He walked farther into the room and watched the blade of moonlight caught in her hair turn it into silver. One stray lock curled softly over her cheek. She’d taken off her jacket, and her silk top clung to her breasts so that he could watch their gentle rise and fall.
Asleep, she looked younger than the formidable physics professor who’d instructed her class on Borromean nuclei. That day there had been something parched about her, as if she’d been closed up inside so long that all her juices had dried up, but asleep and bathed in moonlight she was different—dewy, renewed, plumped up—and he felt the stirrings of desire.
His physical reaction bothered him. The first two times he’d been with her he hadn’t known what she was like. Now he knew, but his body didn’t seem to have gotten the message.
He decided it was time for the next scene in their unpleasant melodrama, and he pressed the toe of his shoe down on the front of the rocker. The chair tilted, and she startled awake.
“Bedtime, Rosebud.”
Her green eyes flew open and immediately darkened with wariness. “I—I must have fallen asleep.”
“Big day.”
“I was looking for a bedroom.” She slipped on her glasses, then pushed her hands through her hair, where it had fallen forward over her face. He watched silvery blond drizzles trickle through her fingers.
“You can take the Widow Snopes’s room. Come on.”
He could see that she didn’t want to follow him, but she wanted another argument even less. It was a mistake for her to telegraph her emotions the way she did. It made the game too easy.
He led her down the hallway, and as they came closer to the master bedroom, her nervousness grew. He felt a grim satisfaction watching it happen. What would she do if he touched her? So far, he’d avoided any physical contact, not quite trusting himself to stay in control. He’d never hit a woman—could never even have imagined doing such a thing—but the urge to damage her was primal. As he observed her nervousness, he knew he had to test her.
They reached the door just before his own. He extended his hand toward the knob and deliberately brushed her arm.
Jane jumped as she felt his touch and spun to face him. His eyes were full of mockery, and she realized he knew exactly how nervous he was making her. There was something dangerous about him tonight. She had no idea what he was thinking; she only knew that they were alone in this big, ugly house, and she felt defenseless.
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He pushed open the door. “We’ve got connecting bedrooms, just like those old-time houses used to have. I guess G. Dwayne and his wife didn’t get along real well.”
“I don’t want a connecting bedroom. I’ll sleep in one of the rooms at the other end of the hall.”
“You’ll sleep wherever I tell you.”
Prickles of alarm skidded up her spine, but she lifted her head and met his gaze. “Stop bullying me.”
“This isn’t bullying. Bullies can’t back up their threats. I can.”
His lazy drawl held an edge of menace, and her stomach twisted. “Exactly what are you threatening?”
His gaze slid over her, lingering at the hollow of her neck, her breasts, passing down to her hips, then returning to her eyes. “You cost me my peace of mind, not to mention a wad of cash. To my way of thinking, that means you’ve got some big debts to pay off. Maybe I just want you close by while I decide when I’m going to start collecting.”
The sexual threat was unmistakable, and she should have been enraged—certainly frightened—but instead, a curious jolt passed through her, as if her nerve endings had received an electrical shock. She found her reaction deeply disturbing, and she tried to move away from him, only to back into the doorjamb.
He lifted his arm and splayed one hand on the edge of the frame, just next to her head. His leg brushed the side of hers, and all of her senses grew alert. She saw the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the rim of black that surrounded the irises of his pale gray eyes. She caught the faint scent of laundry detergent on his knit shirt and something else, something that shouldn’t have a smell, but did. The scent of danger.
His voice was a husky whisper. “The first time I strip you naked, Rosebud, it’s going to be in broad daylight because I don’t want to miss a thing.”
Her palms grew damp, and an awful wildness rose inside her. She felt a suicidal desire to peel her silk shell over her head, unfasten her slacks, to strip herself naked for him right here in the hallway of this sinner’s house. She wanted to answer his warrior’s challenge with one of her own, a challenge as ancient and powerful as the first woman’s.
He moved. It was almost nothing. A slight shift of his weight, but it brought the chaos of her thoughts back in order. She was a middle-aged physics professor whose only lover wore socks to bed. What kind of opponent was she for this seasoned sexual warrior who seemed to have chosen sex as a weapon to subjugate her?
She was deeply shaken and just as determined not to let him use her weakness to his advantage. She lifted her gaze to his. “You do what you have to, Cal. I’ll do the same.”
Did she imagine a flicker of surprise on his face? She couldn’t be certain as she turned into the room and shut the door.
The sun streaming through the windows awakened her the next morning. She propped herself up on the pillows and admired the Widow Snopes’s bedroom, which was painted a pale blue with chalk white trim and soft iris accents. Its simple cherry furniture and braided rugs gave the room the same homey feel as the nursery.
Jane glanced uneasily toward the door that led to a master bath linking her bedroom with Cal’s. She vaguely remembered hearing a shower running earlier, and she could only hope he’d already left the house. Last night she had placed her own toiletries in a smaller bathroom down the hall.