Rekindled by Barbara Delinsky Page B

covered.
    As she stood rooted there, the shower went on, the curtain clattered back on its hooks, and … her mind’s eye saw it all. The towel fell away. With total nonchalance, he stepped into the shower.
    Mercifully, he couldn’t hear her low cry as she whirled back toward her bedroom, cursing both Ross and her imagination all the way. But she couldn’t curb her curiosity entirely. Approaching the bed with an odd shyness, she studied his things. There was the leather duffel she had seen earlier, plus a larger, flatter suit bag, unzipped to reveal a pair of gray-blue tweed lapels. There was the smaller canvas case that had contained his shaving gear, if the travel-sized bottle of cologne left behind was any indication. There was a shirt-white, freshly laundered, lightly starched. There were a tie, clean socks, shorts “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed softly. If every stitch of the clothing he intended to put on was here on her bed, exactly what did he plan to wear for the trip from the bathroom?
    Anticipation constricted her throat, making breathing harder. The aftereffects of her jog had faded; this quickening was due to desire. Ross turned her on. Part of her wanted nothing more than to give herself to him. Give herself? She would take as well, take as she had been too the I’ve to do eleven years before. She felt suddenly greedy, possessed with a need to satisfy the gnawing inside.
    “You’re back!”
    Chloe whirled around.
    Undaunted by her alarm, he grinned. “I’d hoped to be out of your way.” He gestured in token apology toward her bed. “Guess I misjudged the time.” He shot a look at the hall. “I helped myself to your supplies. That okay?”
    That okay? The towel was draped around his hips with as much panache-and as little ceremony-as she had earlier imagined. It hung low on his stomach and left little to the imagination. She dragged her eyes upward, following a narrow line of hair past his navel to his waist and slowly higher.
    “Chloe,” Ross began in husky chiding, “do you have any idea what it does to a man when a woman looks at him that way?”
    It took every ounce of her willpower to keep from lowering her gaze in curiosity. “I’m sorry-“
    “Oh, don’t be sorry.” He came closer. Though he didn’t touch her, his body was no more than a breath away.
    And she felt it, felt the need. She put a hand to his chest to ward it off, but it was a sorry miscalculation. Her fingers found a mat of soft, dark hair that sprang, warm and still moist, from the freshness of lightly bronzed skin.
    The pounding of her pulse frightened her so that she tore her hand from his chest and thrust it behind her back. She felt a huge measure of guilt. If he did also, it was hidden behind desire. His amber eyes smoldered, heating her all the more. The need, ahhhh, the need. The ache to be held and loved … Ever so slowly, Ross lowered his head until his lips shadowed hers. She felt them, wanted them. Her own parted in silent invitation. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation. But he never kissed her. Rather, there was a soft exchange of breath, a whisper of lips against one another, sweet, sweet torment.
    Chloe felt ready to burst, willing to beg. But that was a sure road to self-disgust. So she finally did what she had meant to do all along. She pressed against his chest, pushing him gently but firmly away.
    As he slowly straightened to what was, even barefoot, an awesome height, he cleared his throat. “You’d better wait downstairs,” he said in a voice that was thick and taut. “I’ll finish up quickly.”
    She took his suggestion. By the time she reached the bottommost step, sanity had frilly returned. Swearing softly, she traipsed through the kitchen and stood on the back porch looking out on the beach. But the tide within her was high. No amount of cooling breeze could stern it.
    He had to leave. It was as simple as that. Indifference was a pipe dream. He stirred her too much.
    Having him around