Close Proximity by Donna Clayton Page A

beyond measure, she wheeled around, meaning to reach for the coffeepot. But she miscalculated the distance and ended up touching her knuckle to the edge of the heating element under the pot.
    She gasped, jerking her hand to her chest.
    Rafe was at her side in an instant.
    â€œHere,” he said, gently taking her hand in his. “Let me see.”
    He was so close. Too close. The warm male scent that was his alone enveloped her like a warm wool blanket, and she fought the urge to close her eyes and revel in it. Up close, his swarthy skin was lustrous. Smooth. Flawless. And she ached to splay her palm against his broad chest, feel the beat of his heart, experience the warmth of him.
    Guiding her to the sink, he flipped on the water and plunged her hand into the cold cascade. She was barely conscious of the chilled temperature, barely conscious of the burn on her finger. The only thing she was cognizant of was him. The solid mass of him standing just inches from her.
    Their gazes clashed, and his voice was whisper-soft as he said, “It’s so strange, isn’t it? Like a living, breathing thing.”
    He was describing the allure they felt. And, God help her, she knew he spoke the truth. It would be so easy tojust let go, to let her very soul become possessed by the surreal entity of the attraction that plagued them, to lean forward, lift up on tiptoes and press her mouth to his. It would take so very little effort to relax against the hard length of him, to let desire have reign. But a fear welled up in her chest, an icy, bitter fear that had her inching away from him.
    â€œI can’t.” The words were like sandpaper, grating against her throat as she spoke them. And she could only hope he would understand her meaning.
    He was a man of few words, Rafe was. He was contemplative. Deep thinking. She’d learned that much about him. But he’d shown her, over and over, that he had a tender side. A gentle nature.
    No matter how kindhearted he might be, Libby simply would never be able to open herself to another man. Not after the way she’d been used and then tossed aside so callously.
    Love hurt. She knew that, had experienced it firsthand. She’d exposed her emotions and thoughts, given of herself, wholly, freely, only to have the gift of her love mocked by the very man she’d thought she’d cared for. She wasn’t ready to feel that kind of pain again. In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever be ready.
    A sigh tore from his chest. His tone was gruff as he said, “That’s good. Because I can’t, either.”
    His past wasn’t any of her business. But she couldn’t help feeling curious about his comment. There was great impetus behind the fortifications surrounding her own heart. But what could have happened to him to make him throw up those protective walls that encircled his?
    He turned off the water, reached for a soft cotton dish towel and lightly patted her hand dry.
    â€œI think you’re going to live.” The pitch of his voicewas now light, teasing. He made to step away from her. “I should go have a shower.”
    Although every fiber of her being screamed that it was a mistake, Libby reached out and stopped his retreat with one light touch of her fingers on his corded forearm.
    An awkward moment pulsed thickly by. Finally, she said, “Your sister Cheyenne…does she still live on the reservation?”
    A shining strand of his long hair fell over his shoulder, cascading down his chest as he shook his head from side to side. “She lives and works at Hopechest Ranch. She counsels the kids there. She’s married to Jackson Colton.”
    Libby’s eyes widened a fraction. The whole fantastic Colton story had made the San Francisco newspapers.
    â€œDo you think I’ll get to meet them while I’m here?”
    â€œI don’t see how you’ll avoid it.”
    He grinned, but he seemed terribly aware of her hand