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Authors: Sandra Brown
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hell-raiser in the family it had fallen to Marnie to be the chaperone.
Sighing, she switched out the lamp, moved toward her solitary bed, and shrugged off her robe. Lightly her hands skimmed over her nightgown. Her body was narrow and lean.
Voluptuous would never apply.
Sharon, who had matured early, had started turning men's heads by the time she was twelve, much to their parents' consternation.
In her kinder moments, which had been few and far between, Sharon had promised her despairing younger sister that if she were only patient, she would eventually have cleavage and rounded, womanly hips.
With a rueful smile Marnie slid between the sheets. Those long-anticipated curves had never developed. She'd stopped expecting them years before.
She knew she had a certain allure. Even if her eyes didn't dance and twinkle flirtatiously they were large and ringed with thick, dark lashes. The shape of her mouth seemed to be particularly attractive to some men.
The sculptor she had posed for – wouldn't Colonel Kincaid be shocked to know that while an art student at the university she had posed nude for a sculptor – had found her mouth intriguing and sexy.
That's what had first aroused him that afternoon when he had left his work, crossed the studio, and, with damp clay still clinging to his fingers, brushed them across her mouth.
To her dismay and mortification, her nipples had tightened.
Encouraged, the artist had taken the caress further. He kissed her lips and fondled her small, pointed breasts. She responded. The sculptor had a rather elevated ego and would have been crushed to know that his touch in itself hadn't elicited that sensual response from her body.
It was the memory of Law, laughing at her on the beach as his straight white teeth demolished the peak of a Sno-Kone before it dissolved in the sun. They'd bought the Sno-Kones to toast their sand castle, which had taken a half day to erect.
"Hey squirt, that Sno-Kones done a dye job on your lips."
His fingers had been gritty with sand as he dragged them across her syrup-stained lips; and young Marnie Hibbs had experienced sexual desire for the first time in her life.
She hadn't even known how to label that warm, delicious, flowering sensation in her lower body. She hadn't attributed the sudden projection of her nipples against her swimsuit to Law's touch. Only later had she understood what had happened to her that afternoon.
The artist accidentally conjured up that memory. Marnie closed her eyes and pretended that it was Law Kincaid who was kissing her, caressing her, lowering her to a grubby mattress under the eaves of a loft studio and taking her virginity.
Eventually however, she had opened her eyes. It wasn't Law lying beside her, but a man she barely knew, a man with clay on his fingers and a smug grin on his face. She never went back to his studio, even though every penny she could earn had counted. She had often wondered who the artist had gotten to pose so he could finish the piece.
She didn't have the natural resources to entice a man, especially a sybarite like Law Kincaid. But he would be surprised to know about the yearning turbulence that lay just below her puritanical facade.
His accusation that she was a prude had stung, not because it was true, but because it was so untrue. If David hadn't returned then, if Law hadn't left the pool and hastily stepped into his discarded shorts, she might have proved to him just how sensuous she was.
"No, I wouldn't," she admitted in the dark, not knowing whether to congratulate herself for being strong or reproving herself for being such a coward.
Since she had rebuffed him, she would probably never hear from him again. That would be best for everyone involved. The idea of having a son had probably appealed to him only because he had thought it was a package deal that came complete with an available female.
Let him deal with the problem of the anonymous letters himself. She wanted to have nothing more to
Sighing, she switched out the lamp, moved toward her solitary bed, and shrugged off her robe. Lightly her hands skimmed over her nightgown. Her body was narrow and lean.
Voluptuous would never apply.
Sharon, who had matured early, had started turning men's heads by the time she was twelve, much to their parents' consternation.
In her kinder moments, which had been few and far between, Sharon had promised her despairing younger sister that if she were only patient, she would eventually have cleavage and rounded, womanly hips.
With a rueful smile Marnie slid between the sheets. Those long-anticipated curves had never developed. She'd stopped expecting them years before.
She knew she had a certain allure. Even if her eyes didn't dance and twinkle flirtatiously they were large and ringed with thick, dark lashes. The shape of her mouth seemed to be particularly attractive to some men.
The sculptor she had posed for – wouldn't Colonel Kincaid be shocked to know that while an art student at the university she had posed nude for a sculptor – had found her mouth intriguing and sexy.
That's what had first aroused him that afternoon when he had left his work, crossed the studio, and, with damp clay still clinging to his fingers, brushed them across her mouth.
To her dismay and mortification, her nipples had tightened.
Encouraged, the artist had taken the caress further. He kissed her lips and fondled her small, pointed breasts. She responded. The sculptor had a rather elevated ego and would have been crushed to know that his touch in itself hadn't elicited that sensual response from her body.
It was the memory of Law, laughing at her on the beach as his straight white teeth demolished the peak of a Sno-Kone before it dissolved in the sun. They'd bought the Sno-Kones to toast their sand castle, which had taken a half day to erect.
"Hey squirt, that Sno-Kones done a dye job on your lips."
His fingers had been gritty with sand as he dragged them across her syrup-stained lips; and young Marnie Hibbs had experienced sexual desire for the first time in her life.
She hadn't even known how to label that warm, delicious, flowering sensation in her lower body. She hadn't attributed the sudden projection of her nipples against her swimsuit to Law's touch. Only later had she understood what had happened to her that afternoon.
The artist accidentally conjured up that memory. Marnie closed her eyes and pretended that it was Law Kincaid who was kissing her, caressing her, lowering her to a grubby mattress under the eaves of a loft studio and taking her virginity.
Eventually however, she had opened her eyes. It wasn't Law lying beside her, but a man she barely knew, a man with clay on his fingers and a smug grin on his face. She never went back to his studio, even though every penny she could earn had counted. She had often wondered who the artist had gotten to pose so he could finish the piece.
She didn't have the natural resources to entice a man, especially a sybarite like Law Kincaid. But he would be surprised to know about the yearning turbulence that lay just below her puritanical facade.
His accusation that she was a prude had stung, not because it was true, but because it was so untrue. If David hadn't returned then, if Law hadn't left the pool and hastily stepped into his discarded shorts, she might have proved to him just how sensuous she was.
"No, I wouldn't," she admitted in the dark, not knowing whether to congratulate herself for being strong or reproving herself for being such a coward.
Since she had rebuffed him, she would probably never hear from him again. That would be best for everyone involved. The idea of having a son had probably appealed to him only because he had thought it was a package deal that came complete with an available female.
Let him deal with the problem of the anonymous letters himself. She wanted to have nothing more to
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