “If you want to be an idiot, go ahead, but you’re taking that long walk to the gas chamber all by yourself. This affair is over.”

His voice drifted over her shoulder, low and full of purpose. “That, my dear, is what you think.”

“You have played fast and loose with my affections, ma’am. I could laugh at myself for
having been so taken in. To be sure, I should have known what to expect from a member
of your family.”

GEORGETTE HEYER,
Devil’s Cub

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ryan waited until Winnie’s assistant left for lunch before he approached Yesterday’s Treasures. The bell over the door rang as he stepped inside. Winnie was alone, standing near the counter, arranging a display of antique dolls in a wicker carriage. She looked up, a welcoming smile fixed on her face until she saw who it was, and the smile disappeared.

That made him so furious he flipped the sign on the door so it read closed, twisted the lock, and shot her a look that had
badass
written all over it.

He was rewarded with the first sign of wariness on her part, a small, almost imperceptible step backward. Good. He was tired of being the only one on edge.

“I’m expecting a delivery,” she said.

“Tough.”

“This isn’t a good time, Ryan. If you have something to discuss, we’ll do it later.”

“I have something to discuss, all right. And I don’t want to do it later.”

His bad temper came from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. He should be at his desk now, eating a ham sandwich from the cafeteria while he caught up on a stack of unread reports and a P & L he’d intended to finish three days ago. But his concentration was shot.

Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since he’d seen Sugar Beth at the Lakehouse, and Winnie hadn’t said a word about it, even though they’d spoken twice on the phone. He knew for certain that she’d heard the news. Deke had called to tell him that the Seawillows had flown off for an emergency powwow on Tuesday night. Too late, he wished he’d stopped at Gemima’s to fan the fire, but he’d walked right past without remembering that Sugar Beth had started working there. The truth was, he’d barely thought about Sugar Beth since Tuesday. He’d been too consumed with his resentment toward Winnie.

Her hair looked longer than he remembered, which was crazy, since she’d only left home four days ago. A tiny, jeweled clip, barely the size of his thumbnail, held her bangs back from her face on one side. She didn’t seem much older than Gigi, but she looked far less innocent.

He’d never paid much attention to her clothes. Her wardrobe was stylish, conservative, and at first glance her ivory-colored wrap dress seemed that way, too. Surely he’d seen her wear it before, so why had he never noticed the not-so-subtle way it clung to her body? She always complained that her legs were too short, but even without that ridiculously sexy pair of open-toed heels, they were more than long enough for his taste.

Exactly long enough to wrap around his hips.

A flood of lust shot straight through him, not the familiar lust a husband feels for his wife, but something more sordid that evoked seedy motels and broken wedding vows.
All
you ever think of is sex!
He’d been indignant when she’d thrown that at him, but he’d have a tough time defending himself now.

“Ryan, I really don’t have time to talk.”

“And I really don’t care.”

Her wariness increased. “Is there something specific . . .”

“How about the fact that my wife’s moved out, my daughter alternates between clinging to me like a burr and refusing to come out of her room, and I haven’t been worth a damn all week at work. How about that?”

“I’m sorry.” She might have been offering sympathy to a stranger, and the pit of his stomach burned. He’d been so sure that hearing he’d had dinner with Sugar Beth would have shaken her up enough to realize she couldn’t keep doing this, that it was time to start fighting for her marriage instead of running away. Fighting for her
husband.
He’d at least wanted to frighten her into coming back to the bargaining table. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might not care enough to make the trip.

He was overcome with a watershed of unpleasant emotions—anger, fear, guilt, and something primitive that had to do with antiquated notions of possession. He concentrated on his anger, the one he could most justify. “You’re not sorry about anything. If you were sorry, you’d fix this.”

She had the audacity to laugh, a dark, brittle sound. “Oh, yes, sir, let me just do that, right away, sir.”

“God, I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”

“Only because you’re not used to it.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Be honest.”

He could feel himself losing it, and he gritted his teeth. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Tell me what you want from me?”

She dropped her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was embarrassed. But when she lifted them, she didn’t look embarrassed at all. She looked tough and determined. “I want your heart, Ryan.”

Her quiet dignity spoke of intelligence, of decency, of qualities that made
him
feel like the guilty party, which was something he didn’t deserve, so he struck back hard. “This is a great way to go about getting it.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she took a few steps toward him. She looked young, innocent, very beautiful. “I want your heart, and I want your forgiveness.”

Her words should have pacified him, but they only made him angrier. “This is bullshit.”

She gave a weary sigh, as if he were the unreasonable one. “Go back to work. You’re still too angry to talk.”

His sense of being ill-used had eaten away at him for days. No. Longer than that. He’d had plans for his life, and none of them had included being a twenty-year-old husband and father. She’d stolen his dreams. She’d stolen his
future,
but he’d swallowed his resentment. Not in one big gulp—that would have been too much to ingest—but in queasy sips—sips so small and far apart he’d never managed to get to the bottom of the glass.

“If you want my forgiveness,” he heard himself say, “you’re going to have to wait a hell of a long time for it.”

Her head came up. He told himself to leave it at that, but he hadn’t been sleeping well, and he knew he’d taken too much for granted, taken
her
for granted, and that she was right—he had held something back—but he no longer cared about fair. “I hate what you did to me. I’ve always hated it, do you hear me?”