Nights in White Satin: A Loveswept Classic Romance by Linda Cajio Page A

mistake.
    Jill yelped the moment she pushed herself up against the mattress, and every muscle screeched like two thirty-car freight trains about to collide.
    “Okay, so I lied,” she gasped, relaxing back onto the pillow. Another mistake. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”
    “Can I do anything?”
    She appreciated the offer, but doubted it. “Just find me a case of witch hazel and a Swedish masseuse named Inga with hands like hams, and I’ll die a happy woman.”
    Rick snorted in amusement. “You’ll be a board by morning.”
    “Just stand me on end, and I’ll eventually warp back into place.”
    “You need help now. Hang on.” He walked out of the room.
    “Rick! Never mind,” she called, then winced again.
    “Hang on.”
    “Wonderful,” she muttered.
    He returned almost immediately and held up something. “How about a bottle of witch hazel and an English masseur named Rick with hands like pork chops?”
    “Thank you, but no,” she said primly.
    He raised his right hand. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman. Now don’t you be a fool, Jill.”
    Her face heated. “I … can’t. I’m not wearing any underwear.”
    His eyes widened in surprise, then he grinned. “Really? You don’t wear underwear to bed?”
    “Well, I’m wearing a nightgown!” she snapped.
    “I promise not to look,” he said, repeating her words of the day he had torn his pants. He made no effort to hide his amusement.
    “Sorry.”
    “Look, I’ll arrange the sheet so we expose the right areas, and I don’t see a thing. Will that satisfy your puritan heart?”
    It was dangerous, she thought. But to refuse would put more emphasis on her already obvious attraction to him. It would be just like slathering lotion on at the beach, surely. Besides, with her body in such agony, what
could
happen? Nothing, she firmly told herself. Absolutely nothing. She’d be screaming in pain and that ought to kill any amorous mood.
    She tightened her jaw. She must be nuts even to consider it. “No. I’ll be fine.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Flip over on your stomach.”
    “I don’t flip. I slowly squirm my way around.”
    “Then do it or I’ll do it for you.”
    He looked deadly, and she knew he meant every word. The pain was riding higher, and she was desperate for relief. Without help, she’d feel much worse before she felt better. She could control her reaction to him. She had to because she’d be damned before she made a fool of herself. After one last glance at his face, she squirmed onto herstomach, “ouching” all the way. She gasped her relief into the pillow when she was finally done.
    Rick sat down on the edge of the bed and took hold of the bedclothes.
    “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
    “I can’t give a massage through a quilt and sheet, or did you forget that?”
    “Push the covers down to my waist. I’ll do my gown,” she ordered, not wanting his hands on her any more than necessary.
    She carefully hiked up her gown until it was out from under the covers. At that point she gave up gladly. Rick pushed the gown to her shoulders, leaving the quilt safely at her waist. She stared at the bottle as he set it down on the night table, listening to him rubbing his hands together. She braced herself for his touch.
    When it came, it was clinically efficient. He massaged her shoulders with a firmness even her imaginary Inga would have been proud of. Jill pressed her face into the pillow and moaned softly at the pain and the soothing sensation of the warm witch hazel.
    “See? Gentleman all.”
    She turned her head and glanced at him from out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t rub it in … or rather, do.”
    “I’ve been thinking about the Henley,” he said.
    “We’re going.”
    “Right. I was about to say that even though the traffic will be horrendous, commuting will work out well. It was a good idea of yours.”
    “Thanks.”
    His hands were beginning to work magic on her sore muscles. The tension slowly eased fromher