CHAPTER FIVE

      “ELIJAH?”

      Elijah Prescott?

      Her emotions ricocheting between denial and delight, Ava tried to think straight. Her fingers itched to reach out, to touch that gorgeous face, to caress that warm skin. To see if he was real.

      But all she could do was stare.

      Then, in her next breath, her initial surge of joy-filled pleasure died a fast, ugly death as memories flashed in a painful cacophony of images. White lace and teddy bears. Gold rings and baby bottles. Basic black and a tiny coffin.

      “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, stepping away from the table as if breathing his air would suck her back into the past.

      “I thought I was getting a massage, but clearly I was mistaken,” Elijah remarked in that deep, easy voice of his. Once that unflappable calm had comforted her, had made her feel safe and secure and even, yes, on occasion, had turned her on.

      Now it made her want to storm over to that massage table and kick him.

      Hard.

      “Why are you here?” she asked again. “Here. In Napa. In the spa. On my massage bed?”

      “Yours?”

      Those sharp bottle-green eyes angled around the room. Not a flounce, flourish or bit of fluff to be seen. She didn’t need his arched brow to tell her that he didn’t think she fit this setting.

      Good. The woman he’d known didn’t fit here. Ava took comfort in that. But comfort wasn’t much of a cushion against the shock of seeing Elijah Prescott again.

      Her gaze shifted from the intensity of his face to check out the rest of him. A mistake, she realized when her eyes roamed the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms. It was bad enough that she could barely form a coherent sentence or think straight. The last thing she could afford to add to that was lust.

      She tried to look away, but her eyes wouldn’t cooperate. God, the man was built. Not gym fit, but weapon fit. She’d forgotten that there was a difference, and in ignoring the former had blocked out how deliciously tempting was the latter.

      “I’m in Napa visiting my cousin. I’m in the fitness clinic,” he continued, “because Mack insisted I get a massage. Now how about you fill me in on the details of how this came to be your massage bed?”

      It wasn’t the demand in his voice or the absolute assurance in his expression that she’d do exactly as ordered that snapped Ava out of her stupefied fog. It was realizing that she was about to obey. Chin high, she pulled on her best bitch face and threw out a snotty—albeit pretty lame—insult.

      “Well, well, what do you know? You’re one of those guys who can’t handle a woman giving them a massage,” Ava taunted. “Like, what? Just because you’re some big, hard-bodied sailor boy, a woman can’t be a professional and do her job? Are you a misogynist, Elijah? Is that what’s wrong?”

      The words were as empty of truth as they were ugly. But they had the desired effect.

      “I’m fucking naked,” he snapped, shoving into a sitting position and making her mouth water when the sheet slipped down his chest to pool in his lap. “That’s what’s wrong.”

      “I’ve seen you naked before. Quite a few times, as a matter of fact.” She rounded her heavily lashed eyes as innocently as she could. “I have pictures if you need a reminder.”

      “I’m aware of the past, and remember every naked moment, thanks all the same,” he said dismissively. Then his frown deepened. “What pictures?”

      “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ava laughed, a real laugh this time. For a man who’d never had any issue walking around in his altogether, he sure had a puritanical streak about some things.

      “I’m taking that as my cue to get dressed,” he said. At her questioning glance, he added, “I assume I’m not getting that massage. Unless you want to set aside your touted professionalism and use this opportunity to get your hands on my body again, of course.”

      His brows arched and his smile slid into wicked as he gave her a long look up and down. Ava pretended that look didn’t send tiny thrills of desire sparking through her system. God, she was doing a lot of pretending today.

      “No, thanks. The last thing I want to do is touch you,” she lied, trying to make the words sound uninterested instead of breathless and filled with regret.

      Elijah didn’t seem to care either way. He simply stared with an intensity that seemed to see right through her secrets and into her soul.

      “What?” she finally asked, forcing herself not to brush self-consciously at her hair or tug her simple black tee to make sure it was in place.

      “You look...different,” he said, his tone not indicating whether that was good or bad.

      Ava’s spine stiffened, her jaw jutting out as she filled in the unsaid blanks. Yes, she’d lost most of her curves when she’d dropped fifteen pounds. She heard that lament often enough from her mother, the woeful despair that men preferred curves to angles, softness to muscle.

      And, yes, she’d let her hair grow out without the golden highlights she’d sported for so many years. Monthly salon visits were too much time and money, so the world had to settle for seeing her natural dark brown hair in all its waving glory. Her face was free of makeup but for a layer of tinted moisturizer, and her nails were short and unpolished.

      She knew she didn’t look the same as she had four years ago. So what?

      The last thing she wanted was a man gazing at her with interest, with desire. As far as Ava was concerned, that part of her life was over, and she was glad for it. Mostly.

      She bit her lip, watching the play of muscles as Elijah shifted position. His green eyes flashed with irritation; his own gilded-brown hair was just long enough to show a hint of curl. His full lips were pressed tightly together, but she knew they could be seductively soft or hard with demand, depending on his mood.

      His lap was covered by the sheet, but she took a moment to consider what the fabric hid. Oh so many kinds of heaven, she knew. Then her gaze shifted to where the sheet had fallen away.

      Her breath caught, pain gutting her of all thought but for horror. It wasn’t the sculpted perfection of his abs or the corded muscles of his thighs that Ava’s eyes were glued to.

      It was the scars, rigid and red, scored in ugly lines over his right leg. From hip to knee with a scattering of scars dotting his calf. Her heart wept at the sight. What had he done? She tried to swallow past the scream knotted in her throat. Those were burns. She’d never worked on a burn-recovery client, but she’d seen enough during her stint at the hospital to recognize them. How deep did scars like that go?

      She wanted to ask. Her hand ached to reach out, to run her fingers along the puckered tissue and ease the tight pain.

      Her mother had predicted that Elijah’s job would