She closed her eyes and put her face under the blissful warmth, and images of Ryan rushed in—Ryan swinging the ax, Ryan reassuring Belva and stitching her hand, Ryan laughing and wiping away a spatter of soup that had splashed her neck. Vivid images that wouldn’t be suppressed, images that seemed to live in her body, well beyond her mind’s control. She poured shampoo onto her head and vigorously worked it into a lather. And tried to shove down the memory of his forearm muscles rippling with power as he lifted the heavy pots from the flames, of his steady hand as he helped her scoop the velvety liquids into jars.
But the hardest memory to ignore was the power of his gaze.
No touch could be as powerful as the arresting feeling of being held in Ryan’s gaze. It was as though she’d been infiltrated by the energy flowing from him. As though some alien force had moved in and taken hold of the controls and was distorting her sense of reality.
She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and grabbed the bar of vetiver soap. But as she skimmed it down her body, she realized that was what Ryan smelled like—the scent of vetiver and lemons and man. She ran the bar of soap along her thighs and then lathered it in her hands and stroked between her legs. Ryan had amazing hands. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like to have him touch her, just right, just there . Pleasure raced in her veins, and she leaned against the shower wall for balance. The cool wall shocked her back to reality.
What in God’s name was she doing?
She sorted through her mind for an explanation for her unnerving reaction, for her driven focus on a man she’d just met, a man she knew little about...
Maybe it was because he played baseball—her brother had told her that the near-inhuman speed the sport required selected out men whose eyes and bodies were so finely tuned they could call up reactions most normal people couldn’t. That the best baseball players used their eyes in a way unlike in any other sport. That some batters could send a pitcher cowering with their eyes alone.
That made sense. She’d just never been around a ballplayer before. Her brother played polo, but that was different; the horses held the real power in that game.
She’d simply had a taste of what it was like to be around an athlete, a man who used nothing but the power of his body and a few tools to shape his world. Of course she’d feel the energy of that.
She toweled the water from her hair and felt more centered. She’d discovered the source of the power she’d felt and now her reactions didn’t feel so alarming. Ryan probably had the same effect on anyone near him. After all, that power, that prowess, was what drove fans to be avid about sports, wasn’t it?
Happy with her explanation, she slid open the door to her small closet.
Jeans and shirts—her everyday work clothes—filled most of the space. Tucked in the back were a few dresses, a couple of cotton ones and a few warmer, knitted wool ones for when the weather turned chilly. She’d meant to buy some new clothes that year but hadn’t made the time.
She thought of her storage unit in New York, jam-packed with ball gowns and city clothes, clothes she’d never have a reason to wear in Albion Bay. Leaving those outfits behind had felt almost as freeing as leaving the trappings of her life. She didn’t miss the private jets, the over-the-top, opulent parties, the posturing and preening of charity balls. She couldn’t think of anything she missed except for a couple of friends she kept in touch with by phone.
She slipped into her favorite blue dress and savored the feeling of the soft cotton against her skin. Her simple clothes represented the freedom she’d fought for, the life she’d carved out for herself.
She had to stand back to see her image in the three-paneled mirror of her consignment-store vanity. The little wooden table and antique mirror had been a find she was proud of. But her
But the hardest memory to ignore was the power of his gaze.
No touch could be as powerful as the arresting feeling of being held in Ryan’s gaze. It was as though she’d been infiltrated by the energy flowing from him. As though some alien force had moved in and taken hold of the controls and was distorting her sense of reality.
She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and grabbed the bar of vetiver soap. But as she skimmed it down her body, she realized that was what Ryan smelled like—the scent of vetiver and lemons and man. She ran the bar of soap along her thighs and then lathered it in her hands and stroked between her legs. Ryan had amazing hands. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like to have him touch her, just right, just there . Pleasure raced in her veins, and she leaned against the shower wall for balance. The cool wall shocked her back to reality.
What in God’s name was she doing?
She sorted through her mind for an explanation for her unnerving reaction, for her driven focus on a man she’d just met, a man she knew little about...
Maybe it was because he played baseball—her brother had told her that the near-inhuman speed the sport required selected out men whose eyes and bodies were so finely tuned they could call up reactions most normal people couldn’t. That the best baseball players used their eyes in a way unlike in any other sport. That some batters could send a pitcher cowering with their eyes alone.
That made sense. She’d just never been around a ballplayer before. Her brother played polo, but that was different; the horses held the real power in that game.
She’d simply had a taste of what it was like to be around an athlete, a man who used nothing but the power of his body and a few tools to shape his world. Of course she’d feel the energy of that.
She toweled the water from her hair and felt more centered. She’d discovered the source of the power she’d felt and now her reactions didn’t feel so alarming. Ryan probably had the same effect on anyone near him. After all, that power, that prowess, was what drove fans to be avid about sports, wasn’t it?
Happy with her explanation, she slid open the door to her small closet.
Jeans and shirts—her everyday work clothes—filled most of the space. Tucked in the back were a few dresses, a couple of cotton ones and a few warmer, knitted wool ones for when the weather turned chilly. She’d meant to buy some new clothes that year but hadn’t made the time.
She thought of her storage unit in New York, jam-packed with ball gowns and city clothes, clothes she’d never have a reason to wear in Albion Bay. Leaving those outfits behind had felt almost as freeing as leaving the trappings of her life. She didn’t miss the private jets, the over-the-top, opulent parties, the posturing and preening of charity balls. She couldn’t think of anything she missed except for a couple of friends she kept in touch with by phone.
She slipped into her favorite blue dress and savored the feeling of the soft cotton against her skin. Her simple clothes represented the freedom she’d fought for, the life she’d carved out for herself.
She had to stand back to see her image in the three-paneled mirror of her consignment-store vanity. The little wooden table and antique mirror had been a find she was proud of. But her
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