Or that before this evening ended, she and Ezekiel would be swept up in the throes of passion.
Whispers of nerves and curls of heat tangled together inside her belly, and she exhaled, trying to calm both. If that kiss was any indication, Ezekiel was well versed in sex. She, on the other hand, not so much. There had only been a couple of men she’d been with in the last ten years. And while the experiences had been nice—God, how anemic nice sounded—the encounters hadn’t melted her bones or numbed her brain as just a mating of mouths with Ezekiel had. What would actual sex be like between them? Would he find her lacking? What if she—
“Stop it.”
She whipped around at the softly uttered command, a bit of the wine in her glass sloshing over the rim to dot the back of her hand. Silently cursing herself for her jumpiness, she lifted her hand to her mouth and sucked the alcohol from her skin.
Her heart thumped against her rib cage as Ezekiel’s gaze dipped to her lips and hand. That green, hooded gaze damn near smoldered, and it seized the breath from her lungs.
Clearing her throat, she snatched her attention from him and returned it to the almost overwhelming sight of Vegas. Not that the view could abolish him from her mind’s eye.
He’d ditched the black suit jacket he’d worn to their wedding, and the white shirt stretched over his wide shoulders, emphasizing their breadth. The sky blue tie had also been removed and the first few buttons undone, granting her a glimpse of the smooth brown skin at his throat and over his collarbone. The shirt clung to his hard, deep chest and flat, tapered waist. The black slacks embraced his muscled, long legs and couldn’t hide their strength.
She would know that strength tonight. Intimately.
Her lashes lowered, and she blindly lifted the glass to her lips again as her fingertips rose to her own collarbone and found the small scar there, rubbing over the raised flesh.
“Stop what?” she belatedly replied, her voice no louder than a whisper.
He didn’t immediately answer, but a stir of the air telegraphed his movement. A moment later, another touch from a larger, rougher finger replaced hers. She opened her eyes to meet his, even as he lightly caressed the mark marring her skin. She gasped, unable to hold it in.
Heat blasted from that one spot, spiraling through her like a blowtorch to her insides. It battled with the ice that tried to encase her. The ice of memories. Of pain beyond imagining.
His gaze lifted from just below her neck to meet her eyes, the intensity there so piercing, she wondered if patients going under the knife encountered the same trepidation. The same sense of overwhelming exposure and vulnerability.
“I’ve noticed you touch this place here...” He stroked the scar, and she couldn’t prevent the small shiver from working its way through her frame. Fire and ice. Arousal and shame. They intertwined like lovers inside her stomach, mating in a dirty dance. “You did it that night on the balcony and at the cemetery. At your parents’ home. And again in my office the day you came to see me. It’s your tell, Ray. Whenever you’re uncomfortable. Or nervous. Possibly even scared.”
He swept one more caress over her skin before dropping his arm. But he didn’t move back out of her personal space, didn’t grant her breathing room. Every inhale carried his earthy but fresh scent—like a cool, brisk wind through a lush forest. She wanted to wrap herself in it. But his too perceptive observation froze her to the spot.
“So whatever you’re thinking that has you feeling any of those emotions, stop it. Or tell me so I can take the fear away.”
Her attempt at diversion hadn’t worked last time, so she stuck to a believable half-truth. At least he hadn’t asked her how she got the scar. That, she could never admit to him. Because it would involve telling him her most carefully guarded secret.
“Why?” she murmured.
“Why what?” he asked. “Why do I want to take away your fear?”
She nodded.
“Because I’ve seen it one too many times in your eyes in the last few weeks, and I don’t like it,” he said.
She stiffened, taken aback by his words. But he cocked his head to the side, his gaze narrowing on her.
“Are you offended because I said it or because I noticed?” He hummed in his throat, lifting a hand to her again. This time he traced the arc of her eyebrow, then stroked a teasing path down the bridge of her nose before sweeping a caress underneath her eye. “These gorgeous brown eyes? They tell everything you’re feeling. Whether you’re amused, irritated, frustrated, thoughtful or angry. In a world where people deceive and hide, you’re a refreshing gift of an anomaly. Except...” He exhaled roughly, still brushing the tender skin above her cheekbone. “You have secrets, Reagan. Your eyes even betray that. I don’t need to know what they are to know they hurt you, make you guard this beautiful heart.”
He pressed two fingertips to her chest, directly over the pounding organ. The organ he called beautiful but one that had caused her so much pain and disillusionment.
The organ that even now beat harder for him.
Taking several moments, she studied the dark, slashing eyebrows, the vibrant, light green eyes that seemed to miss nothing, the sensual fullness of his mouth, the silky facial hair that framed his lips and covered his rock-hard jaw. Beautiful. Such a beautiful man.
And hers. At least for the next year.
Hers to touch. To take into her body. To lie next to.
But not to love. His heart belonged to a dead woman, and he had no intention of trying to reclaim it. He’d warned her of that early in their bargain. And this heat between them—this heat that threatened to incinerate rational thought and sense—it warned her that if she wasn’t careful, she could once again be that reckless sixteen-year-old willing to throw caution to the wind for love.
She’d vowed never to be that girl again.