Ache For You

21

Our gazes hold. A vein throbs in the hollow of her throat. Her breath quickens, and my erection is so hard there must be no blood left anywhere else in my body.

As if she’s not sure she should be answering, she says, “Five. Maybe six.”

The heat that flashes over me is intense. I can’t remember the last time I’ve wanted a woman so much. “Plenty of time to show me exactly how much you dislike men with oversize . . . egos.”

Silence stretches between us, not long but cavernously wide, filled with tension and unspoken need. Then, in a throaty voice, she says, “I dislike them a lot.”

It’s so blatantly s****l I almost groan. I lean closer, so close I can smell her skin. She smells like sunshine. Like the outdoors. Like honeysuckle and citrus and something else indefinable I want very badly to eat. Into her ear, I say, “Then you’re really going to hate me. You’ll hate me over and over and over. I’ll make sure, bella, that you’ll hate me more than any other man you’ll ever meet.”

She inhales against my throat. Resting on my arm, her fingers tremble. She takes a breath, then slowly blows it out. “Okay, fancypants, you’re on. I’m in room four-twelve. Give me ten minutes.”

She pulls away and meets my eyes. In the candlelight, her skin is flushed and rosy, her eyes shine, and her lips are darkest red against that pale skin.

I’ve never seen anything so lovely.

When I nod, she rises and walks away without looking back. It isn’t until she’s gone that I realize I still don’t know her name.

I take a moment to gather myself, then head back to my table. Antonio has obviously been watching our interaction, because he asks, “Someone you know?”

I smile, thinking of all the ways I’m about to get to know that gorgeous creature. All the delicious, dirty ways. “Let’s call it a night. Something came up.”

Antonio looks at the bulge straining the front of my trousers and lifts his brows. “Evidently.”

Without another word, I pull money from my wallet, leave it on the table, nod a farewell to Antonio, then head to the lobby, because even though she said ten minutes, that’s nine-and-a-half minutes too long to wait.

NINE

KIMBER

A fact I’ve recently come to understand: Womanizers are all alike. They’re arrogant, selfish, and convinced they’re doing you a favor when they throw their pretty peen in your direction.

I’m so over it.

When I get back to my room, I get the water hot for a bath and raid the minibar while the tub is filling. Fortified with a hefty rum and Coke, I strip, wind my hair into a messy bun, and slip into the hot water with a groan of pleasure.

What a s**t day. Week.

I close my eyes and let my mind drift, taking the occasional sip from my drink. How could Papa have married that woman? That heartless ice cube of a woman? I start to get angry thinking about it and chug the rest of my drink. Then my mind wanders into Euro Hunk territory, and I get even angrier.

So he’s beautiful. So what? He’s obviously a letch. If he acts that aggressively with me, I’m sure he acts that way with every woman he encounters. And hell if I’ll ever be so naive again the way I was with Brad.

I don’t know who’s in room 412, but I hope it’s someone with a short temper and a fondness for fistfights.

Imagining Euro Hunk getting punched in the face by a surly hotel guest upset at being disturbed makes a bitter smile curve my lips. Then I feel guilty because without him, I wouldn’t have made it to the hospital in time to hear my father’s last words.

Then, without warning, I burst into tears.

I lie in the tub and let the pain wash over me. There’s so much of it I feel as if I’m suffocating. I have to set the glass on the edge of the tub because my hand is shaking so hard I can’t hold it. I sit up, wrap my arms around my knees, and ugly cry until I’ve wrung myself out and the water has grown cold.

Then I dry off and make myself another drink.

Then the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Buonasera,” says a husky voice I’d recognize anywhere.

“How did you get this number?” I demand, my face going hot.

A chuckle, even sexier than the voice. “I have friends at the front desk. Apparently you made quite an impression when you checked in. All I had to say was ‘Beautiful American,’ and they connected me to your room straightaway. Speaking of rooms, the lady in four-twelve was very nice, but I prefer my women to have their real teeth and be able to walk without a cane.”

Apparently the privacy laws in this country are as lax as the traffic laws. I say tartly, “Really? I’d have thought as long as a woman was breathing, you’d be good to go.”

“You’d have thought wrong. I’m very particular. My last serious relationship was three years ago.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure. Listen—I’m grateful to you for that ticket. Sincerely, I am. And if you’ll give me your address, I swear I’ll find a way to pay you back. But I’m not interested in sleeping with you.” Okay, that’s a teeny lie, but whatever. “I’m burying my father in a few days—I’m not in the mood for . . . whatever this is.” Why am I explaining this to him? Hang up!

But I can’t hang up, because I’m conflicted. Giving me his ticket was an incredible gesture of generosity. Even if he was hoping for a blowie in the men’s room, it was still generous.

Even though I had to surrender my sketch pad with my entire spring collection, it was still generous.