Undaunted. Diana Palmer
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so. What color is it?”
“Blond. Pale blond.”
“And your eyes?”
She smiled. “They’re brown. Dark brown.”
“An interesting combination.”
“I’m not pretty,” she added quietly. “I have regular features, but they’re not beautiful. Nothing like...” She bit her tongue. She was going to say, like that woman who’d cooked him a soufflé once that he complained about. She’d been beautiful. But the woman he’d hated, who’d blinded him, had remembered that. The woman she was pretending to be wouldn’t have known about the soufflé, and he’d have snapped at the memory like a fish biting a worm. She had to be careful about what she said to him.
“Nothing like...?” he asked.
“Nothing like the sort of women you probably know,” she said instead.
He shrugged. “They all start to look alike after a while. Feel alike. Sound alike.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ve gotten jaded in my old age, Emma. Women come and go. Mostly they go. I’m thirty-eight. I’m slowing down. I sent the last one away a couple of weeks ago. The one you put through to me recently,” he added with pursed lips.
“Oh, dear.”
“You’ll learn who gets to talk to me and who doesn’t.”
“Do they take numbers and stand in line?” she wondered.
He chuckled. “Not quite.”
It felt comfortable, lying in bed with him. She liked it very much.
“I should go to bed,” she said.
“I guess you should.” He sat up and felt for her arm, pulling her up gently with him.
“Is your head better?” she asked as she got to her feet.
“Much better.” He cocked his head and smiled wickedly. “If I get another migraine, will you come back?”
She laughed softly. “Not without some promises from you first.”
“Coward.”
“You bet.”
He drew in a breath and stretched lazily. Watching him, Emma almost moaned at the way he looked, half-dressed. He was beautiful, like a painting. Like a sculpture.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she said abruptly, because she realized she was enjoying the sight of him a little too much.
“Thanks, Emma,” he said suddenly.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad your head’s better.”
He just nodded.
She went out and closed the door.
He groaned and put his head in his hands. His body was in agony. She wasn’t like his other women, and he wanted her. But she’d expect a commitment, a wedding, the whole nine yards if he gave in to his urges. So what the hell was he going to do now?
Down the hall, Emma was wondering the same thing. She loved kissing him. She loved having him hold her. She should have resisted more. Instead, she’d enjoyed everything he did to her.
It had felt like descriptions she’d read in one of the romance novels she loved to read. She’d dreamed of a kiss like that from a man who’d love her and marry her and make a home with her.
But she had to keep in mind that Connor was a millionaire—maybe even a billionaire. He lived life in the fast lane. Casinos and shows on Broadway and all things glamorous. She’d never fit into that world. And she’d better remember that he didn’t want marriage or children. It would be madness to get involved with him, even in an innocent way.
Beneath all that was the memory that she’d blinded him, that he couldn’t see because she’d gone wild in a speedboat on a lake where one had killed his only brother. She shivered as she thought of the vengeance he was likely to take if he ever found out who she really was. It had been insane to do this, to think that he might soften if he got to know her, that she could tell him and he’d forgive her. This was a man who never forgave anyone, who repaid in kind every transgression. This was a man who didn’t know what mercy was.
She didn’t sleep much. By morning she’d made a decision. It wasn’t an easy one.
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