cringed inside at having that particularly humiliating reminder tossed out on the table like an unappetizing side dish. “Well,” she said, trying to act cool and ignore the nervous lump that had grown in her throat, “I’m afraid it’s already taken.”
“Good,” he said on a short laugh.
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. As different as he seemed, some parts of Brock Denton had stayed exactly the same. “Of course you’d say good. Since you don’t like inexperienced girls.”
He offered up a leisurely, knowing grin, and she felt them both remembering the heat of that night oozing warm and consuming all around them. Even if he ultimately hadn’t wanted her, he’d felt the heat—that had never been in question. She tried to break their gaze but couldn’t quite do it.
He spoke in a low timbre. “You have a good memory, kitten.” Her reply came just as soft. “That’s a hard thing to forget.”
He crossed his arms and tilted his head, his look going mischievously seductive. “So since you’re more experienced now, there’s nothing holding us back.”
This time it was she who laughed. Not that what he’d said was funny—more like brutally tempting—but a laugh had seemed a smart way to respond. “Sorry, buddy, you missed your chance.”
He looked doubtful, and arrogant as ever. “Did I?”
She drew her answer from deep down inside, and it came out sounding surprisingly firm and decisive. “Yes.” Very good, Kat. Keep it up and maybe you’ll get through this without throwing yourself in his lap again.
“You sound so sure.” And he sounded skeptical. Arrogant bastard.
But his astonishment to find out he couldn’t have her with a mere snap of his fingers pleased her—and brought out her next words with even more confidence. “I am sure. I’m getting married, Brock. Nothing can happen between you and me. End of story.”
“My loss then,” he said, but it still managed to piss her off—because his expression still dripped with unerring confidence. And when he raked his gaze suggestively over her breasts, it felt almost as if she’d been touched there.
This was clearly going to be the most difficult test of willpower she’d ever endured. Brock Denton. On her island. Why, God, why?
Debra Spencer watched all the world’s tragedies on CNN and MSNBC. Wars, terrorists, and storms of biblical proportion. She watched them every day and every night, letting them break her heart—and forcing her to be thankful. Because her life really wasn’t so bad; CNN reminded her of that almost constantly. And she’d needed the reminder a lot lately.
She sat in creamy satin lounging pants ßipping back and forth between the channels, barely aware of the lush surroundings of her home. She almost didn’t notice it anymore, and had stopped believing it mattered. And if she could ever get her husband to stop believing, life might change for the better. If we didn’t have so much, I might be a happier person. It made no
sense—yet she knew it was true.
Even now, Clark slaved away at the gallery—doing God knew what, but definitely something he thought would bring in more money. Or maybe Ian was there with him tonight, schooling him on which stocks to buy, and which to dump, and exactly when to execute the trades—he and Ian had been hunkered over desks together working on investment strategies since soon after his engagement to Kat almost six months ago.
She tried to appreciate Clark’s work ethic, his determination to keep them living in the manner to which they were accustomed—yet it was Saturday, for heaven’s sake, and Richard, the young man he’d hired especially for Saturdays, was perfectly capable of handling things at the gallery on his own. Still, Clark had gone in this afternoon, saying he’d be there “for a couple of hours. But we can go out to dinner tonight if you want. Someplace on the water?”
He knew Debra loved the water. He hadn’t built the house there, fearing
“Good,” he said on a short laugh.
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. As different as he seemed, some parts of Brock Denton had stayed exactly the same. “Of course you’d say good. Since you don’t like inexperienced girls.”
He offered up a leisurely, knowing grin, and she felt them both remembering the heat of that night oozing warm and consuming all around them. Even if he ultimately hadn’t wanted her, he’d felt the heat—that had never been in question. She tried to break their gaze but couldn’t quite do it.
He spoke in a low timbre. “You have a good memory, kitten.” Her reply came just as soft. “That’s a hard thing to forget.”
He crossed his arms and tilted his head, his look going mischievously seductive. “So since you’re more experienced now, there’s nothing holding us back.”
This time it was she who laughed. Not that what he’d said was funny—more like brutally tempting—but a laugh had seemed a smart way to respond. “Sorry, buddy, you missed your chance.”
He looked doubtful, and arrogant as ever. “Did I?”
She drew her answer from deep down inside, and it came out sounding surprisingly firm and decisive. “Yes.” Very good, Kat. Keep it up and maybe you’ll get through this without throwing yourself in his lap again.
“You sound so sure.” And he sounded skeptical. Arrogant bastard.
But his astonishment to find out he couldn’t have her with a mere snap of his fingers pleased her—and brought out her next words with even more confidence. “I am sure. I’m getting married, Brock. Nothing can happen between you and me. End of story.”
“My loss then,” he said, but it still managed to piss her off—because his expression still dripped with unerring confidence. And when he raked his gaze suggestively over her breasts, it felt almost as if she’d been touched there.
This was clearly going to be the most difficult test of willpower she’d ever endured. Brock Denton. On her island. Why, God, why?
Debra Spencer watched all the world’s tragedies on CNN and MSNBC. Wars, terrorists, and storms of biblical proportion. She watched them every day and every night, letting them break her heart—and forcing her to be thankful. Because her life really wasn’t so bad; CNN reminded her of that almost constantly. And she’d needed the reminder a lot lately.
She sat in creamy satin lounging pants ßipping back and forth between the channels, barely aware of the lush surroundings of her home. She almost didn’t notice it anymore, and had stopped believing it mattered. And if she could ever get her husband to stop believing, life might change for the better. If we didn’t have so much, I might be a happier person. It made no
sense—yet she knew it was true.
Even now, Clark slaved away at the gallery—doing God knew what, but definitely something he thought would bring in more money. Or maybe Ian was there with him tonight, schooling him on which stocks to buy, and which to dump, and exactly when to execute the trades—he and Ian had been hunkered over desks together working on investment strategies since soon after his engagement to Kat almost six months ago.
She tried to appreciate Clark’s work ethic, his determination to keep them living in the manner to which they were accustomed—yet it was Saturday, for heaven’s sake, and Richard, the young man he’d hired especially for Saturdays, was perfectly capable of handling things at the gallery on his own. Still, Clark had gone in this afternoon, saying he’d be there “for a couple of hours. But we can go out to dinner tonight if you want. Someplace on the water?”
He knew Debra loved the water. He hadn’t built the house there, fearing
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