Red-Hot Nights
Daring in the Dark
Jennifer LaBrecque
Share the Darkness
Jill Monroe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Daring in the Dark

About the Author

After a varied career path that included barbecue joint waitress, corporate numbers cruncher and bug business maven, JENNIFER LABRECQUE has found her true calling writing contemporary romance. Named 2001 Notable New Author of the Year and 2002 winner of the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, she is also a two-time RITA® Award finalist. Jennifer lives in suburban Atlanta with a chihuahua who runs the whole show.

To Rita Herron, Susan Kimoto and Rhonda Nelson for all the times ya’ll have talked me off the ledge and through the story.

Acknowledgement:

Thanks to John Wehr and his photojournalling of the 2003 NYC blackout at www.johnwehr.com/blackout.

1

HER HEAD DROPPED TO HIS shoulder, but still she watched the mirror. She knew not to look away. Every time she stopped looking, he stopped touching … and his touch drove her crazy. And yes, watching in the mirror made it so much more intense, so much hotter. His fathomless eyes met hers in the reflection. Her, on his lap, her back against his chest, her legs spread. He reached between her thighs and his long fingers parted her, opening her to his touch and his pleasure. His fingers were dark against her bare, pink flesh, sliding into her yawning, hungry portal … oh, yes … felt so good … please don’t stop … watching … wanting … oh, almost there….

The shrill ring of the bedside phone shattered the moment, pulling her out of the dream. Her body tight, her thighs wet, Tawny groped for the phone. “Hello.”

“Were you napping?” Elliott said, his normally cheery voice sounding just a bit forced. Of course, she could just be transferring the tension that lingered from being poised on the brink of orgasm in her dream. Or it could be Elliott criticizing her, which seemed to happen more and more frequently. It was almost like spending time with her parents.

“Hmm.” As an event planner for a group of Mid-town attorneys, her hours weren’t nine to five, Monday through Friday. “Last night was the cocktail party for that German client, remember? Then the partners had a lovely working breakfast at six-thirty this morning. Just what I wanted to do, crawl out of bed at four-thirty on a Saturday. Anyway, there’s no sin in an afternoon nap.” Intense sexual arousal and guilt lent her voice a husky note. “Did you work very late last night?” Elliott invested incredible hours in his art gallery, but it was paying off with a growing reputation and clientele.

“Late enough.” He sounded uncharacteristically terse.

Maybe it really was just her. She was wound so tight and ached so badly she wanted to cry. Or come. She should laugh, confess to her husband-to-be that she’d just been having the most awesome dream sex and that she still desperately needed to come and ask him to help her out.

Once upon a time she would’ve thought laid-back, easygoing Elliott would get off on a round of afternoon phone sex and talking her into an orgasm. But she wasn’t so sure anymore. Lately he’d been neither laid-back nor easygoing. And what if somewhere along the way she revealed he wasn’t the man spreading her thighs and leading her to ecstasy in her dreams? And what if the man she’d agreed to marry “till death they did part” couldn’t pick up where the dream left off and get her to that magical place?

He continued and the opportunity was gone. “I thought I’d come over after the gallery closes this evening.”

“That’s fine as long as you bring dinner and we stay in.” If he called this late in the day, she sure wasn’t cooking. Elliott was more into clubbing and being seen than she was. A quiet night at home suited her.

“Staying in works. I wanted to talk to you.”

Tawny propped up on her pillow. She and Elliott talked often, but when someone announced they wanted to talk … “What?”

“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone.”

“That’s a lousy thing to do. Bring it up and leave me hanging.”

“Sorry. But let’s leave it till tonight.” It wasn’t her imagination. He definitely sounded strained.

“Okay …” Sex. It must be about sex. Of course at this point her brain was one-tracking.

“Thai sound okay?”

“Sure. You know what I like.” Elliott couldn’t possibly miss her flirtatious innuendo. Maybe he’d initiate a little phone sex without her asking.

Elliott cleared his throat, as if her teasing left him uncomfortable. “Um, yeah, I’ll pickup chicken curry.”

Nix the phone sex. “Chicken curry sounds good.”

He cleared his throat again. He was either nervous or coming down with something. “I thought I’d bring Simon along.”

Her hand tightened on the phone even as her internal temperature slid up the sizzle scale. “Simon?” She licked her suddenly dry lips and rolled over onto her belly. “Why would he want to come to my apartment? He’s avoided me like the plague ever since the photo shoot. He obviously dislikes me.”

“He’s a busy guy. I don’t think he dislikes you. Simon’s just …”

“Dark. Brooding. Cynical. Intense. I think that about covers it.” And sexy in a shiver-down-her-spine, her-head-needed-to-be-examined kind of way. But that didn’t seem the most prudent observation to make about her fiancé’s best friend.

Elliott laughed and Tawny was thankful it didn’t bother him that she obviously rubbed Simon the wrong way. Sometimes she wondered if Elliott didn’t prefer it that way, but she’d dismissed the notion as unworthy of Elliott.

“Simon’s just Simon,” he said. “Can he come, too?”

Could he come? She grew wetter still, her whole body flushing and her nipples pebbling harder. Intense, brooding Simon, with his faint British accent, had been the one in her dream.

“Tawny?” Elliott prompted on the other end of the line.

She squirmed on the hard mattress. “No. I don’t mind if he comes.” Simply saying it aroused her even more. Guilt and shame fed the dark lust Simon inspired in her on a nearly nightly basis. Now it was getting even worse—she’d only taken an afternoon nap. He was her fiancé’s best friend, he despised her and every night he was the source of soul-shattering sex in her dreams.

“We’ll see you a little after nine then.”

She hung up and closed her eyes. Why was Simon coming with Elliott? Why the three of them? What would they do?

With her body strung tight and humming with arousal, a dark fantasy bloomed in her. The three of them, here in her bedroom. Elliott, golden haired and fair, Simon, dark. Two sexy men intent on touching and tasting every inch of her, all with the singular purpose of pleasuring her.

She blinked her eyes open and reached into the drawer of her bedside table, pulling out her vibrator. She couldn’t go through the afternoon this way.

Elliott was her fiancé. He was funny and generous and warm, most of the time. She might not have control of her dreams, but she was wide-awake now.

Despite her best efforts to focus on Elliott, it was Simon she came for as she shuddered her way to an orgasm.

“YOU LOOK LIKE HELL,” SIMON Thackeray said as he carefully placed his camera case in an orange vinyl chair in Elliott’s inner sanctum and sat in the matching chair.

Blond, good-looking, outgoing and possessing a sense of style that always left him looking as if he’d just stepped off the pages of GQ, Elliott turned heads in a crowd. A girl in college had once likened the two best friends to Apollo and Hades. They were foils in both looks and personality. Elliott, sunny and outgoing, Simon, dark, quiet, withdrawn. But Elliott had sounded weary and worried on the phone when he’d asked Simon to stop by. He didn’t look any better than he’d sounded. “What’s going on?”

Elliott perched on the edge of the stainless-steel desk and swung one leg. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

Simon nodded at the obvious. Since they’d met in a photography class in junior high, where they’d discovered a shared love of art and a friendship that had weathered the years. Elliott had thrown out a lifeline that saved Simon from drowning in his own loneliness. Conversely Simon had anchored Elliott, provided him with some much-needed stability. Elliott’s parents were warm and outgoing, but volatile.

He wasn’t so sure he would’ve pursued a career in photography if Elliott hadn’t believed in him and pushed him. And Simon had provided invaluable contacts when Elliott had decided to open a small gallery.

“You know you’re the brother I never had,” Elliott continued. “I’ve always thought I could tell you anything. Share anything.” Once upon a time Simon had felt the same way. Until he’d discovered that there were some things you couldn’t share with your best friend. Like being in love with his fiancée. “I hope you’ll always be my friend.”

Simon sighed at Elliott’s penchant for melodrama. If Elliott hadn’t parlayed his art-history degree and eye for art into owning a gallery, he could’ve given Broadway a run. “Elliott, unless you’ve ax-murdered a little old lady, I’m going to always be your friend.” Simon shrugged. “I’d probably be your friend even then. Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about?”

“I’m gay.”

“Right.”

First Elliott called him in and gave him the big friendship spiel, now we was fooling around when Simon had a photo shoot scheduled in forty-five minutes. Elliott had a warped sense of humor and a piss-poor sense of timing.

Elliott knotted his hands together. “This isn’t a joke. I’m serious. I’m gay.”

Simon sat, stunned. Elliott was … gay? How was that possible? They’d been best friends for over a decade. Simon was the odd straight guy in a profession that attracted homosexuals like a homing device, yet he’d never once suspected Elliott of anything but blatant heterosexuality.

For God’s sake, Elliott was engaged to Tawny, slept with her on a regular basis and he’d just announced he was gay? “When … how …”

“Perhaps bisexual is a better estimation.” Elliott ran his manicured hand through his short blond hair. “I’ve found myself increasingly attracted to men over the last several years.” He shook his head and offered a harsh laugh lacking in humor. “Don’t worry. Not you.”

Quite frankly Simon could give a toss if Elliott was attracted to him or not. Well … maybe he was a bit relieved Elliott hadn’t professed undying love or lust for him, but he’d definitely missed something along the way.

Simon clearly recalled the first time he’d seen Tawny. It’d been here in the gallery, outside Elliott’s office. Simon had dropped by during a private event—a cocktail party and private viewing Tawny had arranged for her company. She’d been engrossed in an animated discussion with the caterer. One look at her and his world had shifted into sharper focus. Then she’d disappeared and he’d sought out Elliott, intent on discovering who she was, only to learn Elliott had beat him to the punch. Before Simon had opened his mouth, Elliott had announced he’d met his dream woman and arranged a date with her. Intuitively Simon had known it was the same woman. And he’d been right.

“What was this six months ago when you told me you’d just met the woman of your dreams?” he asked.

“She was hot and sexy and so different from the other women in New York, I thought she might cure me.”

She’d been a bloody cure?

Simon pushed to his feet and walked over to the window overlooking the street, needing to look at something other than the friend he wasn’t sure he knew any longer. Elliott had always been a bit self-absorbed, but this….

Outside, Manhattanites shared the sidewalk with tourists. Customers thronged from the electronics store across the street to the corner falafel stand and the shops in between. A cabbie flipped off a delivery van who cut him off.

Like a strip of negatives laid out before him, he saw in his head photos, moments in time committed to memory. He’d wagered the more he was around Tawny, the more he knew of her, the more his attraction would diminish. Instead with every encounter he’d found himself increasingly drawn to her, discovering that her spirit, her wit, her spunk, ran even deeper and surer than her physical beauty.

And he’d held himself increasingly aloof. Afraid he’d betray himself with a careless glance, a misplaced remark, he hid behind sardonic comments. He’d still held out hope for himself, for a recovery, even after Elliott proposed. He’d get over her.

It had been the photo shoot, the day he’d spent photographing Tawny, at Elliott’s request, that he knew he was deeply, irrevocably in love with her. He gripped the windowsill and rocked on the balls of his feet, looking inward instead of at the busy street outside. It was the only time he’d ever spent alone with her and he’d glimpsed something so sweet, so elusive, that to end that day had bordered on physical pain.

And she’d been a bloody cure for Elliott. He turned around to face Elliott, struggling for an even tone. “And was asking her to marry you part of the cure or did you consider yourself cured at that juncture? I’m a bit confused. Is this a twelve-step program?”

“Does it make you feel good to be such a sarcastic bastard?”

“Not particularly.” Simon felt a foreign urge to pound Elliott’s head against the cinnamon-colored wall. “You asked her to marry you when you knew you felt this way? When you knew you were attracted to men?”

Elliott colored at Simon’s censure. “But I’m also attracted to her. I thought if I threw myself into the relationship enough these feelings would go away.” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. He began to pace the room.

“But they didn’t and you cheated on Tawny?”

Elliott squared his shoulders defensively. “Just once. Last night. You know Richard, the acrylics painter we’re featuring? I’ve caught him looking at me, watching me a couple of times. Anyway, we were working late last night, shared a bottle of wine and one thing led to another.”

Perhaps this was one big mistake Elliott was blowing out of proportion through guilt. Elliott was also a bit of a dramatist, and guilt distorted the clearest picture, as Simon well knew. “Did you have too much wine? Were you drunk?”

His blue eyes solemn, Elliott shook his head. “No. That’d be an easy excuse. I wasn’t drunk. I was intrigued. I thought I’d try it and know for sure, one way or the other.” He scrubbed his hand over his forehead. “I liked it. I have feelings for Richard.”

Simon squelched a frown of distaste. This shouldn’t be any different than listening to Elliott talk about a woman. But it was. Vastly different. Simon held up a staying hand. “I neither want nor need details.”

“I wasn’t offering them. That was merely by way of clarification,” Elliott said, clearly put out. “I’ve got to tell Tawny. She deserves to know.”

“Bloody right she deserves to know.” The risks associated with homosexuality slammed him in the gut. Concern for both Tawny and Elliott sharpened his tone. “I hope you used a rubber.”

“Of course I did.” Elliott slumped into a chair and dropped his head onto the back. “That’s just one of the reasons I need to tell her. If we stay together—” that knife twisted in Simon’s gut “—she has to make an informed decision.”

“You like sex with Richard but you’re going to sleep with Tawny?” Simon said.

Elliott creased a sheet of paper between his fingers. “I love her. What’s not to love? She’s sexy, smart, warm and generous. But we’re not setting off any fireworks in the bedroom. I’m attracted to her, but it’s not as exciting as it is with Richard.”

Elliott had just handed him far more information on several fronts than he’d ever wanted. And he was driving Simon mad, fidgeting with that piece of paper. “Would you put the paper down?” Elliott shot him a look but tossed it onto the desk. “So you don’t want to break off the engagement?” Simon asked, his head beginning to throb from tension.

“I don’t know. She’s a great woman. I need some time to think. I guess whether we break off the engagement is up to her.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “This is going to be a hell of a conversation.” Elliott drew a deep breath and whooshed it out. “Come with me to tell her.”

“No.” This was between Elliott and Tawny. And talk about a conflict of interest. Simon wanted her, but not with a broken heart or as a rebound lover. However, she would be available if this went down the way he thought it would.

Elliott braced his hands on the desk and leaned toward Simon. “Please. I need you for moral support. This is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

Elliott hated facing unpleasant tasks alone. From the time they’d met and become fast friends, he’d dragged Simon along to face teachers, professors, his parents. He’d always maintained Simon was stronger than he was. But for once Simon wasn’t being dragged into Elliott’s mess. This time his friend was flying solo.

He shook his head. “It’s private, Elliott.”

“You were there when I proposed,” Elliott argued.

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I had known you were going to propose, I wouldn’t have been.” Outgoing, give-me-an-audience Elliott had chosen a double date to propose. Simon recalled the agony that had ripped through him when Elliott had presented Tawny with a yellow-diamond engagement ring over dessert. Simon’s date, Lenore, had thought it quite romantic.

“This is a mess. I need you there when I tell her. I called her and asked to come over tonight after the gallery closes.” He stopped pacing and faced Simon, the length of the room separating them. “I told her you were coming, too.”

Simon squashed the adolescent urge to ask Elliott what she’d said about him coming round. He and Elliott had always supported each other. They’d always watched one another’s back. But he wasn’t sure if he could bear to see the hurt and betrayal on Tawny’s face. Nor did he have the right to witness that. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Please, Simon.”

But he hadn’t exactly been coming through for Elliott all the nights Simon had lain in his lonely bed and made love to Tawny in his head. His conscience smote him. He had no business going. He didn’t want to go. But he owed Elliott, whether Elliott knew it or not, for every licentious thought he’d ever had about Tawny. For all the times and all the ways he’d had her in his head.

Guilt did crazy things to men—left them agreeing to things they would otherwise run away from.

“Okay, I’ll go. But I’ll have to meet you there,” Simon said. He stood and picked up his equipment bag.

Elliott dropped into his chair, his relief evident. “Nine o’clock. Her place. Do you remember the way?”

He’d dropped her off once with Elliott. “Sure.” He shifted the camera bag to his shoulder and turned for the door.

“Simon …” Elliott said.

He turned again to face Elliott.

“You’re a good friend.”

Righto. He was a good friend to be obsessively, compulsively in love with his best friend’s woman.

2

TAWNY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK on her dresser. Fifteen minutes until Elliott and Simon arrived. She discarded her skirt on the closet floor and defiantly pulled on a pair of shorts. She’d gotten home from running errands and had plenty of time to shower and shave her legs. And now she was dithering about what to wear. As if it mattered.

Her fiancé and his best friend, the guy who disliked her intensely, were coming over with take-out Thai. After a year of living here, one of the things she still loved about New York was the variety of fabulous food within blocks, even if a Southern-girl transplant couldn’t find grits or sweet tea.

She looked over the clothes in her closet. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere or she was looking to impress anyone. She picked up a faded T-shirt from her very first 5K run and promptly discarded it. Nah, Elliott had a thing about her dressing up, even if they were staying in. And even though she wasn’t entering a beauty contest, her Southern upbringing drew the line at having anyone over and wearing that.

She laughed at herself. And no, she still couldn’t bring herself to wear white after Labor Day or before Easter. She might be living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side but she’d always be Tawny Edwards with Savannah, Georgia, sensibilities. Funny, she’d come to New York to find out who she was and what she was about. She smiled. Wouldn’t her mother be surprised that the rebellious Edwards family screwup still adhered to the rules of white?

She settled instead on a halter wrap. Casual but sexy. And more important, cool—a major plus considering how stinking hot it was outside. She finished dressing and closed the closet door on the discarded clothes littering the floor. She pulled her hair up and clipped it haphazardly with a giant barrette underneath. Even with the air-conditioning cranked, the sweltering heat seemed to seep inside.

She spritzed perfume behind her ears and, on a defiant whim, sprayed it between her breasts. Simon might not like her, but dammit, he’d at least like the way she smelled.

She sang along with a Roberta Flack remake playing on the radio in the other room. She loved the evening program—Sensual Songs and Decadent Dedications—which offered a nice mix of old and new love songs. And who cared if she was off-key?

She tugged at her shorts. She’d skipped her run this morning and she felt it in their snug fit. Some women were blessed with svelte, slender bodies that actually fit into sylphlike fashions. She, however, didn’t belong to that club. She’d learned long ago that eating half of what was on her plate and exercising every day was the only thing that kept her from resembling the Pillsbury Doughboy in drag. Petite and curvy all too easily slid into short and fat.

Tawny made the mistake of double-checking her behind in the mirror while she sang about him killing her softly with his song. Ugh. It was still there … all of it and then some. Elliott was right. The last time they were in bed, he’d mentioned that her butt had gotten bigger. Not exactly what she’d wanted to hear, but she supposed the truth sometimes hurt.

She’d seriously considered having her ass liposuctioned with her last bonus, but what if those fat cells relocated to her thighs or some other equally heinous body destination? Unwilling to risk fat-cell transference, she did an extra set of butt-killing donkey lifts every other day. And from the looks of things, it was time to make that a daily habit.

An outraged yowl in the other room diverted her attention from the shortcomings—or rather the over-abundance—of her behind. She went into the kitchen and dumped a measure of cat food into the empty bowl by the refrigerator.

“Uh-huh. You’re as close to wasting away as I am.” She laughed and snatched Peaches up for a quick hug before he squirmed out of her arms. “But I understand. I’m hungry, too.” She put him down in front of his food bowl.

Peaches, a five-year-old declawed Maine coon abandoned by his former owner and promptly rescued from the animal shelter on his last day before the big E—as in euthanasia—in no way resembled a peach in either coloring, countenance, or personality. However, Tawny had named him that because it reminded her of her Georgia roots without bringing home too close. Which probably made no sense to the rest of the world but perfect sense to Tawny.

One might reckon that Peaches would be grateful to have been snatched from the jaws of certain death and appropriately fawn over his savior. One would be wrong. It had been Peaches’s arrogance in the face of his impending demise that had stolen Tawny’s heart and sealed the feline’s fate.

The sound of the buzzer reverberated through the apartment and Tawny’s heart thudded in her chest. Simon and Elliott. The idea of coming face-to-face with Simon had tormented her all afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since he’d begun to invade her dreams, and subsequently her body, in a most satisfying, but totally disquieting, manner.

She swallowed and turned the radio down on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, her heart hammered even harder as Simon’s lean face stared—not at the door but down the hall, as if he’d actually prefer to be anywhere rather than outside her apartment.

On the radio Etta James crooned in a low, sultry voice, about her love coming along at last and the end of her lonely days, which did nothing to dispel Tawny’s nervousness and the sexual anticipation curling through her.

She mentally slapped herself around. Get a grip. So in her dreams she’d had wild monkey sex with Simon. By no stretch of her overactive, oversexed imagination was he her own true love coming along.

She squared her shoulders, pasted on her best loaded-with-Southern-charm smile, slipped the locks and opened her door. “Hi, Simon.”

“Hullo, Tawny.” It was wickedly unfair the way his voice, with its hint of British accent, revved her engine. That was one thing about her dreams—he always talked to her during sex and it always turned her on. This was no dream, but she’d been conditioned and felt a familiar heat stir within her.

She looked past him. “Where’s Elliott?”

“I had a shoot today so we came separately,” he said without a glimmer of a smile in the depth of his dark eyes.

Tawny stepped aside. “Come in.”

His dark hair, cut close and combed back, lent his lean face an ascetic look. She felt his body heat as he stepped past her into the room, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder. This was much worse than she’d anticipated, far more potent than any dream. His clean, subtle scent teased her. In her dreams his scent didn’t entice her as it did now. She caught her breath and strove for a light tone.

“How was your photo shoot?”

“Fine. It went quick. I’ve shot Chloe before,” Simon said.

The name evoked an image of a tall, thin, beautiful model. Tawny didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse at hating the unknown, unsuspecting Chloe—that was the price paid by thin, beautiful women without an ass the size of a principality.

A few weeks ago, after their engagement, Simon had photographed Tawny at Elliott’s request. Elliott possessed an eye for art, but he wasn’t an artist. Simon, however, was a genius with a camera. She wasn’t a professional model and it had taken an entire day of Simon working with her, cajoling her, but her photographs had been fantastic. She’d seen herself in a different way. She’d seen strength, but also a sensual vulnerability.

He’d been patient and almost charming, as if when he got behind the camera he forgot himself or perhaps he could truly be himself.

During the shoot, she’d thought she’d finally reached Elliott’s best friend, won him over. It had been a magical day. But then afterward he’d retreated even further behind a wall, cooler and more aloof than ever. Mercifully their paths hadn’t crossed since.

Except at night. In her bed. In her dreams. The night following the photo shoot she’d dreamed of erotic, explicit sex with Simon. And every night since. Now the object of her writhing lust stood in her apartment, having spent the day photographing some skinny model. Tawny bit back a bitchy comment.

“I haven’t seen you to tell you I thought the photos you took of me were great. Not that I’m great, but the photos were. You’re very good at what you do.” Whoa. Instant image of him bringing her to orgasm in her dream. “I mean, you’re good with your camera.” She closed the door. Tawny, honey, find a brain cell and grab on to it. She sounded like a dithering idiot.

“You’re very photogenic. You have a great smile and good bone structure,” he said.

He spoke very matter-of-factly. He could’ve been discussing the weather. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to pound as if he’d just claimed her beauty equal to that of the legendary Helen of Troy. She felt as gauche as she had when she’d been a third-grader and Henry Turner had pulled her braids. Except she’d liked Henry Turner. And while she might have toe-curling dreams about Simon, she wasn’t altogether sure that she liked him.

“Thank you. Your equipment should be safe here.” She indicated a spot between the door and the antique cupboard to the right. Hauling that monstrosity up when she’d moved last year had been a party. “Would you like a drink while we’re waiting on Elliott? Red wine?”

Simon placed his camera and equipment on the floor next to the cupboard with more care and consideration than many mothers with babies. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Absolutely.”

Earth to Tawny. She should stop admiring the way his black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and the lean line of his back. She should also stop eyeing the fit of his jeans over his very fine—make that extra fine—ass.

He stood, pivoting to face her in one fluid movement. He arched a questioning brow. “Need any help?”

Don’t mind me. I was just checking out your eye candy. “No. Going right now.” She indicated the sofa with a flick of her wrist. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

She fled the room, silently urging Elliott to arrive soon. Those dreams were seriously messing with her head. She’d felt as if his gaze, hot and consuming, had licked across her shoulders bared by her halter top and across her buttocks snugged into her shorts.

She leaned against the counter and dragged in a calming breath, dismissing her ridiculous notions. Simon had been his usual remote self since he’d arrived. The only heat she’d felt from him had been a product of her own twisted, overactive, inappropriate imagination.

She reached past Peaches to the small wine rack atop the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cabernet. Peaches, who spent most of his time on top of the refrigerator, offered her a lazy slit-eyed look.

Tawny uncorked the bottle. “You know, normal cats curl up on a bed or in the corner of the sofa or drape themselves across a chair back. Why do you camp out on top of the refrigerator?”

Of course, the cat didn’t deign to answer. Tawny pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet. She personally thought Peaches liked to render himself inaccessible. And what did it say about her that she loved that damn cat? “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving now.”

She went back into the den.

Simon sat on her purple chenille sofa studying the room. Self-consciousness surged through her, knowing he was seeing her personal space through the eyes of an artist. Her taste tended toward eclectic. She favored reproduction art, the occasional antique and furniture more comfortable than stylish.

She placed the wine and glasses on the bamboo chest that doubled as a coffee table. Simon focused his attention on her, and she wished contrarily that he was eying her apartment once again instead. The glow from a stained-glass floor lamp at the corner of the sofa backlit him. Dark hair, dark slashing eyebrows above dark eyes, unsmiling visage, black T-shirt and jeans. He was a dark angel come to torment her.

His eyes snared her. The room shrank to just the few feet separating them. If this was one of her dreams, she’d join him on the couch, where she’d nibble and lick her way past his perpetual reserve until they were both getting naked….

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

“Thanks, I’ve got it.” Don’t mind me while I stand here like some whacked-out nympho and fantasize about taking your clothes off while we wait on Elliott to show up. She disgusted herself. “Glass of wine coming right up.”

She managed to pour two glasses. She handed him one, taking care not to touch him in the exchange.

“Were you talking to someone in the kitchen?” he asked. Surely that wasn’t amusement lurking in the austere Simon’s eyes.

She sat in the armchair on her side of the coffee table, the farthermost point away from him in the confines of her tiny den. Avoiding even the most casual physical contact seemed a good plan. “My cat.”

“And does it talk back?”

Whaddaya know? Simon actually owned a sense of humor. “No. He’s a typical male. Selective hearing. He only talks if it concerns his empty belly. Or the remote.”

“My kind of cat.” Simon’s spontaneous grin did crazy things to her insides. He silently held his glass up in a toast and then sipped.

His fingers, long and lean, wrapped around the glass stem and reminded her of her afternoon dream and where his fingers had been then.

Simply thinking about it left her wet and wanton again. Great. She’d sit here across from him, drinking wine, waiting on her future husband to show up, and wind up with a wet spot. Stop. She would not sit around fantasizing about this man. It was wrong. Guilt churned in her gut. Thinking about Simon turned her on faster and hotter than Elliott’s actual touch.

She only had to make it through the evening. A few short hours. And next week she was signing up for therapy. Alison, one of the executive secretaries, saw a therapist weekly. First thing Monday morning she’d ask Alison for a referral. This thing for Simon was getting out of hand. God knows what would happen if he’d offered a smidgen of interest or encouragement. What kind of woman ran around in perpetual lust for her fiancé’s best friend? And it had actually started her thinking, quite hard, as to exactly how she felt about Elliott and whether marrying him was such a good idea. She and Elliott were good together. They got along well. They had fun. But it was nothing like the dark passion with Simon that haunted her dreams. Toss in a vague sense of discontent with her bedroom time with Elliott….

Did she break it off with someone based on hot dreams about someone else? Which came first? Her discontent with Elliott or this dark sexual attraction to Simon? Was she truly attracted or just scared of commitment? Definitely time for a therapist.

“Good wine. Thanks,” Simon said.

“Sure.” Nervous, she swigged her wine instead of sipping and promptly choked. Then choked some more. Dammit, she couldn’t catch her breath.

Simon skirted the chest and took her wineglass from her. He knelt down and, as if conditioned by her dreams, she automatically spread her legs to accommodate him. He grabbed her shoulders. “Can you breathe? Nod your head.”

She nodded yes. But he didn’t take his hands from her bare skin. Finally the choking fit ended. She was left with him kneeling between her thighs, his fingers curled around the curves of her shoulders, her face hot with humiliation, her body hotter still at his proximity.

“I’m … fine,” she said, her voice wavering. Not from her choking spell but from his touch, the brush of his body against her bare legs. The reality of his touch was a thousand times more potent than a mere dream. Did his hand tremble against her shoulder or was it her own reaction?

Simon released her and stood abruptly. Still between her legs, he looked down at her. “You might want to save the chugging for Kool-Aid or beer,” he drawled. He turned on his heel and picked up his own wineglass to sit once again on the sofa.

Bite me. Tawny hated him at that moment. How could he be so concerned and considerate one minute and then snide and nasty the next? She ignored his comment and focused instead on Elliott. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine-fifteen.

“Elliott should be here soon. I hope so. I’m starving,” she said. Yeah. Simon had just spent the day photographing one of the skin-’n’-bones set and she’d just presented her well-padded ass as starving. “Well, not starving, obviously, but hungry.” She simply couldn’t say or do anything right in front of him.

And then it didn’t matter because she wasn’t in front of Simon. She was in utter pitch-black darkness and sudden silence.

“What the hell?” Simon said.

Her sentiments exactly.

“SIMON?” PANIC FILLED HER voice.

“I’m right here,” he said. He stood, blind in the dark. He bumped his shins against the chest. Cautiously he put his wineglass down.

Damn good thing he did because Tawny grabbed onto his arm, startling him, the uncustomary tremor in her voice reflected in her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a thing about the dark.”

Moving slowly, he felt his way around the furniture until he reached her side. He’d never experienced such absolute darkness. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her body heat, smelled her perfume, felt her energy pulsing in her hand on his arm, heard the soft pant of her panic. “A thing?”

“Yeah, I don’t like it worth a damn.” Her laugh verged on pathetic and tugged at his heartstrings. As if everything she did didn’t tug at them. “Curiosity got the better of me and I managed to lock myself in a closet for a couple of hours when I was four. I was terrified. Ever since, the dark freaks me out.”

She laughed again, and if he hadn’t been so tuned in to the nuances of her voice, he might’ve missed the nervousness still lurking behind it. Against his better judgment—touching her, as he’d found a few minutes ago, was definitely bad judgment—he caught her hand in his. “It’s okay. I’m here. Does your building lose power often?”

“Twice before. But it was always during the day.” Her voice sounded surer, less panicked, and her hand was steadier. She tried to pull her hand from his. “I’m fine now.”

Her slight breathlessness gave her away. She wasn’t fine, but she was doing her best to give that impression. He fought the urge to pull her closer, wrap his arms around her soft vulnerability and reassure her everything was okay. Instead he contented himself with clasping her hand tighter. “Well, I’m not. I’m blind as a bloody bat in here. Where’s your flashlight?” he asked.

She turned into him and her cheek brushed against his shoulder, setting his heart racing. It was agony to be so close to her, touch her, smell her.

“I don’t have one. It got broken when I moved and I keep forgetting to replace it.” Her breath feathered against his neck and her hair teased along his jaw.

“Okay. No flashlight. Move on to plan B. Where’s a window?”

Her fingers curled around his. “My bedroom. There’s one in the bathroom, but it’s small.”

“Okay. Lead on to your bedroom.” Despite the dark, he closed his eyes when he spoke. Under different circumstances …

“This way.” She tugged him by the hand and within seconds he ran into something hard.

“Ow. Damn.” Obviously the wall.

“Sorry,” she apologized, her disembodied voice beside him.

He rolled his shoulder. “I take it you didn’t hit the wall.”

“No. I’m in the doorway.”

Brilliant. She was laughing at him. Actually banging into walls was rather funny but hard on the shoulder.

“Walking beside you isn’t going to work. I’ll walk behind you.” He braced his hands on her bare shoulders. In the dark he could well imagine her naked. Correction. It was as if she was naked, the way he’d imagined her so many times before. Her shoulders were soft, her skin like warm, supple suede. Her scent surrounded him, seduced him. He ached to pull her back into him, to lower his head and kiss the delicate skin at the back of her neck, shower kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He wanted to absorb her heat, her taste, her.

Longing pierced his very soul. To have her in his arms but still out of reach was cruel beyond measure. Just one taste of her … He leaned forward and she swayed ever so slightly back into him, tensing beneath his fingertips. Wisps of hair brushed his face. What the hell was he doing? He jerked his head back.

“Simon?” The husky way she said his name always curled heat through him.

“Give me a second to get my bearings.” Clothes. He needed to touch clothes. “How about this?” He grasped her full, round hips just below the curve of her waist, the same way he would if they were dancing in a conga line. Yeah, or having sex from behind.

“That’s fine.” Her voice sounded strained. Or maybe it was just him. This proximity had him near daft.

“Okay. Lead the way.” Sod it if he sounded harsh. Better she think him rude than randy.

He walked behind her, keeping a firm grip on her hips, trying to ignore the sweet sway beneath his fingertips. Wouldn’t she be impressed? While she fought off a panic attack, he was getting a stiffy from merely touching her and inhaling her scent with every breath he took.

In the room behind them Tawny’s cell phone rang. She hesitated, tensing, turning slightly in the direction of the ring. Simon tightened his hold on her. “Just keep going. We don’t have a chance of getting to it before it goes to voice mail. Not to mention banging the hell out of us along the way.”

They resumed their dark journey. Almost immediately Simon’s cell vibrated at his side. “Hold on. Someone’s ringing me.” He plucked his cell off his side and flipped it open one-handed, keeping the other hand on her hip. “Thackeray here.”

“Simon, are you with Tawny?” Elliott asked without preamble.

“Yes. She’s right here.”

“I just tried to call her and she didn’t answer.” Elliott’s voice held a petulant note.

“It’s pitch-black in her apartment. She couldn’t get to it in time. Where are you?” Bugger, Elliott. He should be the one here with his hand on Tawny’s hip, tortured by the feel of soft flesh and her womanly scent. Except it wouldn’t be torture for Elliott because she wasn’t off-limits to him.

“I’m at the gallery. We don’t have any lights either.”

“Why are you there? What’s going on?”

“I don’t think we’re under siege, if that’s what you mean. I think it’s one of those blackouts like we had a couple of years ago. I was running late. Richard and I had a few things to iron out and then everything shut down.”

Simon welcomed the dark. Tawny couldn’t see the expression on his face. He didn’t give a farthing about Richard and Elliott’s details, but if Elliott had been here with take-out Thai as arranged, then Simon wouldn’t be holding on to Tawny in the dark. Alone. Tempted nearly beyond measure.

“Excellent. How long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” Simon asked, deliberately keeping his voice neutral.

“We’re locked in. When the electrical system is compromised, the security system goes into total lockdown.”

This was getting better and better. “You’re locked in at the gallery?”

“That’s it in a nutshell.” Simon heard the murmur of another man’s voice in the background followed by Elliott’s breathless laughter. “Listen, you don’t have to stay with Tawny. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

Hot anger lanced him at Elliott’s careless, cavalier regard for Tawny. This afternoon he’d been annoyed with Elliott. Now Simon was furious with his friend. Did he not know or simply not care that the woman who met life head-on was terrified of the dark while he was cozied up with his new lover? What the hell had he been doing hanging out with Richard instead of meeting at Tawny’s the way he’d set it up? Where did Elliott get off taking that proprietorial tone when he told Simon he didn’t have to stay? And there was no way he could say any of that to Elliott with Tawny listening.

“Of course, I’ll stay with her until the power’s back on. I wouldn’t dream of leaving her alone.”

She moved closer to him, and without thinking he tightened his hand on her hip. They’d both shifted during his phone call and now her left hip nudged his, his hand was still on her other hip, his arm wrapped around the curve of her back. This was bad—very, very bad. How long would he be trapped in this apartment with this woman who drove him crazy? Who touched him somewhere deep inside? Who seemed to slip past every barrier he’d ever erected? His body thought it brilliant, his mind recognized it as a big mistake.

“No. I said you don’t need to stay,” Elliott snapped.

What the hell? Simon didn’t want Tawny to know Elliott was so bloody self-absorbed that he’d have Simon leave her alone in a blackout. Better that his selfish friend appear the considerate fiancé he should be than wound her with the truth. “Don’t give it another thought. I won’t leave until the electricity’s restored.”

“Whatever. Go ahead and play Sir Galahad.” Elliott, the bastard, actually sounded peevish.

Simon hung up on him and put the phone back on his hip. “That was Elliott. He’s fine. He thinks this is a blackout. He’s stuck at the gallery with the acrylics painter. In the event of an electrical failure, the security system locks down.”

“Apparently Elliott asked you to stay. You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”

Piss it all. This was a fine conundrum. He’d never wanted to leave a place more in his life, to flee the hounds of hell nipping at his feet—those beasts of longing and desire that made it nearly unbearable to be in her presence. On the other hand, he didn’t think she relished being abandoned during a blackout and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her alone. He knew it had been sheer terror and a gut response when she’d clenched his hand earlier but now she didn’t want to be an obligation.

“I know I don’t have to stay, but I’d rather not have to make my way home without benefit of the subway. Do you mind if I stay until the power’s restored?”

“Not at all. I’d like for you to stay if you want to.”

He tried to lighten the moment. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me until then.” Please let it be sooner than later.

Her laughter sounded more relaxed and he knew he’d done the right thing. “Okay. Looks like we’re stuck with one another.”

He wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but in that moment … she moved … he moved … in the inky black, and his hand closed over her breast. For several stunned moments he could only stand there, his hand wrapped around her soft breast, her nipple stabbing against his palm through her shirt material.

Like a sudden summer storm, the atmosphere shifted and thickened. A sexual charge pulsed between them. For one daft moment, he could have sworn she leaned into his touch, pushed her pebbled point harder into his hand. Want slammed through him, his universe reduced to the feel of her breast in his palm, the hot desire that left him rigid. She uttered a muted, inarticulate sound. He wasn’t sure if it was a moan or a protest, but it served as a dash of cold water.

He yanked his hand away. “I’m sorry. That was an accident.”

“Of course it was … I’m sure … you’d never …”

“How far are we from your bedroom?” he asked, his tone as tense as his body.

“Simon …”

She thought he only had to touch her breast and he was ready to throw her down and have his wicked way with her? Ready to fondle her and taste her until she was so caught up in their passion she’d forget all about the dark? Unfortunately she was right. And if she was his, he’d do just that. But she wasn’t his. “The window—that’s where the window is, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Was that relief or embarrassment or both in that single syllable? He left it alone.

They navigated the short hall to her bedroom, past the bed and over to the window. Tawny opened the curtains and raised the blinds.

The city lay shrouded in darkness, reminiscent of a well-rendered charcoal sketch, dark skies with the looming shadows of darker buildings against it. In the distance auxiliary-lit buildings stood, glowing sentinels guarding the city. Up and down the street, candles, flashlights and headlamps provided illumination.

Despite the muffled noise of people and the inevitable bleating of car horns, the darkness isolated them, stranded them on the island of her apartment, removed from the rest of civilization.

Dark clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating the bit of light the night sky might have afforded.

“A storm’s coming in,” she said.

“It looks like it. Do you have any candles?”

“No flashlight, but I have lots of candles.”

She released his hand and turned. Her bedside table stood a few feet from the window. She opened the drawer and felt around. She held up a long object. “My flamethrower.”

She flicked a long-nosed, handled lighter and lit a candle by her bed. She crossed the room, lighting two wall sconces. They flanked a painting of a semi-dressed woman reclining on a divan. Very sensual. Like her. Like the room.

A sleigh bed dominated the windowed wall. A comforter in an elegant paisley pattern of bold reds, cinnamon and gold lay atop it. Matching gold-fringed pillows were piled against the headboard invitingly. A mirrored dresser filled the wall space between the bedroom door and wardrobe. Tawny moved over to a large triple-wicked pillar candle on her dresser.

She turned to face him, smiling. “I told you I had plenty of candles.”

She was even more beautiful with candlelight dancing across her face, flickering over her bare shoulders, casting the valley between her breasts into a mysterious shadowy place he longed to explore. Her smile faded and the perfume of the candles wafted around them, exotic scents that conjured images of hot sex, that stripped away his reserve and left him a man who ached for the woman he wanted and couldn’t have. Her lips parted and he could have sworn he glimpsed a reciprocal heat in her eyes.

“You shouldn’t burn them all. We don’t have any idea how long the lights will be out.” Nothing like a little censure to dissipate a mood.

“I have plenty. I’ve got a thing for candles.”

“What else do you have a thing for?” he asked, his tongue moving faster under the circumstances than his internal censor. And he was only human. They were alone in her apartment, in candlelight, her bed was right there and less than five feet separated them.

She wet her lips, as if her mouth was suddenly too dry and he felt another stab of familiar guilt—this time for making her uncomfortable. “That was a joke. My misguided attempt at humor. Do you have a radio with batteries so we can find out what’s going on out there?” Definitely time to introduce the real world. He needed outside stimuli to keep from drifting off into another fantasy of just the two of them.

“My boom box uses batteries.” She opened her closet door and stepped over the pile of clothes on the floor. She knelt down and bent over. He should look away, direct his attention to the painting on the wall, check out the dark New York skyline. Hell, watching paint dry would be better, far more noble, than staring at her on her knees with her amazing, enticing, drool-inspiring bum in the air.

She backed out of the closet, boom box in hand, and stood. She flipped the switch. Nothing happened. “Okay. Batteries that aren’t dead would be a bonus.” She upended the radio on the bed and opened the battery compartment. “Six C-cell batteries. I’ll have us fixed up in no time. I keep extras on hand.”

She rounded the bed to the bedside drawer where he stood. She pulled out two batteries and tossed them onto the bed. She dug a bit more, pulling out a third. “Three isn’t going to do it.”

Her skin glimmered in the soft light, her eyes were soft and luminous, her scent issued a siren’s call. He thrust his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He’d been mad to agree to be here tonight. “No. I’d say it’s rather obvious we need three more.”

“I’ve got it covered.” Her smile said she was tired of him being a jerk. And he was tired of being a jerk, but it was better than giving in to his impulse to ease her onto the bed, peel her clothes off and become intimately acquainted with every delectable inch of her naked body.

She delved back into the drawer—obviously command central in her bedroom—and pulled out … the biggest vibrator he’d ever seen. Well, actually, he didn’t believe he’d ever seen a vibrator firsthand before. It was quite … large.

“Simon, meet Tiny.” Tiny was pretty intimidating from a man’s point of view. Not that he suddenly felt inadequate or anything. She unscrewed the bottom, dropped two batteries out and replaced the top. She put it back in the drawer and then pulled out a much smaller dildo with a smaller stem on the top of it. “This is Enrico and Bob.” She waved the toy in his general direction.

“Um, I gather the little guy is Bob because he …”

“Yep. You got it. He bobs up and down.”

Simon reminded himself to breathe—but not too heavily. This was going great. He should’ve abandoned her, along with his principles, and gotten the hell out of her apartment when he’d had the opportunity. He’d only thought it was hot before. He was burning up now. “I guess this answers the question as to what else you have a thing for.”

She pulled out a single battery and tossed it onto the bed atop the others. “There you go. Six C-cell batteries, and I promise they’re all in working order. Why don’t you put them in?”

3

MAYBE SHE’D GONE A TAD too far introducing her vibrator boys by name, but she’d had enough of his quiet sarcasm and disapproval. According to Elliott, Simon’s demeanor stemmed from being first-generation American. His father, a Brit, had relocated to New York before Simon was born to curate some museum or another. She didn’t care if his father was next in line for the British throne, she was tired of Simon’s hot-and-cold attitude. And if she was honest with herself, she was none too pleased with herself that he turned her on to the nth degree and annihilated her composure. Around him she couldn’t seem to think of anything beyond sex. With him. She’d nearly made a fool of herself when he’d put his hands on her shoulders. And then when he’d touched her breast … she’d come close to begging him to take her then and there, hard and fast, against the wall, in the hallway. Simon brought out a sensuality in her that she’d never known before and in some aspects frightened her with its intensity.

Silently Simon loaded the batteries into her boom box. His hands weren’t quite steady as he fumbled with the last one. Maybe the close confines were getting to him, too.

The radio blared to life. “… so, it looks like it’s a good old-fashioned blackout brought on by the incredible demand for a little air-conditioned relief from the triple-digit heat. Unfortunately, the lights are out across the Tristate area and authorities tell us they’re not sure when they’ll have the lights back on. It looks like it’s going to be a hot night, so just settle down where you are and stay put. In honor of the blackout, we’re going to open the lines for requests and dedications that have to do with hot and summer. And I guess we’ll be seeing a bunch of newborns nine months from now. Hey, you’ve got to pass the time somehow. Let’s start this set with an oldie, ‘Love The One You’re With’.” Tawny reached over and turned it off.

Trapped in her apartment with Simon for the night? Tawny bit back her panic. Danger signals exploded in her brain—her, Simon, candlelight—and already it felt as if the temperature in her apartment had increased a few degrees.

“Well, we can forget take-out Thai. Are you hungry?” Sure, leave it to the fat girl to bring up food, but dammit, she was starving. And it took her mind off sex. And Simon. And sex with Simon. Well, probably not, but she was still hungry.

He grinned and she was totally disarmed by the flash of his white teeth in the dim lighting. “I’m famished. I could chew nails.”

“I don’t keep much food on hand. There’s a deli a block and a half away. Do you think it would still be open?”

“It should. During the 2003 blackout, food stores were selling out because they didn’t know how long their power would be out. Better to sell it than let it ruin. I’ve even got some cash on me. Let’s give it a go.” He smiled with a touch of self-conscious eagerness. “And I wouldn’t mind burning a roll or two of film.”

Duh. He was a photographer. Of course he’d like to be taking pictures. And it was incredible how his whole demeanor changed when he talked about photography.

“Sure. Food and photographs. Works for me,” she said.

No sooner had the words left her mouth than lightning flashed and thunder boomed overhead. Rain fell in a sudden onslaught. Nothing, it seemed, was subtle or happening in small measure tonight.

“Or not. Okay. That’s it. I’m not planning anything else tonight because everything I plan gets trashed,” she said with a nervous laugh. They were stuck here. She picked up a small votive to lead the way back down the hall. “I’m not a culinary queen, but nails shouldn’t be necessary,” she said.

She didn’t comment when Simon blew out the other candles in the room before he picked up the radio and followed her. She had enough candles in the closet to carry them for a week, but it wasn’t worth arguing the point.

She was more than willing to bury the hatchet between them since they were stuck here together.

She snagged her wineglass on the way into the kitchen. “Good wine is a terrible thing to waste.”

“Ah, something we agree on.” Tawny waited for Simon to exchange the radio for his glass and the wine bottle. Given the minimum square footage of her apartment, they’d have no trouble hearing the radio from the kitchen. He followed her into the other room. Within a few seconds, several candles illuminated her galley kitchen.

“What’s that?” Simon asked. She followed his gaze to the top of the fridge. In the semidarkness, Peaches resembled a blob of prey more than a feline.

“Peaches, my cat. He likes the top of the refrigerator. He’s the one with a bad attitude and selective hearing.”

“Poor fella. You’d have a bad attitude, too, if you were a guy called Peaches.” Simon made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and surprised Tawny by reaching up to scratch the cat behind the ears. Peaches promptly hissed and swatted.

“He’s not Mister Friendly.”

“Neither am I,” Simon said with a self-deprecating smile as he leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well, forget it, I’m not adopting you if you find yourself abandoned,” she said with a teasing smile, despite the flutter in her tummy at the thought of making Simon her own. “You’d probably be as bad-tempered and ungrateful as he is.”

“Duly noted,” he said with another smile that doubled her heart rate. “Why do you keep the wretch?”

“Because it was love at first sight on my part.” She glanced away from him. That almost sounded as if she had declared herself in love with Simon at first sight. A totally ridiculous notion. “He’ll come around sooner or later.”

Simon quirked a sardonic brow in the direction of Peaches. “I believe you’re an eternal optimist.”

“Call me Pollyanna.” She opened the refrigerator door and peered into the black hole, considering their limited food options. “The microwave or the oven won’t work. I’ve got leftover pizza. And I can throw together a fruit salad. How does that sound?”

“Better than nails.”

Tawny laughed, enjoying his quiet teasing and relaxing into his company. She pulled out the food and closed the fridge door. “Are you always so gracious and enthusiastic?”

“Yes, except when I’m in a bad mood.” He sipped his wine, and as if the camaraderie between them was unacceptable, she could almost see him retreating. She wanted him to stay. “It was monumental bad timing that I wasn’t the one delayed and Elliott isn’t here with you instead.”

Elliott. Right. Her fiancé. She twisted her ring with her thumb. Guilt flooded her. She hadn’t spared Elliott a nominal thought since his phone call. She shrugged. “It’s an emergency. We all do the best we can. I’m sure Elliott would rather not be trapped in the gallery with that acrylics guy. And while you might not be thrilled to be here, it’s better than being stuck on the subway.”

She pulled out the chopping board, a knife and a bowl.

“And why would you think I’m not thrilled to be here?” he asked.

She went to work chunking the fresh pineapple. She almost said she wasn’t as dumb as she must look but thought better of it. “Should I believe you’re thrilled to be stuck in this apartment with me?”

“Would you believe me if I told you there was no other place I’d rather be?” Something in the depths of his eyes stole her breath.

She laughed to cover her breathlessness and cored an apple. “No. I think there’s probably a list a mile long of places you’d rather be, but you’re too nice to say so.”

“Quite. I’m such a nice guy.”

“Be honest. Wouldn’t you rather be at your girlfriend’s? Or if the photo shoot had gone a little longer, you’d be with Chloe.” Okay, she admitted it. She was fishing. They’d double dated several times with Simon. Each time it had been a different woman. But after the photo shoot, Simon had always begged off whenever Elliott invited him along.

She added diced apple to the bowl and reached for a banana. His love life intrigued her. Not that it had anything to do with her. But if she was having head-banging sex with him in her dreams, she could at least know about his love life.

“I don’t have a girlfriend and Chloe isn’t my type,” he said, shrugging. A thin, beautiful model wasn’t his type? She looked at him considering the implications. Maybe he was …

“And no, I don’t mean not my type that way. I’m not gay. Chloe’s a nice woman, but she doesn’t do a thing for me.”

Whew! She shouldn’t be so relieved. She sectioned an orange. What kind of woman was his type? Who would appeal to a self-contained man like Simon? And why didn’t he have a girlfriend? In a dark, fiendish way, he was spine-tingling, toe-curling sexy. “So, what kind of woman does something for you?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Sure you have. Everyone has a type they go for,” she said.

“I don’t really have a type.”

He seriously needed to loosen up a bit. She mixed the fruit together. “Sure you do. I bet if you stop and think about it, there’s a certain type of woman that attracts you, that makes your blood run a little hotter.”

“Is this some kind of game, Tawny? Do you want me to say it’s a woman like you?” His voice was low, dangerous in its quiet intensity.

Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted? To know that for all the times she’d writhed, screamed his name in the middle of an orgasm, woken up wet and spent, that he wasn’t totally immune to her? Yes and no. The only game she was playing was with herself, and it was a dangerous one. She looked away from his dark-eyed gaze, glad to busy herself with getting two bowls out of her cabinet. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve made it abundantly clear how you regard me. I’m just surprised you’re not still seeing Lenore. You made a nice couple.” Lenore had been Simon’s date the night Elliott had proposed. The tall, willowy blonde had been a perfect complement to Simon’s urbane dark looks.

She divvied out the portions and they sat at the small wrought-iron table she’d tucked in the corner.

Simon shrugged. “Lenore is nice. That’s why I quit seeing her. I’m in a bit of an unrequited love and it didn’t seem fair to date her when my head and heart were otherwise engaged. Delicious, by the way,” he said, indicating the fruit and pizza. “Thank you.”

“Glad you like it.” His other words slammed into her. A dark jealousy coiled through her at the thought of a woman capturing the distant Simon’s heart. This mystery woman must be a paragon. Beautiful, sophisticated, thin, witty, probably a couple of Ph.D.s under her belt. Unwisely, unwittingly, instinctively Tawny hated her. Hated her for capturing his heart and hated her for tossing it aside.

So of course she said, “I’m sorry. That’s a hard place to be. Do you want to talk about it? About her? Sometimes talking it over with someone, things aren’t as hopeless as they seem.” She couldn’t seem to shut up, hell-bent on atoning for her lust. “Maybe I could help you figure out a way to win her over—you know, another woman’s perspective.”

She bit into the pizza, finding something else to do with her mouth other than babble on. Simon regarded her over the rim of his wineglass, his expression indecipherable. “You’re offering aid with my dismal love life?”

It could prove to be just the cure she needed to get over this … thing for him. She nodded and swallowed. “Sure. Why not?”

He placed his empty glass on the table. “That’s generous, but she’s unavailable.”

Ouch. “She’s married?”

“No. But she’s in a serious relationship.”

That merely irritated her. Was Simon truly in love or was it the unavailability factor? People, especially men, always wanted what they couldn’t have. Put a taboo label on it and they had to have it.

“Until she says I do, she’s not unavailable. You’ve got to decide how important she is to you. If you’re willing to forego other relationships, she must matter a lot. Wake up, Simon, and smell the coffee. What’re you gonna do? Sit around in some weird celibate state—”

“I never mentioned celibacy.” Simon tried to pull a haughty look on her.

Tawny rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. If you won’t date a woman because you don’t want to be unfair, then you’re certainly not sleeping with anyone.” Alarming how much that pleased her. So of course she worked even harder to push him. “You’re gonna moon around in a celibate state for a couple of years or even the rest of your life because she’s in a relationship but not married? How bad do you want her?”

“With every fiber of my being.”

His quiet intensity sent a shiver down her spine and pierced her heart. What was wrong with her? Who he wanted and how much he wanted her had nothing to do with Tawny.

“Then it’s time for you to fish or cut bait.”

“THANKS FOR YOUR ADVICE to the lovelorn. I’ll keep the ‘fish or cut bait’ in mind.”

Wasn’t that twisted? The object of his unrequited affection—and hence intense guilt, as she was engaged to his best friend—sat across the table, bathed in candlelight, wearing a sexy halter top and shorts and advising him to put a move on her. At least, that’s what he’d interpreted her charming colloquialism to mean.

Tawny topped off her wineglass and refilled his at the same time. “Well, I think you should go for it. What have you got to lose?”

What did he have to lose if he went for her right now? “Really nothing, other than those small matters of pride and self-esteem.”

“It’s pretty hard to wrap your arms around those and snuggle up to them. Or enjoy a glass of wine or a candlelit bubble bath with them either.”

He struggled to keep his expression one of sardonic amusement while inside her words played out in his head as snapshots of the two of them. The irony of sharing a glass of wine with her in candlelight nearly slayed him. He was an absolute masochist to participate in this conversation. Bugger that, he was a masochist to even be here.

“But a glass of wine sooner or later is gone, eventually the candles burn out, and the water grows cold, so perhaps one has to make the more long-lasting choice.”

“Except that life is fleeting. Tomorrow may not come before the wine stops flowing or the water cools.”

“Am I in the company of a hedonist?” he asked, very clearly recalling his recent introduction to Tiny, Enrico and Bob, her on-demand boyfriends.

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Life is short and it’s a shame to waste opportunities. This woman could be the love of your life and you’re letting her slip away. And who knows? She may feel the same way about you.” He really was a pathetic sod. He was flattered she didn’t consider him so repugnant she couldn’t imagine a woman attracted to him. “Maybe she just doesn’t know it yet. Or she could be shy and afraid to tell you.”

Simon laughed. Neither of those came to mind in a Tawny word-association exercise. Other than her aversion to the dark, she’d never displayed either characteristic. “I don’t think shy or fear are factors when it comes to my lady.”

Tawny leaned her elbow on the table and pursed her lips, tapping one finger against the corner of her mouth as she eyed him consideringly. She had a truly lovely mouth, full but without the collagen bloat so popular these days.

“Well, maybe this is some kind of courtly love.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. You know, chivalry and all. Knights only loved their ladies from afar. Maybe you’re just afraid to declare yourself because you aren’t truly physically attracted to her. Maybe you wouldn’t know what to do with her if she actually reciprocated your attraction,” she said. She crossed her arms as if she’d neatly solved a little puzzle.

His boyhood days of envisioning himself as a bold knight were long gone. There was nothing courtly or chivalrous about the maelstrom of emotion she evoked in him. He absolutely burned for her. And he’d had enough of her speculation. It was time for this conversation to end. He knew one sure way to kill the conversation and prove to her just how far removed he was from her romanticized notions.

He traced his finger along the edge of his glass and smiled at her across the table, offering her a glimpse of the dark passion seething beneath his surface. “I don’t know about courtly love.” He chose his next words very deliberately—crude and base—to make a point. “I do know I would fuck her senseless for a week, given half a chance.”

Her eyes grew huge and she swallowed hard, but she didn’t look away. “Oh. Senseless … a week … well, then.”

Okay. Perhaps he’d gone a bit over the top there. “I apologize if I shocked you.”

She raised her chin. “I’m not shocked at all. I think all that passion is … well, hot. I’m not sure there’s a woman alive who wouldn’t want to know a man was so hot for her he’d like to—” she paused and emphasized the very words he’d uttered “—fuck her senseless for a week. As long as somewhere in the week he wanted to work a little conversation and getting to know her into the sexathon.”

Far from offensive, it sounded sexy and exciting when she threw his words back at him. Especially when she drawled it in that low, honeyed tone with a glint in her eye that spoke more to interest and arousal.

Simon was knee-deep in muck but apparently lacked enough sense to stop wading. “I’ve never operated solely from a state of lust. Her brain and her personality are half the appeal. Otherwise I’d only want her for half a week. And I wouldn’t worry about senseless.”

Her naughty smile wrecked him. “You are wicked, Simon Thackeray.”

Forget muck. This felt like dangerous sexual flirting and he needed to stop. And he would. Soon. He leaned forward, drawn by the heat in her eyes, lured by her smile. “Perhaps my love languishes unrequited because I’m too wicked to love.”

She shifted forward, her knee brushed his and the contact surged through him. A seductive smile curved her lush mouth. “I seriously doubt that. Don’t you know that all that wickedness just drives women to distraction?”

All he truly knew was that she drove him beyond distraction. Beyond caution. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“The last time I checked, I was a woman, so I suppose so.” There was something in her eyes. Something that said she knew how utterly wicked he could be and she liked it, despite herself.

Which was ridiculous because he’d been very careful to limit his exposure to her. He raised his brow in question. As if she suddenly realized what he’d seen in her eyes, she blinked and it vanished. She leaned back into her chair, putting a distance that existed beyond mere space between them. Thank God one of them had some sense. “What do you do with all of that pent-up … energy?”

Egad, the woman was relentlessly curious—no trouble at all believing she got herself locked into a wardrobe—which was yet one more reason he’d taken himself out of her and Elliott’s sphere. For one moment he considered telling her he jerked off often, just to see if it would shock her into no more questions, but that tactic had already failed once. And quite simply he couldn’t bring himself to be so crude. He opted for the truth.

“I run. A lot. At this point, I’m probably hovering in marathon-training range.” He laughed at himself. “And never underestimate the efficiency of the proverbial cold shower.”

As it stood now, a cold shower sounded better and better on more than one count. Sweat slicked him and her skin glistened with a fine sheen of moisture. He was a sick beast when a woman sweating struck him as sexy.

“I didn’t know you were a runner. I’m nowhere close to marathon training, but I run five days a week.”

“Are you sexually frustrated, as well?” He might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

“No. I have a fat ass,” she said with a cheeky grin that held a smidgen of self-consciousness. He bit back the protest that her ass was perfect, enticing and far from fat. She went on, “We should run together some time.”

Somehow running with her to relieve the stress of Tawny-induced lust seemed self-defeating and warped. He liked it. “Maybe we should.”

“How about tomorrow?” she said.

Depending on how long it took to restore the power, he’d definitely need it.

“It’s a date then.” Poor word choice. “I didn’t mean a date as in a date.” Yet another reason he avoided being around her. His brain seemed to become nothing more than rat turds rolling around in his empty head when she was near.

She raised her eyebrows. Amusement at his verbal bumbling danced in her eyes and twitched at her lips. “I knew what you meant.”

From the other room her cell phone rang. She scraped her chair back, excusing herself.

Simon stayed in the kitchen to offer her some privacy. He began to clear the table. Without the hum of the refrigerator, the AC and all the other white noise associated with electricity, he couldn’t help but overhear her conversation, even with the radio on.

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine…. No, he’s not here. He got caught at the gallery…. No. I’m not alone. One of Elliott’s friends stopped by…. Yes. He’s a photographer…. No, they don’t know when they’ll have it back on…. No. No sign of looting or vandalism, but yes, we’re going to stay in.” Her voice lowered. “Mom, improper isn’t the same here as it is at home. And I’d rather not be alone…. Yes, I’ll call you later.”

Elliott had flown down to meet Tawny’s parents after the engagement and given Simon an earful afterward. Very conservative, very Southern, very proper. Rarified members of the genteel Savannah blue-blood set, her father was a surgeon and her mother was a lifetime member of the garden club. They’d lunched at the country club.

It took less than a thimbleful of imagination to figure out Mama Edwards had reprimanded Tawny over the impropriety of being alone in her apartment during a blackout with another man. God help them both if her mother had overheard their conversation. And at least her mum called to check on her. Simon doubted he’d even crossed his parents’ minds. He’d been off their radar screen since he left home. Who was he fooling? He’d never registered on their radar screen.

Tawny walked back into the kitchen just as he finished rinsing and stacking the bowls. “My mother,” she confirmed. “They heard about it on CNN.” She took in the tidied kitchen. “You cleaned up! If I weren’t already taken, I’d keep you for myself.”

Her teasing words were a dagger to his heart.

“Ah, but there is Elliott, isn’t there?” He deliberately chilled his tone.

“Yes, there is Elliott.” She put her cell phone on the counter and turned to him. “But that reminds me, exactly why were you and Elliott coming over this evening?”

4

SIMON HAD GROWN UP IN New York City and had never seen an actual deer caught in headlamps, but he experienced a sudden onset of empathy. Bugger. If he’d been thinking with his whole brain instead of sniffing about after Tawny like some lust-driven horn dog, he would’ve seen this coming, should’ve anticipated the question. Instead she’d figuratively caught him with his trousers down. Simon didn’t feel like a very bright boy.

“It’s a bit of a mystery to me.” He was a terrible liar.

“Uh-huh.”

She clearly didn’t believe him. And he might stretch the truth to protect her from what he perceived to be Elliott’s selfishness, but he couldn’t knowingly lie to her. However, exactly how Elliott planned to handle this impending fiasco was a mystery to him.

She picked up her cell phone. “Let’s call Elliott. It’s not as if he’s busy or anything if he’s locked in the gallery without electricity.”

Simon winced inside. She’d be devastated to know just how busy Elliott might be at the moment.

Tawny speed dialed the number and drummed her fingers on the counter.

“Hi, Elliott. Everything quiet over there? Fine … Nothing. We ate cold pizza and fruit. I asked Simon what it was you wanted to talk about tonight. Apparently he’s as in the dark as I am…. No, I didn’t intend that as a pun…. So let’s talk now…. I know you wanted to be here, but you might as well tell me over the phone, because you’ve aroused my curiosity. Don’t make me wait. You’ve got to satisfy me.”

Aroused … wait any longer … satisfy me. She talked to Elliot this way and he still got off on someone else? That told Simon all he needed to know about his friend. Since Elliott wasn’t dead, he must be gay.

“Yes. He’s right here. Okay.” She huffed out a breath and handed the phone across to Simon. “He wants to talk to you.”

Simon reluctantly took the phone.

Tawny planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. Brilliant. Forget a private conversation. Not that he blamed her. She had to feel jerked around.

Instinct told him he wasn’t going to like where this was headed. “Elliott?”

“Tawny wants to know what I wanted to talk to her about.” Elliott sounded positively panicked.

Simon leaned against the counter and crossed one foot over the other. “Right.”

“I can’t tell her over the phone,” Elliott said as if Simon had demanded he do that very thing.

Simon braved a glance at Tawny’s set features. “I don’t believe there’s a choice.”

“But there is.” He recognized Elliott’s wheedling enthusiastic tone. Whatever it was, Simon’s instincts were already screaming no. “The right choice. You tell her.”

Simon damn near dropped the phone. “No.”

“Yes. The more I think about it, this works out better.”

Maybe for Elliott. Cold day in hell and all that.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, Si. You two already don’t like one another. And what else are you going to talk about? What have you got to do stuck there in the dark with one another? This blackout could last several hours.”

“Not a chance.”

“Think about it. It’d be better this way.” Was it only twelve hours ago that he’d declared nothing Elliott did could compromise their friendship? He was rethinking that position. “You don’t know Tawny the way I do. She’s not going to give up on this until one of us tells her. I can try feeding her some line about wedding plans, but when she finds out the truth, that’s just going to make it a thousand times worse.”

“I don’t see why your conversation can’t wait.”

“I’m telling you, she’s sexy and sweet but beneath those soft curves and big green eyes she’s relentless when she wants something. She’s a steel magnolia.”

Simon recognized that truth. He’d experienced it firsthand when she’d sunk her teeth into the topic of his love life. He considered banging his head against the counter or perhaps the cabinet. Anything solid would do.

Could this night possibly get any better? First he was trapped with a woman he wanted beyond reason. Now said woman was about to hound him to no end for news sure to crush her. And he was the lucky devil doing double duty. Not only was he in the firing line to be shot as the messenger, but who else was around to endure the messy aftermath? And when it was all said and done, he’d wade through hell and back if he thought she needed him.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Simon, you are the best friend a man could have.”

“We’ll talk about that later.” This wasn’t for Elliott. This was for Tawny. Because she deserved better than hearing the truth over the phone while Elliott was locked in with his new lover. Because it might render him asunder, but he would give her a strong shoulder to cry on and be there for her.

“Okay. I’m grateful. Eternally grateful. Let me talk to Tawny for a minute.”

Silently Simon passed the phone back to Tawny.

“Yes? … He is? … Okay. Stay safe and I’ll talk to you later,” she said. She flipped the cell phone closed, disconnecting the call. She picked up her glass and polished it off. Putting the empty goblet on the counter, she looked at Simon expectantly, some of her former exasperation lingering in her eyes and the set of her mouth.

“I understand you have something to tell me?”

Apprehension knotted Simon’s gut. The proverbial shit was about to hit the proverbial fan.

“Let’s go in the other room. You’ll want to sit down for this.”

SIMON LOOKED GRIM. SO MUCH for the let’s-all-jump-in-bed ménage-à-trois theory, although she already pretty much knew that was toast. What could possibly warrant that rigid, resigned set to his jaw, and was that a flash of pity in his eyes when he looked at her?

The truth slammed her. She sucked in a calming breath. Elliott was dying. He’d been handed down some awful diagnosis and the two of them were going to break the news to her. She was the worst human being possible, having erotic dreams about Simon and wallowing in a private lustfest while poor, brave Elliott faced the specter of death alone.

Simon leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees, his fingers linked together. He turned to face her. “Elliott should be the one telling you…. I was only coming to lend moral support…. I’m not sure where to begin.”

Tawny squared her shoulders and sat straighter on her end of the sofa. She’d be brave. “How long has he known?”

Simon did a double take. “How long have you known?”

“Well, just now.”

Simon slanted a questioning look her way. “Now?”

“I figured it out and Elliott can count on me to stand by him, even if the wedding doesn’t happen.” He might be too sick or he just might not have enough time to make it to the altar.

“Tawny, what is it that you think you know?”

“Elliott’s dying, isn’t he? What is it? Cancer? A tumor? How long does he have? I knew he’d been acting different lately, but I thought …”

Simon waved a hand, stilling her. “Let’s back up a bit. You think Elliott’s dying?”

“Isn’t he? You look like the Grim Reaper.”

“I always look like the Grim Reaper.” Simon sighed. “As far as I know, Elliott’s healthy as a horse.” Whew. She sagged against the sofa, limp with relief. As long as Elliott was healthy, nothing could … “He’s been seeing someone else.”

What? She shot up. “Bastard.” She’d kill him. Here she’d been feeling guilty over dreams, when all the while Elliott was playing Bury the Bone with someone else. “Is it someone I know?”

“I think you’ve met him.”

It took a few seconds for the definitive him to soak through her haze of shock and anger. “Him? Did you just say him, as in Elliott’s seeing a guy?”

Simon offered a curt nod. “That’s what he told me this morning.”

“A man? A man! I’ve been dumped for a freaking man?” Another woman was bad enough, but a man? She’d never been so angry and humiliated in her life. And don’t forget betrayed.

The hot press of tears gathered. Dammit. She didn’t get really mad that often, but when she did, instead of ranting and raving she cried. It sucked.

Simon shook his head. “I don’t think he necessarily wants to break up. He just wanted to come clean. He says it’s only been once and he thinks he’s bisexual.” Simon looked grimmer than ever.

Elliott’s nerve floored her. He didn’t necessarily want to break up? That was rich. And it fueled her anger. She didn’t have anything against homosexuals, but she wasn’t marrying one. She tugged at the ring on her finger. It stuck on her knuckle. That was the final detail that totally unhinged her. Tawny, the family screwup, had once again managed to not get it right. Her anger spilled over in the form of hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She tugged again. Finally she yanked the ring off. She shoved it into Simon’s hand. “I won’t be needing this any longer.” The last word ended on a sob.

She was so angry she was shaking. And blubbering.

Simon slid across the space separating them. She caught a glimpse of his face. He looked positively stricken. He folded her into his arms, pulling her against the wall of his chest, cradling her, rocking her back and forth. “Please don’t cry, Tawny. It’s going to be okay.”

Stern, austere, sarcastic Simon offered her solace. That this man who didn’t like her very well was reduced to having to comfort her went a long way in cooling her anger and stemming her tears. Crying when she was angry had proven a curse of embarrassment since childhood.

That was almost as humiliating as her being inadequate enough to send Elliott to seek male companionship. She ought to have some measure of pride and pull away, but somehow it felt less embarrassing to simply stay where she was, pressed against Simon’s chest. Plus it was a very nice chest.

“How amusing for me to offer you advice on your love life when mine was down the toilet and I didn’t even have enough sense to know it,” she said against his shirt. “How pathetic.”

“Tawny, never refer to yourself again as pathetic.” He cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head back until she looked at him. He gentled away her tears with his thumbs. Her skin tingled beneath his touch. His jeans-clad knee pressed against her bare leg. “There is nothing remotely pathetic about you. You’re beautiful and sexy.”

Simon could obviously lie with the best of them. She knew her eyes and nose were swollen from crying. Some women cried prettily. She wasn’t one of them. She was fairly certain she wasn’t looking her level best. And then there was the little matter of Elliott dipping his wick … definitely where it didn’t belong. “Yes, I’m so beautiful and sexy, I drove my fiancé to being gay.”

“Right now I’m very pissed with Elliott. And even though he’s my friend, he’s an idiot.” He patted her awkwardly on her shoulder.

Poor Simon. Small wonder he’d been so reluctant to broach this subject. “It was bad enough that he stuck you in the middle. You don’t have to say all of this. And don’t worry, I’m through crying. When I get angry, I cry. Charming little quirk.” She dashed away the last of her tears.

“Elliott is all kinds of a fool.”

She sniffled. This was the man she’d seen the day he’d photographed her, the man she’d glimpsed behind the wall of reserve. He really could be very nice. “It’s very chivalrous of you to say that.”

“I don’t have a chivalrous bone in my body. I’m stating the obvious. You’re beautiful and sexy and Elliott’s an idiot,” Simon said.

Tawny opened her mouth to argue the point and Simon interrupted her.

“Perhaps this will convince you,” he said, lowering his head and capturing her mouth.

TAWNY TASTED LIKE EXACTLY what she was—forbidden fruit. Sweet, hot, drugging, addictive. He felt her hesitation and surprise, tasted the brine of her tears.

Simon pulled away from her mouth and the temptation to plunder and explore. He raked his hand through his hair. “That was out of line. I apologize.”

She shook her head. “No.” She linked her arms around his neck and pulled his head back down to hers. “Please don’t apologize,” she said, her breath warming him. Her lips molded to his and a fantasy came to life. Tawny kissed him, hard and hot.

He knew she was angry with Elliott. Knew he was payback. Knew he should walk away. But while his head said one thing, his heart said another. God help him, he returned her kiss. Six months of pent-up passion unleashed within him. He’d lived with fantasies. And now he held the flesh-and-blood embodiment of those fantasies in his arms.

Her tongue probed at his lips and the last vestige of his resistence deserted him. He buried his hands in her hair and crushed her to him. She strained against him, her anger, her frustration almost palpable. And then it was gone, replaced by something less volatile—and far more dangerous. She softened, her mouth now giving rather than taking. Offering. He took and gave in return.

Simon slid his hands from her hair and stroked down the satin warmth of her bare shoulders. She moaned into his mouth and shuddered against him.

Reason took a holiday. He sank back onto the couch and she followed him, lying against him, between his thighs. Her hips pressed against an erection he couldn’t deny. Her fingers winnowed through his hair as he thoroughly explored the hot sweetness of her mouth. He plied his hands along the sexy curve of her back. He would love to photograph the lovely curve of her neck, bared by her upswept hair that led to the sinuous line of her back. He touched her with the reverence of an artist and the appreciation of a man.

The intensity of her kiss shook him. She pressed against his erection in supplication and he groaned into her mouth. He filled his hands with the full roundness of her buttocks and pulled her harder against him. She slid one leg over his, straddling his thigh, opening herself to him.

He ran his fingers along the silk of her thighs, his knuckles brushing against the edge of her panties. Oh, sweet heaven, they were wet.

“Oh, Simon,” she moaned into his mouth, “you always make me …”

She provided a voice-activated sanity check. He wrenched away from her and steadied himself on one elbow, although she remained between his thighs. What the hell was he doing? He’d been one second away from slipping his finger beneath the elastic of her panties and touching her intimately. He gulped air and sought some measure of his control that had been woefully missing a few seconds ago.

Tawny remained atop him, her body pressed intimately against his. Her arousal, mingled with her perfume, was a heady scent.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And just how sorry was he with one hand still on her delectable bottom? He jerked his hand away and rubbed his brow.

She scooted to the other end of the couch. He sat up, missing the press of her between his thighs, as if a vital part of him had been amputated.

Tears still clung to her lashes. Passion weighted her lids. His kisses had left her lips swollen and ripe.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to … that shouldn’t have … I got out of hand.”

“Please don’t apologize, Simon. You didn’t exactly force yourself on me. I crawled on top of you.” She looked away from him, throwing the fine line of her nose and the curve of her cheek into shadowy relief. “You must think I’m a slut.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, contrite. He had the utmost respect for her—slut had never crossed his mind. He’d kissed her to show her how desirable she was, because telling hadn’t worked. Instead he’d further compromised her self-esteem.

“Never. You were upset, I was out of line and it won’t happen again. I never meant to take advantage of you.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t take advantage of me. I was the one out of line.” She touched his hand and then jerked back when she realized what she’d done. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I won’t throw myself at you again.”

He almost pointed out that she should have a very good idea of just how much he’d enjoyed it since she had been riding the ridge of his erection. It had left him hard, but it had by no means posed a hardship. His body screamed that she could throw herself at him any day, any way, any time.

Tawny curled up, tucking one foot beneath her. She smoothed her fingers over the back of the couch. “Did you know about Elliott?”

Elliott. Much better than discussing that kiss. “No. On either count. He’s never even hinted at being gay or at being interested in someone other than you.”

Although maybe the signs had been there but Simon had been too obtuse to see them. Elliott was a bastard for cheating on her and dragging Simon into it, but Simon believed Elliott cared for Tawny. Right now she was hurt and betrayed, but she must still care for Elliott. As a friend, it was his role to ensure neither Tawny nor Elliott did anything rash regarding their future that they’d later regret. That’s how a man of honor would behave.

She huffed out a breath. “I don’t feel quite so stupid if you didn’t have a clue either.”

“I thought he was joking when he first told me.”

“Well, I know he couldn’t have possibly orchestrated a blackout, but how convenient for him. This way he could stick you with telling me, the scum-sucking son of a bitch.”

He bit back a laugh. She definitely had a colorful way with the English language. He didn’t want this woman pissed at him. “I know you’re hurt. I would be, too. But in the morning you’ll feel differently about all of this. You and Elliott can work this out.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, which did incredible things to her already pretty damn incredible cleavage, and directed a haughty look his way.

“Why don’t you ring him?” Simon tried again. He’d spent enough time around women to know that talking, venting, was a big deal. And Elliott, who avoided confrontation at every opportunity, certainly wasn’t going to initiate a conversation. “Talk to him. I’ll go in the other room and give you some privacy.”

She threw up a staying hand, her nose in the air. “Not going to happen. I have nothing to say to Elliott. Well, maybe a thing or two, but not while he’s there with his new lover.” She shook her head. “No thanks. And I don’t even want to think about what they’re probably doing right now.”

“That makes two of us,” Simon said without thinking.

“And what’s there to say other than he’s a two-timer who better not have given me some communicable disease he picked up while he was out screwing around?”

“He says it was safe sex.”

“I hope he’s not lying about that,” she said.

“No. I asked him bluntly.”

“That’s a relief. So other than the satisfaction of cussing him out, I don’t need to talk to him. There’s no going back and there’s no going forward. We’re playing on a whole different ball field now. I’d had some doubts in the last couple of weeks and this just nailed it.”

Had she really been having doubts? His skepticism must’ve shown.

“I can tell what you’re thinking. Sure that’s a convenient way for me to save face, but it’s true. Ever since I started having—” she stopped as if she’d almost said something she shouldn’t “—well, second thoughts. And I’ve had an increasing sense of Elliott trying to shape me into what he wanted me to be.”

Elliott had laughingly said once on a double date that he possessed a better sense of style than Tawny. Simon also recalled another comment that Elliott needed to take her shopping. Both times Simon had thought Elliott out of line and far off the mark. Simon liked her sense of style. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Elliott has very specific ideas.”

“Uh-huh. Trust me. My parents have been trying to mold me long enough. I recognize the signs. Regardless, Elliott and I are history.”

Which left her a free agent and him still constrained by the bounds of friendship.

5

COULD SHE HAVE POSSIBLY made it any clearer than if she’d held up a sign inviting him to kiss her again? And again. And then take it further. To pick up where he’d left off, with his fingers brushing against her wet panties.

They both obviously wanted one another. He’d felt her damp underwear and she’d felt his rock-hard erection. And she’d just told him in no uncertain terms that she no longer had a future with Elliott.

Simon’s hair stood up at the crown where she’d run her fingers through it. She rather liked it because it made him much less intimidating and proved him human.

“People say and do a lot of things they don’t really mean when they’re angry,” he said in the tone of a peacemaker.

Was he implying she was irrational and should make allowances for Elliott’s wandering penis? Ha. She was very much in touch with rational thought. “I’m not angry.”

Simon simply looked at her.

“Okay. Maybe I’m still a little mad that he cheated on me and that it was with a man.” She cringed inside, feeling fat, ugly, lacking and unwanted. “How can I even compete when I don’t have the same equipment?”

Simon shook his head, a touch of anger marking his face and the movement. “You don’t compete. As difficult as it might be to believe, this isn’t about you.”

Freaking easy for him to say. “Have you ever had a girlfriend tell you she’d discovered her inner lesbian after sex with you?”

“Uh, no.”

“I didn’t think so. Don’t you think that might leave you feeling a little deficient? Like your equipment wasn’t up to par or you had some serious operator error going on?”

Simon looked like a man facing a firing squad. “I know it feels that way, but this isn’t because there’s a problem with you. Elliott’s the one with the problem. And I sure as hell wish he’d talked to me before he did something stupid that buggered up his relationship with you.”

His vehemence and apparent disapproval of Elliott surprised her. Usually, right or wrong, men stuck together. And she’d always sensed Simon didn’t like her, so his reaction doubly surprised her.

She picked a People magazine off the bamboo chest and fanned herself. “I’m surprised you don’t think it’s his lucky day that he’s managed to get rid of me.”

Simon sat ramrod straight. “I’m sorry you misunderstood my actions that way.”

What? As if she was some neurotic she-devil who’d misinterpreted his friendly demeanor? She was pissed and hot and sweaty. He’d picked the wrong day and the wrong gal to pull that holier-than-thou crap. She stood, bracing one knee on the couch, and planted her hands on her hips.

“Whoa. Stop right there. You’re sorry I misinterpreted your actions? If you’re going to apologize, then do it right. If you’re not, then save your breath. But don’t even think about giving me some backhanded apology.”

He had the grace to look slightly ashamed but still arrogant. And very sexy with the candlelight flickering from the table beside him. “You’re right. I’ve acted like a jerk and I’m still acting like a jerk.”

That surprised her. But then again, she never really knew quite what to expect from Simon. “I didn’t call you a jerk. Not exactly. Well, maybe that’s what I was implying.” She’d had it with all the prevarication. What was the point? “Let’s just cut to the chase. You’ve never liked me. You’ve barely managed to be civil and I’ve never known why. I thought that day you photographed me it was different … I thought … well, never mind. I’m a big girl, and after finding out that my fiancé prefers men, I don’t suppose it can get any worse. So while we’re sitting here with nothing else to do, why don’t you enlighten me? Tell me why you’ve never liked me. They say confession is good for the soul.”

“I don’t think …”

“Oh, come on, Simon. Get real. There’s something about the dark of night that brings out the daring. You know how it is. Things you’d never think about in the light of day. Things you’d never do or say otherwise somehow seem okay in the dark.”

Their hot kiss—her tongue in his mouth and his hands on her ass, pulling her harder into his erection—still lingered between them. She saw it in his face. “We both know I’ve never had the guts to ask before and I probably won’t have the guts to ask again. In fact, after tonight our paths probably won’t cross again. So let’s get daring in the dark and have a real conversation,” she said.

The idea of not seeing Simon again was far more disquieting than the thought of not seeing Elliott again. She was needling Simon, but it was better than flinging herself at him. What she really wanted to do was lose herself in his arms, feel the heavy thud of his heart beneath hers, taste the heat of his passion, wallow in the desire that left her aching, wet and feeling like a desirable woman. She longed to discover firsthand whether the real passion between them was as potent and incredible as her dreams.

“If our paths won’t cross again, what could it possibly matter?” he said. The flickering light played tricks on her. For a brief second she could’ve sworn dismay flashed in his eyes.

“Because it’ll bother me until I have an answer. My nickname growing up was Bulldog because I can’t let things go. Why you disliked me will niggle at the back of my mind and worry me—unfinished business—until ten years from now I have to track you down and demand an answer so I can take myself off Prozac.”

Simon frowned in confusion. “You’re on an anti-depressant?”

Tawny smiled at him. It was sort of weird trying to charm a man into telling you why he disliked you. But nothing about the feelings Simon stirred in her was normal or comfortable. Between Simon and Elliott, her journey of self-discovery had taken an abrupt turn. “No. But if you don’t give me an answer, it’ll drive me crazy and I’ll have to start taking it. So go ahead and exonerate yourself up front.”

He shook his head but seemed to relax, stretching his arm along the couch back. He had nice arms. Just the right amount of muscle and a smattering of dark hair. Who was she kidding? Everything about him registered on her sexy meter. And—woohoo—she didn’t have to feel guilty about it anymore. She could lust up front and outright without even a twinge of conscience.

“Does everyone in your family communicate this way?” he asked.

“No.” She laughed and tossed the ball right back at him. “Does everyone in your family try to dodge the issue by introducing another topic?”

He grinned and a healthy dose of that guilt-free lust slammed her. “No. They simply don’t talk.”

It was the most he’d ever said about his family and she was curious to know more. “The British stiff upper lip?”

“Something like that. And their heads are full of ancient artifacts and civilizations.” Per Elliott, his father was a museum curator and his mother was an archaeology—or maybe it was anthropology—professor. “They find the modern world something of an inconvenience.”

It took a nanosecond for her to feel the loneliness of a little boy who had always hovered on the periphery of his parents’ attention. Tawny knew as surely as she knew her name that Simon had been something of an inconvenience, as well. She related. “I wasn’t an inconvenience, but I’ve always been a disappointment.”

“I never said I was an inconvenience.”

“You didn’t have to say it.”

He tilted his head to one side. “How could your parents possibly find you a disappointment?”

Okay. So he was probably just looking to shift the conversation from himself, but he seemed genuinely puzzled that she might disappoint Dr. and Mrs. Carlton Jonathan Edwards III.

“It’s been all too easy. I’m not exactly the overachiever my sister Sylvia is—magna cum laude from Yale and a rising member of the Savannah bar.” Out of nervous habit she started to twist her ring on her finger and realized it was no longer there. Her nail scraped her bare finger. “Betsy, my younger sister, married one of daddy’s partner’s sons. She and Tad have a beautiful home on Wilmington Island in a prestigious gated community. Me? I’m not as smart as Sylvia and I’m not as refined and gracious as Betsy. I talk too much, I’m too assertive, I have a master’s degree in business but I plan parties for a living. I committed the ultimate sin of leaving Savannah, Georgia. When I came home with Elliott, they were pleased, although he wasn’t a Southerner. Now it turns out he’s gay.”

She was batting a thousand here. And while she was hauling all of her shortcomings out for examination … “Oh, yeah, and Sylvia and Betsy take after my parents who are tall and thin. Thanks to recessive genes, I take after Grandmother Burdette, short with a big butt.” And add talking too much and saying the wrong thing to that list. Why the heck had she mentioned her big ass?

Simon crossed his arms over his chest, restrained strength in lean, sinewy muscle. He leveled an uncompromising look at her from his end. “Are you sure you want the truth, here in the dark?”

Uh-oh. Something in his tone reminded her of Nicholson in A Few Good Men, assuring them they couldn’t handle the truth. She’d asked for it, but now she wasn’t so certain she wanted it. But she’d never run away from things or buried her head in the sand, and she wouldn’t start now. “Absolutely.”

“If that’s really how your parents feel, all of you need to get over it. Lose the pity party and look at things the way they really are. You say you’re a party planner as if it’s some lesser accomplishment. You’re an event planner for a law firm with a hundred and fifty practicing attorneys. According to Elliott, you do an incredible job planning and executing a multitude of functions. That requires tremendous organizational and negotiation skills.”

She opened her mouth to point out she had an assistant, but he forestalled her with a raised hand.

“Let me finish and then the floor’s yours. I think you came to New York to get away from your parents’ censure, but you might as well pack up and go home if you’re going to continue to see yourself through their eyes and judge yourself against some mythical standard.” Ouch. His tone softened. “You’ll never be free to be you until you accept and like who you are. I don’t know what your sisters look like and I don’t care. Your body would drop most men to their knees. Any man with half a dose of testosterone would tell you that you have the perfect behind. I’d like to think men aren’t quite so shallow as to fall in love with your behind and overlook all of your other obvious attributes and qualities, but certainly any man would love your derriere. It could drive a man to madness.”

Well. It was her turn to talk and she didn’t know what to say. He’d certainly taken her at her word and said a lot. And perhaps he was right. She’d ostensibly moved to the Big Apple to shake off the confines and constraints of Savannah aristocracy, but was she still measuring herself against their standards? And how much of her attraction to Elliott and her subsequent engagement was due to the need for their elusive approval? And she’d think about all of that. Later. Now her fragile, wounded, her-fiancé-succumbed-to-the-charms-of-a-man ego latched on to the part about her body dropping a man to his knees and her ass driving him to madness. “Really? Madness?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her as if to say he knew where she was coming from and then he smiled at her, the first smile she’d ever received from him that actually reached his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. Even now this smile didn’t totally encompass him. She always had a sense of part of him being closed off, as if he held a jealously guarded secret. “At the least, distraction.”

In the span of a very brief time her self-perception was changing drastically. The way she saw herself was beginning to unravel. Perhaps it had begun with her dreams about Simon and her reaction to him tonight, the way she saw herself since she’d discovered Elliott’s unfaithfulness, the way Simon portrayed her in relation to her parents. In a very short time frame her world had shifted and changed and left her floundering. Perhaps the last year in New York had just been a warm-up, and the closest she’d come to discovering her true self had been in the last few minutes.

And she and Simon were getting real. She’d had a glimpse of the real Simon when he’d photographed her for Elliott. What would she see in herself now, were he to photograph her again? She didn’t want him to retreat again. She didn’t want to dream about him tonight. Tonight she wanted the flesh-and-blood man in her bed.

An idea began to gel. He was so much more approachable when he was behind the camera. If she could talk him into photographing her, she also had a fairly good chance of getting him into her bed.

“Simon, would you do something for me?”

“It depends on what it entails.” Ah, ever cautious, ever reserved Simon wasn’t crawling out on a limb blind.

“I’m more than willing to pay you.”

A wicked smile set her heart thundering. “You’ve definitely caught my attention now.”

Something dark and sexy underlay the note of droll amusement in his voice that sent a wave of desire washing through her. Attention was good for starters, but she definitely wanted more.

“Would you photograph me while we’re waiting on the lights to come on? Not for Elliott this time but for me?”

“I’M NOT FOR HIRE,” HE SAID. Agreeing to photograph Tawny would be a combined act of madness and desperation.

“Oh.” Her disappointment wasn’t feigned.

Who was he kidding? He might as well get real with himself. Photographing her would be a sweet torture. Making love to her with his camera was a dismal substitute for actually touching and tasting her but far safer. And when it came down to it, he was incapable of denying her anything. He’d give her the moon if it was his to offer.

“But I will do it for free.”

She shook her head, freeing a few strands of hair that promptly clung to her cheek. She brushed them back. “No. I insist on paying.”

“Trust me. I’m a selfish bastard. You’re much less likely to cry in front of a camera. It isn’t gratis as much as self-preservation.”

“I only cry when I’m really angry, so you’re safe unless you make me mad.” She smiled. “I’m beginning to think you’re not a selfish bastard at all but that’s the image you like to project.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then we’ll barter. I’ll plan a party for you one day.”

“Absolutely.” Right. He had one friend. Elliott. And he wasn’t feeling like throwing a party for him at the moment.

“Or I could set something up more private, for you and your lady if you decided to approach her,” she said, as if she’d read his mind.

“You did offer to help me with my sad love life, didn’t you?”

“I could set up something very nice and romantic. You really should approach her. You’ve got so much to offer a woman.”

“I’ve already agreed to photograph you. Blatant lies aren’t necessary,” Simon said. He laughed to cover his pounding heart.

Tawny smiled and caught him totally off guard when she tossed a small pillow at him and it bounced off of his chest.

“Maybe you need a little dose of your own hard-line truth. Whoever this wonder woman is would be damn lucky to have you. I think you’re hiding a very nice guy behind your aloofness. You’re smart, occasionally very funny, talented, sexy and I give you high marks in the kissing department.”

He didn’t know what the hell to say. “Okay.”

“At least think about it,” she said. “Decide what kind of evening you’d like to have with your own true love. I bet if you ask her, she’ll say yes, and I can take care of the rest.”

She faced him from the other end of the couch like a luscious piece of fruit just out of reach. Well, unfortunately, closer to his reach than was comfortable. And he didn’t have to think about it too hard. He’d want it similar to this. Candlelight. A bottle of wine. Her. Him. Soft, seductive music. He’d sit in a chair and she’d stand just out of reach and slowly peel her clothes off until she was splendidly naked. She’d come closer, close enough for him to touch the velvet of her skin, cup the fullness of her breasts, cull the dew of her desire, inhale the scent of her skin and arousal…. He jerked himself back from the precipice of lust he’d almost plunged over headfirst. “I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Just let me know when.”

“Sure.” He levered himself off the couch and crossed to his equipment stored by her door. “Now that we have an agreement, what’s your favorite room? Your favorite place? Where do you spend most of your time?”

He pulled out his camera and began setting up the lens. He relaxed into the rote task, pleased to focus on something tangible, something other than his feelings for Tawny.

She hesitated. “The couch is my favorite spot.”

He wasn’t buying it. She’d thought about it too long for him to believe her.

He looked at her across the candlelit room. She sat perched on her knees, bracing her arms on the sofa back, watching him.

“Come on, Tawny. What happened to honesty in the dark and all that? Let’s try this again. What’s your favorite place in your flat?”

Her chin rose a notch. Ah, that was his girl. “The tub. It’s an old claw-foot. Great for soaking.”

Click. Instant photo in his head. Her, hair piled atop her head, steam rising, skin glistening. He swallowed.

“What’s your next favorite place?” No way she missed the hoarseness in his voice, but bloody hell, he was only human.

“The bedroom.” Only marginally safer than the bathroom, with her big sleigh bed, but at least naked wasn’t a given. “And my least favorite room is the kitchen. I don’t like to cook and neither the kitchen nor this room has windows. They feel claustrophobic.”

“Then let’s photograph you in the bedroom.” He strove for a professional tone. She’d hit on the perfect solution to his problem. Photographing her, he became a professional engaged in a shoot instead of Simon Thackeray besotted with Tawny Edwards.

“I definitely want to change clothes. I’m hot and sticky.”

“Fine. Take your time. I’ll finish setting up my equipment.”

“It won’t take me long.” She picked up a candle and hesitated. “Would you, uh, mind just walking me to the bedroom until I light the candles?” That’s right, he’d blown them out earlier. “I hate walking into a dark room.”

She had major issues with the dark. But then again, he had major issues with getting too close in relationships. He knew that. Particularly after one of his girlfriends had flung the accusation at him on her way out the door. Everyone had their own neuroses to bear. “Sure. I’ll lead the way so you don’t have to walk into the dark room.”

“Thank you, Simon.”

Her soft voice with it’s honeyed Southern drawl slid beneath his skin. Ridiculous, really, that she looked at him as if he’d just agreed to slay dragons on her behalf. Even more ridiculous how good it made him feel.

“You’re welcome, Tawny.”

A fat candle in hand, he led the way, aware of her close behind him. Unfortunately for him, he now knew how delicious her mouth tasted, how her curves fit against his body as if she’d been tailor-made for him. Just before he reached her room, she placed her hand lightly on his back. Her touch hummed through him.

“Wait a minute. Let’s stop by the bathroom. A nice cold washcloth would be heavenly right now. I bet you could use one, too.”

How about a nice icy shower? But he’d get by with a cool cloth. “Sure.”

He stepped through the dark doorway to his left, the candle illuminating a rectangular room with a small, high window. A claw-foot tub with a circular shower curtain pushed to one side sat beneath the window. The mirror over the sink reflected his light and brightened the bathroom.

Simon sucked in a deep breath as her hip and breast brushed his side, her fingers slid along his back as she squeezed past him in the confines.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“No problem.”

She placed her votive on a small shelf next to the sink. Thick, fluffy towels and washcloths sat neatly folded in an open cabinet. She plucked two cloths from the stack and held them under the cold-water tap.

Simon waited beside the sink, next to the door. She squeezed excess water from the cloth and passed one to him.

He ran it over his heated face and watched Tawny do the same. She slid the cloth over her neck, rolling her head to one side and then the other. A half moan, half sigh escaped her. “How good does this feel?” she asked, her voice low, husky, intimate.

“It’s somewhere past good.” Icy droplets trickled down his throat, raising gooseflesh. It wouldn’t surprise him to hear the water sizzle on his skin. She definitely had him hot and bothered. The cloth might be cooling him down, but she was heating him right back up.

“Here. Let me wet it again.” She took his cloth and held it under the cold faucet. She held it out to him dripping wet.

Simon set his candle on the widest portion of the sink and took the cloth from her, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. The brief contact fired through him.

“Have you ever been this hot before?” she asked. “If I spontaneously combust, douse me with water to put out the flames.”

Simon had no idea where it came from, but he ran with his impulse. “Like this?” he asked. He stepped closer and squeezed the cloth, cascading water over her shoulder.

She gasped, whether at the shock of the cool water or at his audacity or perhaps both, and then laughed. “Oh, you …”

“Or like this?” He sent another round of droplets skittering down her back, bared by her top.

“Maybe more like this.” She reached up and squeezed her cloth at the base of this throat, sending a cool stream down the front of his T-shirt.

He laughed and retaliated. She shrieked and didn’t bother with the washcloth, cupping her hands beneath the water and tossing it his way. Within seconds they were both drenched. One of them, their aim so bad, doused the big candle. It sputtered out and ended their water play. Only the small votive flickered, plunging them into intimacy.

“Oops,” Tawny said. “That was fun.”

Her hair hung drunkenly from its clip. Water sparkled against her skin. The cold water had her nipples standing at full attention against the wet material of her shirt. Simon swallowed hard and looked her in the eyes. Just don’t look back down.

He cleared his throat. “It was fun.”

He had no idea he could be so playful. Water fights had never happened in his house. Hell, fun hadn’t happened in his house. His parents had taken their jobs and life very seriously. They still did.

She grabbed a towel off of the stack and he reached for it. She bypassed his hand and instead began to rub his wet hair herself.

“I can do that myself,” he said.

“I know.” She gentled the towel along his jaw, slid the thick, soft cotton down the column of his throat. “But there, I’ve taken care of it.”

She took a step back and, using the same towel, blotted her face. Simon held out his hand and she gave the towel over to him.

“I can do this myself,” she said, echoing his earlier declaration.

“I know.” He eased the towel over the length of her neck, across the delicate line of her collarbone, into the valley created by her breasts. Simon made sure only the cotton cloth touched her skin. He moved behind her and slowly, carefully dried her shoulders and the expanse of sweet skin along her spine. He knelt on one knee and drew the towel along her thighs, the backs of her knees, her calves.

“Turn around for me.”

She pivoted slowly and he once again slid the towel the length of her legs, the material whispering over her skin.

He stood and silently handed her the towel.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem.”

At least there wouldn’t be as soon as they got out of this confined space where she smelled too good, looked too good, felt too good. He picked up the candle she’d carried in. The sooner he got her to her room and put his camera between them, the better off they’d both be.

6

SHE WAS IN DEEP DOO-DOO. Something had just happened there in the bathroom, without even a kiss or an overt touch. She’d gone from mere lust to infatuation. Every inch of her knew that it was no longer a matter of if they wound up in her bed together tonight but when. He couldn’t possibly touch her with such tenderness and not want her. And while part of her was keyed up in anticipation, the knowledge also put her somewhat at ease.

Simon lit the last of the candles in her bedroom.

“I have a couple of T-shirts that are big on me. They’d probably be tight on you, but at least they wouldn’t be wet.” She fished out a shirt she occasionally slept in because it was two sizes too big. “How about this?”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll just hold on to it until you get out of that wet one.” She knew what she wanted and she was going for it. Him.

“Were you planning to watch?”

“Unless you object. A girl’s got to get her thrills where she can.”

“I’m not sure that I qualify as a thrill.”

“I’m certain you do.”

Simon tugged his T-shirt loose from his jeans and peeled it up and off his body. Sweet mercy, the man had a body to die for. Broad-shouldered, lean-hipped and nicely trim in between. She felt like Goldilocks who’d just discovered the perfect male. Oh my, that one had been too big and hairy. And oops, that one was too hairless and skinny. But, oh baby, this one was just right. And however cliché it was, she found it incredibly sexy the way that dark hair trailed past his navel and disappeared below the waistband of those jeans.

“You, Simon Thackeray, were built to thrill. I’m very … thrilled.”

He grinned. Not the arrogant smirk of an overin-flated ego but that of a man pleased to be appreciated.

“You want to toss me that shirt you’re holding on to?” he said.

She sighed audibly. “I will if I absolutely have to. Don’t feel compelled to get dressed on my account.” Nonetheless, she tossed it to him.

He caught it single-handedly and sobered. “Are you flirting with me, Tawny?”

“Yes, Simon, I am. Shamelessly.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“No. Not really. I think it’s probably a very bad idea, but I’m certainly enjoying it. How about you?” she said.

“Am I enjoying it or do I think it’s a good idea?”

“Both.”

“I have to go with you on both counts. I’m enjoying it and I’m sure it’s a bad idea.” He pulled the shirt over his head, hiding that yummy physique.

Spoilsport.

But not to worry, she planned to get it back off of him soon enough.

THERE WAS SOMETHING VERY intimate about being in her candlelit bedroom, knowing she was about to undress. “Hold on a minute. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He sprinted back to the den, snagged his camera and was back in her bedroom within a minute. “I want to capture the moment, the anticipation, the preparation, not just the finished product.” Hell, maybe it wasn’t a good idea. In fact, he was damn near certain it was a bad idea. But no worse than being here now. And photographing her was safer than kissing her.

When he shot, he became one with the camera. He could be himself behind the lens.

“You want to photograph me changing clothes?”

“Not while you’re actually changing but while you’re getting ready. Plus it gets you used to being in front of the camera. Just forget I’m here.”

She looked across the room, her eyes holding his. It was a look, one breath away from smoldering, that acknowledged him as a man she’d kissed earlier. “I can’t do that.”

“Can you forget the camera’s here?” He was proud of his steady tone. He didn’t feel steady.

“I think so.”

He fired off a couple of shots, just to get her used to it. She smiled, self-conscious and awkward. “Just relax,” he reminded her. If he could keep her talking, a stream of distracting chatter, she’d also relax. “Do you have your hair up because it’s cooler that way?”

“Yes. But it’s so hot now, I don’t think it’s going to matter. And I should do something with it anyway.” She turned her back to him and pulled the barrette out and let her hair tumble past her shoulders. His shutter whirred. She shook her head and pushed her fingers through it. He shot again. She looked at him in the mirror, a beguiling mixture of longing and uncertainty, and his heart pounded. Was there anything more enchanting, more intimate, than a woman taking her hair down?

“Better?” she asked.

Click. “Perfect. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

She raised her arms and reached beneath the fall of her hair. “Beautiful. Beautiful delineation of your neck, shoulders and arms. A study in perfection. A work of art.”

“You don’t have to say those things, you know.”

“I know. But it’s true.” And it would be so much better without the interfering lines of her halter top. “Keep your back to me and take your top off,” he said, automatically instructing her in what would give the best shot of her back.

“Is that how you get women to undress for you? A few complimentary phrases?” She glanced over her shoulder, laughing, teasing but with a sexy glint in her eyes.

“You’re on to me.” His responding laugh was rusty. As a rule, he didn’t laugh a lot. “No naughty pictures. I just want to capture the line of your back without the top. Move away from the mirror, keep your back to me, take it off and lift your hair that same way. Wait a second. Here. Stand here.” He moved her away from the mirror and positioned the tall triple-wick candle—the one she’d earlier said could go all night—until the light illuminated her back. “Just a bit more to the right.”

From habit, he lightly touched her, to direct her where he wanted her to go. He’d touched beautiful women wearing far less than Tawny hundreds of times, but it was as if he’d never touched anyone before. And he hadn’t. Not like this. Longing swept him, threatened his composure. He felt her indrawn breath, the sudden rigid line of her once-supple back.

He dropped his hand and backed away from her, gripping his camera like a lifeline. “You don’t have to take off your top if you don’t want to.” That steady tone he’d prided himself on earlier was long gone.

“I want to take it off.”

She reached beneath her hair and unhooked the top, and he watched the sides fall away and to the front. She lowered her arms and reached to the front. It was a wrap halter and tied in the front—beneath her left breast, he’d noticed. The material bisecting the elegant lines and curves of her back fell away.

“Brilliant. Truly stunning.” He fired away. These would be incredible. “Lots of women with beautiful faces aren’t lovely from this angle. Lift your hair once again. The way you did before.”

She followed his instructions. He’d never gotten emotionally caught up in what he was photographing. It was art and it was his art and in many ways it was an extension of himself, but there was also still an engagement that wasn’t personal, that didn’t tie his emotions into it. But this was vastly different.

She turned slightly to her right, just enough to reveal the hint of roundness of her breast, the slight sag that meant they were real and not bought in a surgeon’s office.

She dropped her arms and turned to face him, her silken curls curtaining the slope of her breasts and nipples, but the soft roundness of the bottom half revealed. Despite the fact she’d turned to face him, there was something more. A subtle shift in her body language, as if she’d discovered something, resolved something.

“Simon, do you have any idea why I’ve had doubts about me and Elliott?”

It had been one of those remarks he should’ve taken more note of but had been lost in the higher drama of the moment. He thought it through now. Elliott’s turnabout in his sexual orientation had obviously surprised her, so that wasn’t it. She didn’t appear to have any ambiguity concerning her own. Which meant she’d been seeing someone else or had at the least met someone else. Rancor filled him. He didn’t want to hear her confess to yet another attraction. Or perhaps that was exactly what he needed to hear to excise her from his heart, his psyche, his emotions. “My first guess is that you’ve found someone else, as well.”

“Not exactly.” Pathetic how glad he was to hear that. “Not the way you mean anyway. I’ve developed an interest in someone else, even though it hasn’t gone any further. Well, sort of.”

She had his attention now. Who was he kidding? She always had his attention. She’d owned it from the first time he’d spotted her across the room. “Why don’t you explain?”

“I promised you earlier I wouldn’t fling myself at you again. And I’m not. But it’s time to be honest and I think you should know. It was you, Simon.”

She could probably hear his heart pounding from across the room. Tawny had doubted her relationship with Elliott because of him? He didn’t trust her words. Couldn’t trust her words. What would possibly attract her to him over Elliott?

“Don’t, Tawny. Don’t go there. Elliott might’ve behaved badly, but I’m not a particularly nice guy and I don’t want to be thrust into the role of payback pawn because Elliott’s wounded your pride or broken your heart.”

She jerked her head back, anger and hurt flashing in her eyes, caught up in the exchange and seemingly unaware that one plump, ripe nipple now peered through her hair. But he was aware enough for both of them. Hell, he was aware enough for an army.

“You think I’m making this up to get back at Elliott?”

“You’re not trying to seduce me?”

“I’m trying to be honest, you thickheaded, arrogant, cold-blooded, sarcastic jackass, and you are really … pissing me off.”

“Well, I can see, given that glowing description, why I’d be the man to give you second thoughts about marrying Elliott. Perhaps you felt the need to break it off based on the poor company he keeps.”

She’d said she was pissed off earlier. She was bloody, wanking angry now.

“Here’s the truth, Simon Thackeray, if you can handle it. I’ll be damned if I know why, but I’ve started having dreams about you. About us. They began after we spent the day together for the photo shoot.”

“What kind of dreams?” God, he could barely breathe.

“Sexual dreams. Explicit.”

“They’re just dreams, Tawny.”

“I’m well aware of that, Simon. But those dreams, you, were beginning to take a toll on my relationship with Elliott.”

Instead of gaining clarity, things were growing murkier and more tangled. It had almost been easier when she and Elliott belonged to one another. She’d been off-limits to Simon and his role had been clearly defined. “Why would you let a few dreams interfere with a real relationship?”

“It wasn’t a choice and it wasn’t just a few dreams. It was almost every night. At first I didn’t want to go to sleep, because I didn’t want to dream about making love to you.” Heat surged through him. She looked down and studied her nails. “And now it’s gotten to the point that being asleep is the best part of my day.” She looked back up. “And I’ve felt guilty as hell with Elliott because it felt wrong to do the things with you that I was doing while I was engaged to him.” Her gaze captured his. “And doubly wrong because what we had in my dreams was so much better than what Elliott and I had in reality.”

Her words seduced him, fired along his nerve endings, tightened his body as surely as if she’d trailed her hands over him. “Maybe you won’t have any more of those dreams.”

She shook her head. “This afternoon I was napping when Elliott called. I was dreaming and just about to come. With you.” And he wasn’t so sure that if she went into enough detail he wouldn’t come. She had him hard and throbbing. “I’ve felt like the biggest whore east of the Mississippi. Do you know the first thing that came to mind when he said you both wanted to come over this evening?”

Obviously her mind was an utter mystery to him since he had no clue she’d been having what sounded like very intense sex with him. “No clue.”

“Ménage à trois. That’s how depraved you’ve made me. I am trying to seduce you. Not to get back at Elliott. I need the reality of your touch to exorcise those dreams. Because as it stands now, I’m afraid you’ve ruined me for any other man.”

WHEN SHE WAS SEVEN, frustrated by her lack of progress in her swimming classes, without really thinking it through, she’d sucked in a deep breath and jumped in over her head. And from that day forward her philosophy had taken shape: she’d swim or die trying. Obviously she’d swum.

And she’d just plunged in far out of her depth with Simon. But it was true. She feared he’d ruined her for any other man. And if she could offer him an outlet for his unrequited love, then why not?

Simon advanced toward her, beginning to click off picture after picture.

“Tawny, I’m sure that I haven’t ruined you for other men, as you’ll find when you get back into … circulation.”

Circulation. Another man’s bed was what he meant. And obviously he had no intention of or interest in being that man. Yet another dose of humiliation washed over her.

Why hadn’t she simply kept her mouth shut? Why had she let a few erotic dreams and one helluva live kiss convince her she and Simon had chemistry?

Obviously all the chemistry was in her head—as in chemical imbalance. Obviously he was willing to photograph her. Obviously he’d been offering her comfort earlier and she’d misread the situation. And now obviously she needed to put some freaking clothes on and try to maintain a few shreds of dignity until the power was restored and Simon was out her door. And out of her life.

“You’re right. A little circulation will take care of that for me.” She aimed for light and laughing, but it came out stiff and abrupt. She was precariously close to total humiliation. “Let me put some clothes back on.”

She headed for her closet. Maybe she could spend an hour or so in there—except it was dark. She’d never let herself get caught without a flashlight ever again.

“Tawny—”

Simon touched her bare shoulder. She froze outside while heat filled her on the inside. “Simon, please don’t touch me.”

“That’s not what you said a moment ago.”

She ached for him. And what was the small matter of pride? She’d already humiliated herself. “You know what I mean. I’m not sure that I can stand for you to touch me and not take it any further. And since you’re not interested in going there, it’s best if you simply don’t touch me at all.”

His hand remained on her shoulder. Yearning like nothing she’d ever known before filled her. She wanted him with a desperation that bordered on obsession.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.” His fingers moved against her bare skin in a featherlight caress. “I just don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”

Moving in slow motion, she turned to face him. “I’m not looking for forever. I want you for tonight. I know you’re in love with someone else. Let me be her for you tonight.”

“You would sleep with me, knowing I may very well pretend you’re someone else?”

She lifted her chin a notch. “Yes. You turn me on that much.” She wasn’t exactly shy and retiring to begin with, but there was a fantastic quality to being in her candlelit bedroom with Simon. She said things she would never have been bold enough to say in the harsh light of day. “I’ll take whatever you’re offering, except I don’t particularly want to be a pity lay.”

“You won’t be standing in for anyone. This is about me and you. I wouldn’t insult you by pretending you were anyone other than who you are.” He tilted her head back with one finger beneath her chin and stared hard into her eyes. There wasn’t a shred of pity in his eyes. They burned with a heat and a leashed passion for her. “And I don’t want to be a revenge lay.”

“Never,” she said, winding her arms around his neck, feeling the corded tension of his body, already wet for him, hungering for his touch. “This isn’t payback.”

She wanted to quench this desire for Simon that consumed her and she wanted him to make her feel like a desirable woman. Right or wrong, she needed a little sexual validation.

He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Is this really what you want, Tawny? Are you certain you want me? Because stopping will be torture once I touch you, taste you.”

She leaned into him, unerringly fitting her hips to his. His cock was rock-hard against her mound, offering instant validation and stimulation. Her panties were drenched and her body was on fire. She rubbed her bare breasts against his shirt, delighting in the soft cotton against her aroused nipples. She breathed in his male scent and nuzzled his jaw. His breath quickened.

“Yes, I’m absolutely certain I want you. And I don’t want you to stop. I want you naked on top of me—” she nibbled at his earlobe “—beneath me—” she teased the tip of her tongue along the rim “—beside me—” he shuddered against her “—behind me—” want thickened her voice and strummed through her body “—but most of all inside me.”

HER WORDS AND HER TOUCH destroyed every defense he’d erected. He stood to lose the only friend he’d ever really had, Elliott, by sleeping with Tawny. But he’d trade his friendship and essentially his sense of honor, all of his tomorrows, for one night with her, to hold her, touch her, make love to her. And if he was a lesser man for this decision, he had the rest of his life to deal with it. Perhaps he’d dine on the bitter fruit of regret with tomorrow’s dawn, but for tonight she was his.

He slid his camera to the floor, dropping the strap.

“Tawny …”

He cradled her head in his hands. Without rushing, he kissed her gently, thoroughly, an unspoken promise that for the night, they belonged to each other. He told her in a kiss all the things that he couldn’t or wouldn’t say aloud—how much he wanted her, how beautiful he found her both inside and out, that among women she alone was the most desirable, that for years he’d carried the Hades analogy in his head and she had become his Persephone, but after tonight he’d release her, after offering and taking solace in her.

She returned his kiss, melded into him, connected with his soul.

The kiss heated, shifted to a higher intensity as she slid her hands beneath his shirt, greedily stroking his bare skin. Her touch ignited him. He reached between them and cupped her breasts in his hands, plying his thumbs against her nipples. She felt so good. Tawny pressed against him and moaned into his open mouth, and Simon was lost, gone. He sank onto the edge of the bed, pulling her down with him, between his thighs.

She followed, settling between his legs.

“It seems as if I’ve waited forever to touch you,” she said. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw while she explored his chest with her hands, bold strokes that fanned the fire inside him hotter and higher.

She reached for his belt and his jeans.

“Wait a sec. Let me take off my boots,” Simon said. Tawny stood. He bent down and unlaced his boots—infinitely better than winding up with his trousers around his ankles. Tawny stripped out of her shorts and skimpy panties, dropping them on the floor in front of him. He pulled off the second Doc Martens and looked up.

He was glad he was sitting for his first view of her gloriously, spectacularly naked. She was every inch rounded woman, from shapely legs, to curved hips, to a small waist and full breasts. And obviously a proponent of the Brazilian wax.

Desire slammed him, tightened his balls. “You’re so beautiful, you take my breath.”

She smiled and there was a shyness about it that touched him. She slid onto the bed behind him and laughed softly, her breath warm against his bare shoulder. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and nuzzled his neck, her breasts pressed against his back. Her touch sizzled along his nerve endings.

“I’m glad I’m not sending you running out the door,” she said.

“Not a chance.” He undressed and she pulled him back down onto the bed with her.

He rolled over and trapped her beneath him, his arms on either side of her shoulders. Her eyes darkened and she parted her lips, wetting the fullness of her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

“The only thing that could possibly send me running is—” he lowered his head and tasted the sweetness of her neck, her shoulder “—if you tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

“No. That … won’t … happen.” She arched her back, raising herself, inviting his kisses. Bathed in candlelight, her skin gleamed like a rare pearl. He licked the hollow of her throat and chased her shudder with his own. Her scent, the slight saltiness of her skin, the taste of her. He wanted to make love to her all night, learn every inch of her with his mouth, his tongue, his hands. But he’d wanted her so long, he didn’t think he could wait much longer this first time around. He circled one plump nipple with his tongue. She moaned deep in her throat.

“Simon …” Tawny said in an agonized tone.

He flicked the other one with the tip of his tongue and then moved back to the first one—tasting her, tormenting them both.

They were both slick with sweat and her skin slid against his, her thigh cushioning the length of his erection.

She rolled him onto his back and kissed him as if she couldn’t get enough. Her tongue dueled with his. Her hands explored him, almost frantic, and she made small whimpering noises in the back of her throat, leaving him hotter and harder. She seemed to want him as much as he wanted her. She rolled to her side again, pulling him with her, reaching behind her without taking her mouth from his. Simon broke the kiss.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Reaching for a condom.”

He was such a dolt, he’d forgotten all about protection. That had never happened. He’d always been careful. That she kept a stock on hand wasn’t particularly surprising, considering her battery-powered arsenal.

She looked at him, her eyes luminous, hot. “I’m so afraid this is another dream,” she said. “I don’t want to wake up. Because if I do, I’m going to be righteously pissed.”

Simon laughed. She had the most unorthodox way of flattering him, but he was immeasurably flattered that she didn’t want to wake up if she was dreaming.

“No. We’re not dreaming,” he said, stroking his hand down her back, over the lush curve of her bum. Reality had never been so sweet.

She held a condom aloft in triumph. “Strawberry flavored.” She tore into the package. “Mind if I do the honors?”

“Please. Feel free to,” he said.

“My pleasure is—” she stroked the condom over him, her hand warm, with just the right amount of pressure, and he closed his eyes in a moment of ahhhh “—your pleasure.”

So far she’d only just touched him. She tightened her hand and stroked again. His eyes flew open.

“Unless you want the shortest foreplay in the history of man, you don’t need to do that again,” he said, his hoarseness reflecting the strain of not coming.

“I’m ready if you’re ready. I’ve had weeks of dreaming about you. That’s been plenty of foreplay.”

Simon knew a moment of performance anxiety. What if the real him didn’t measure up to the dream lover he’d been for her? And the curious, mystical, magical woman that she was, she obviously saw it in his face.

“Don’t even go there.” She leaned over him and scattered kisses over his chest, laving his male nipples, down his belly. She lapped at his rigid length and took him into her warm, eager mouth. Simon called on every ounce of his self-control not to blast off as she fondled him with her mouth. She released him and he managed to breathe again. Her hair brushed against his belly, the strands teasing against his skin. “Actually tasting you, touching you, smelling you, is so much better than it ever was in my dreams,” she said, her tone as hot as the passion glittering in her eyes.

She fell to her back, spread her legs, and said with a sweet smile, “Now are you going to fuck me or do I have to beg first?”

It sent him totally over the edge when she said that. If he was any hotter, he’d melt.

He positioned himself between her legs and nudged at her with his sheathed tip. “No begging necessary.”

Simon slid into her slowly, totally captured by the expression on her face, heat and pleasure suffusing her features. She felt so good, so right, and as he slid into her inch by inch, she gripped him, as if welcoming him home.

She wrapped her legs around him and hooked her feet behind his thighs. She lunged up to meet him. A few quick thrusts and they’d both be there. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and deliberately slowed them down. They weren’t going for a distance record—they were both wound too tight, they didn’t have a prayer of making it far—but he pulled back slowly until he was almost out of her and then treated them both to a slow reentry. Tawny gasped aloud and pushed into him, sending him plunging.

“You are deliciously wicked, Simon Thackeray.”

Her honeyed Southern drawl wrapping around his name at the same time her honeyed channel wrapped around his cock nearly undid him. It was as if she’d woven some magic around them, bound them together in a union that went beyond the physical. As if she’d opened up a part of herself and invited him into the warmth and light that was more than skin-deep with her.

She was so open, so giving, and he wanted to give in return. He offered as much of himself as he could. He rode her harder and faster. Her head whipped back and forth on the bed, her hands fisted in the comforter and she urged him on until they were both caught up in the throes of a screaming orgasm—literally.

His Tawny was no wilting flower. She was bold and beautiful, and if he’d ever had a moment’s hesitation that he might be standing in for Elliott, she dispelled that particular notion as she panted his name over and over as she shuddered beneath him.

Had she screamed Elliott’s name the same way? Had she thrashed beneath him and arched into him as if she’d die without his touch? He absolutely didn’t need to go there, yet he absolutely couldn’t help himself.

She lay so still beneath him, her eyes closed, that if she hadn’t been breathing heavily he might’ve thought her asleep. A slow smile bloomed on her generous mouth and she opened her eyes.

“That was … incredible … so much better than I ever dreamed it.”

A strange sensation filled him. It took a moment for Simon to recognize it was contentment—utter bloody contentment. He answered her smile with one of his own. He didn’t think he could not smile at this point, it was a totally involuntary reaction.

“Absolutely.” And then because he wanted to share what he felt but had no clue how to say it, he kissed her, slowly, tenderly, an aftermath of passion.

He traced the curve of her side, his fingers molding against the softness of her skin. He had been painfully honest earlier—now that he was touching her he wasn’t sure he could stop. Intellectually he knew skin was skin, an amalgamation of tissue and nerves and cells, but she felt like no other woman beneath his fingertips. He was so absolutely in love with her, loved her so completely, his whole being ached with it.

He lifted his head and looked at her. He dared so much more in the dark. Hiding in the shadows cast by the candlelight, he drank her in. Her hair spread in disarray across the bed, her eyes dark and mysterious, her lips swollen from his kisses, her body relaxed from his lovemaking. Without thought, he ran his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, breathed in her fragrance. She captured his hand in hers, brought his fingers to her lips and feathered the lightest caress across them.

“Simon …” She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—” she glanced away “—but I … I’m not sure how to say this.”

His heart, not fully recovered from their sexual calisthenics, began to pound again. “Just say it.”

He was too raw and open to quell the surge of hope that she might profess newfound feelings for him.

“I …we…oh, this is so awkward….”

He could barely breathe. Had she discovered, in the aftermath of making love—and that’s what it’d been for him—deeper feelings for him?

“What, luv?” Endearments had never been a part of his vocabulary. They’d never been given as a child and he’d never cultivated them as an adult, but this one rolled off his tongue.

“I’m sweaty and sticky and I’m afraid I, well, stink. I need a shower.”

Righto. He laughed at himself, at how off the mark he’d been. His brain must’ve still been centered in his willy. God knows, he knew he wasn’t the most lovable guy on the planet. Not even his parents had ever loved him. That wasn’t exactly the heartfelt declaration he’d built himself up for but she was right—they were both slick with sweat and although he might be a fool, he wasn’t fool enough to turn down an opportunity tonight. “Need a back washer?”

7

“COME ON IN. THE WATER’S fine,” Tawny said. She leaned back, welcoming the kiss of cool, smooth porcelain against her back.

“Give me a second.” He strode out of the bathroom.

They might be here through force of circumstance, but it was very romantic with candles bathing the room in soft light and contrasting shadows. She’d placed votives in saucers on the floor around the tub. Nothing quite like being inventive.

The candlelight lent a dreamlike air. But it was more than that. The entire night was surreal. Simon Thackeray was about to climb into a bath with her after they’d just had fantastic sex that had been both tender and explosive. She’d discovered a consideration behind Simon’s reserve she’d never anticipated, a quality that had never been part of her dreams yet had engaged her beyond the mere physical.

Simon returned, his camera slung around his neck. He should’ve looked sort of silly wearing only a camera, but there was nothing remotely silly about Simon naked. Impressive. Sexy. Drool-inducing. Heat flushed her body, regardless of the tepid water surrounding her. Nice—that was such an insipid word—muscular legs, nice package up front, totally nice ass. Wow.

Click.

She laughed. “Did you just take a picture of me ogling you from the bath?”

“Absolutely. Very sexy.”

And there was a bonus to carrying on a conversation with a naked man. When he told you he found something sexy, well, you got visual proof to back up his statement. Simon wasn’t lying—it looked as if he found her very sexy indeed.

“I’m not actually naked in the picture, am I?”

He grinned. “No. At this angle and with the water at that level, you can’t actually see details—which is something of a shame since you possess very nice details.”

“Careful, sir. You’ll make me swoon,” she teased in an exaggerated Southern drawl. Beneath Simon’s sober exterior beat the heart of a flirt, and it was all the more potent because he didn’t flirt indiscriminately the way some men did. She’d never seen this flirtatious side of him, even when she and Elliott had double-dated with him. Elliott. She didn’t remotely want to dedicate a brain cell to Elliott at this moment.

“What do you think will happen when I get in the tub with you, Tawny?”

He was a devil to tease her in that low, suggestive tone.

“Keep talking that way and it’ll be your own fault if the water’s heated up by the time you get here,” she said.

Simon laughed and kept firing off pictures. Tawny had lost her self-consciousness in front of the camera. She simply ignored it and flirted with Simon.

“You’re blowing your chance at cool and refreshing.”

“Wet and warm sounds even better,” he said.

“Getting warmer by the minute. Why don’t you come on over and find out just how wet and hot it is?” She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Don’t forget, you promised me a back wash.”

“I plan to fulfill that promise thoroughly in just a minute. That’s a great angle. Hold it for me.”

At one time she might’ve been impatient, but she knew Simon would join her sooner or later. She eyed his smooth, firm erection—sooner from the looks of things. Anticipation hummed through her and she smiled her anticipation at him.