by MJ Fredrick
Because that was so far out of the realm of possibility.
It was.
“You can’t shower,” she reminded him. “You can’t get your arm wet.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way.”
Arrogant man. No doubt he was cooking up some scheme to get into the water himself. Damn it, she was going to have to play wife.
Adrian managed to get reservations at a nice hotel within walking distance from the beach. Mallory had thought they wouldn’t be able to get one room, much less two, but he sweet-talked the desk clerk into adjoining rooms. Mallory frowned, silent, unreadable, on the way up the elevator, then didn’t say a word to him as she peeled off to go to her own room.
Once in his room, Adrian stopped at the connecting door and placed his palm on it, imagining her on the other side, tossing her duffel into a corner, stripping off her clothes as she headed for the shower. She never had managed to do just one thing at a time.
He couldn’t stand here fantasizing about her. He turned from the doorway that was nothing but a temptation and picked up the phone to call the campsite.
No answer. They must be out on the boat. Adrian glanced at his watch. A little later than he would dive, but his brother always lived a little closer to the edge than Adrian. He’d left strict instructions for Toney to keep an eye on Robert, make sure he continued his medicine, make sure he didn’t work so hard. The old man shouldn’t even be here, but Adrian couldn’t make him stay away. And the prof had refused to let anyone else in on his secret. Adrian wished the old man would at least tell Mallory, so Adrian could talk to her about it. As much as he longed to confide in her, he wouldn’t betray Robert’s trust.
He sat in the low-backed chair and rubbed his hand over his jaw, the rasp surprisingly loud in the quiet room. The thickness of his stubble surprised him, and he looked toward her room. Mallory had a good idea there, with the showering. He should clean up before dinner.
Mallory shoved her hair away from her face and opened the connecting door at the knock. She should have shut it again, right there.
Adrian leaned against the jamb on his good arm, bare-chested, head tilted, that stupid charming smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “I need help.”
Wariness rose, along with other, baser emotions. She folded her hands together to resist running them over his shoulders. She’d always loved his shoulders. Her tongue curled in her mouth as she remembered the taste of him. “With what?” Okay, that didn’t come out as casually as she’d hoped.
“I can’t get my arm wet and I can’t wash my hair one-handed.”
“You want me to wash your hair.”
He lifted his eyebrows, charm on high. “Please.”
That would require her getting closer and, God help her, she’d have to touch him. Her brain battled with every other nerve in her body that wanted to jump up and down at the chance and scream, Yes, please.
“We can try to fashion a sleeve. Do you have a plastic bag or something?” She looked past him into his room. He’d dumped his duffel out on his bed. Maybe he’d been thinking the same thing. Maybe he wasn’t just trying to seduce her.
“No. Do you?”
She shook her head. Okay, if he was coming to her as a last resort, maybe she could be impersonal and help him out. “How do you think we should do this?”
He straightened, and while his smile disappeared, his eyes glinted. “I thought I could get in the tub. Make it easier for you to reach.”
That sounded reasonable. Anything that kept her clothes on sounded reasonable. She’d thought he’d want her to strip down and get into the shower with him, but maybe he’d gotten the message that she was not here because of him. His learning curve must have improved.
She made a twirling motion with her finger. “Okay. Let’s go.”
His eyebrows climbed higher, just for a second, as if he hadn’t expected her to cave so easily, then he turned and led the way into the bathroom.
The teeny tiny bathroom.
He leaned over the tub to start the water running while she tried to figure out what to do with her hands, what to look at besides the play of muscles across his back. He straightened, turned away from her and shucked off his shorts.
“Are you kidding me?” He was already sporting an erection. “Can’t you control that thing?”
With a flex of muscles he bobbed it at her before stepping into the tub, his injured left arm on the edge of the tub near her. “It remembers you.”
She snorted. “It’s just going to have to savor those memories. Let me get something to rinse your hair.” She ducked out of the room, spotted the ice bucket on the dresser and, for a moment, considered actually filling it with ice before dumping it over Adrian’s smug head. How could she blame his body’s obvious reaction when her own body hummed from the sight of his? She sucked in a breath, like before a dive, and turned into the bathroom.
Adrian sat in the tub, long legs drawn up, looking ridiculous and so male all at once.
All that breath whooshed out of her lungs and she twisted around to the sink to find the shampoo.
“Looking for this?”
Lips quirked with enjoyment at her discomfort, he wiggled a small plastic bottle. Smirking herself, she turned the sink on full blast, stuck the bucket under the faucet, then dumped the cold water over his head.
He sputtered and wiped a hand over his eyes. She set the bucket down, snatched the shampoo from his slick fingers and squeezed the contents into her palm. Already anticipating how his short hair would feel against her skin, she rubbed her hands together.
“Lean your head back so you don’t get soap in your eyes.”
Yes, she was stalling. But when he eased back, well, she wasn’t thinking about how his hair would feel against her skin anymore. She dragged her eyes away from his still-impressive erection and met his gaze that told her, damn it, he knew everything going through her head.
“Say one word and I’ll leave you in here.”
He pressed his lips together in an exaggerated gesture of silence, so she bent over and scrubbed her hands over his hair, blocking out the sensation of the short bristles against her skin, the hum of pleasure in his throat. Her gaze drifted to his forehead, the lines there even in rest, his lashes resting on sun-kissed cheeks, a gentle smile curving his soft lips.
“Feels nice,” he murmured as she lathered his hair.
She released him, considered rinsing her hands in the water of the tub, but there was no place in the tub where he wasn’t. She reached over to turn on the faucet and rinsed her hands before she refilled the bucket.
“Warm this time, please,” he said, without moving, his gaze intent on her when she moved to kneel by his head. And damn it, she recognized that look, used to live for that look.
“What? It’s warm.” Knowing she had to get out of here and fast, before she did something stupid, she snatched a washcloth from the edge of the tub, tossed it over his eyes and poured the water from the bucket over his head, working the lather until it was gone. Drawing away, she jumped to her feet. “Okay, you’re good.”
Adrian whipped the wet cloth off his face and sat up, sloshing water onto the floor. “Mal, wait. I can’t reach my back.”
Oh, for— But she hesitated in the doorway, eyeing him to see if he was serious. As if to demonstrate, he flipped the washcloth over his shoulder and slapped it against his broad back.
With a grumble of frustration, she stomped over and grabbed the cloth. She spread it over her hand and thrust it at him. “Soap.”
He fumbled the wrapped soap out of the soap dish and held it up to her helplessly. Her gaze on his, she took the packet, lifted it to her mouth and tore it open with her teeth.
“Lean forward.”
He did, and once again she hesitated. All that sun-browned skin covering an expanse of muscular back, shoulders she’d ridden upon in playfulness, had clutched in passion, had clung to in sorrow. She wasn’t touching him, though. The cloth was touching him.
The heat of him seeped through, the strength of him, the masculinity. She stroked the cloth in broad sweeps, from one shoulder to the other, down the indentation of his spine, stopping just at the small of his back before gliding up his right side, under his right arm. He wouldn’t be able to reach that either, so she shifted around to reach across his chest.
And caught her breath to see the way he looked at her. All playfulness was gone now. His eyes had darkened, his lips parted, his breath came hot against her cheek.
“Mallory.”
Her gaze was riveted on his mouth for one terrible moment of longing before reason returned. Time to go. Now, or it would be too late. She dropped the cloth into the water and bolted.
A shower of her own didn’t clear her head. When another knock came at her door, more than an hour later, she still hadn’t gathered her wits. She should have known better than to think she could handle being alone with Adrian. And what devil had compelled her to put herself in a room with naked Adrian?
Who’d only gotten better with age. How was that possible?
Yes, part of the reason she hadn’t gathered her wits was because her ridiculous imagination kept wondering what would have happened if she’d stayed.
Now she opened the connecting door with equal parts trepidation and anticipation. Maybe more forty-sixty.
The dim light from her bedside lamp cast shadows over his face, shrouding him just for a moment before he stepped through the door, clean-shaven, bearing food, smelling better than a man had the right to smell. Apparently she had developed x-ray vision, because she could see right through his thin T-shirt, the kind he’d been wearing since she’d known him, to the muscular chest beneath.
“I hope you don’t mind if we eat in your room,” he said, holding the white bag aloft. “I’ve been working.”
Right. That could keep her mind off dangerous paths. She glanced past him into his room and saw yellow paper from a legal pad scattered from table to dresser to bed. “Writing?”
“Yeah.” He passed her to set the bag down on the table by the window and opened the drapes to look out on the beach.
“You don’t use the computer?”
“Computers have batteries that die.”
“Yeah, if you don’t plug them in.” She closed the door.
“While I don’t like to admit to being an absent-minded professor…” He trailed off as he unpacked the bag.
Enticed by the appealing spicy scent of the food but wary of the man, she moved closer. She tried to recall the last time she’d seen him clean-shaven. She closed her fingers against a desire to stroke the smooth skin, against the memory of how his strong back felt beneath her hands. “What is it?”
“Meat pie. Smells good.” He lifted a paper-wrapped package to his nose.
“Mm.” She sat, took the bottle of beer he handed her, careful not to brush his fingers with hers. The bed was not three feet away, and they were alone. She was too conscious of their past behavior whenever temptation presented itself, too conscious of how easily she remembered how he felt inside of her. She returned to that safe topic. “So did you get a lot of writing done?” Or did you obsess over what might have happened as I did?
He snorted. “It’s not as easy as I thought it would be.”
She took the thick, greasy meat pie in both hands and bit. The taste was even better than the smell, the sauce thick and spicy, the meat tender. “You’ve written before.”
“Articles.” He sopped up some of the grease from the pie with the pastry. “Not something meant to be four hundred pages long.”
“You’ve never been at a loss for words.”
“Talking is completely different.” He chuckled.
The rumble of it skittered right over her nerves. “So how far are you?”
He rolled his eyes and took a bite of pie, then set it on the waxy bag and held up his fingers. Six of them.
“Page six?” Adrian was not a procrastinator.
He wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin and nodded glumly. “It’s kicking my butt.”
Huh. Adrian Reeves never admitted defeat. “Can I read it?” Okay, where had that come from?
His eyes flashed in the dim light. “You want to?”
His agreement was shocking. He’d never allowed her to read his articles till they came out in the trade publications. A sense of competition had run deep between them; they’d be on the same digs, but submit separate papers on each. If her paper ended up in a more elite publication, well, the interlude would be unpleasant until he could best her with the next paper.
So she was surprised to find herself reading his work after a dessert of potato pone, a kind of bread pudding with sweet potatoes. She curled her legs in front of her as she tried to get comfortable in one of the low-backed chairs in his room, squinting to decipher his handwriting. She shifted, glancing at the bed. No, if she lay on the bed, which would be more comfortable, he would get the wrong idea. After the bit in the bathroom, she didn’t want to tempt fate. Or Adrian. “Your handwriting has gotten worse.”
Focused on the pad in front of him, he grunted. He’d slipped on glasses when she hadn’t noticed, silver-rimmed ones that, if she was honest, looked really sexy in a professorial kind of way.
She tapped the bridge of her own nose. “What’s this?”
He glanced up, his eyes incredibly blue behind the lenses.
Definitely sexy. She tried to hide the hitch in her breathing.
“Your nose,” he drawled.
“Are you getting old, Adrian?”
He took off the glasses and set them on the table. “Too many term papers.”
“You never did like teaching.”
“Despised it.” He dragged out the words, in case she had any doubt. He set the pad aside and folded his arms on the table, nodding toward the pad she held. “So what do you think?”
She tossed the pages toward him. “It’s too dry.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “Ironic for a book about underwater excavating.”
She would not react to that sardonic grin. She was a grown woman who could resist his arrogance. Even that was a turn-on, always had been. “Exactly. It reads like a textbook. It’s not going to be a textbook, is it?”
“No, but—”
“You need more emotion in it. You love diving, you love excavating. Let it show.” Nothing of Adrian was in the words she’d read, none of the passion she knew so well. “This can be a breakthrough book that not only students of archaeology will read. Spice it up.”
His brow furrowed as he picked up the legal pad and studied it. She wondered if even he could read that chicken scratch. “How can I do that?”
“Write the way you talk. You, Adrian, not Dr. Reeves, professor of underwater archaeology. If you can do that, I think it will come easier.” She stretched her arms over her head, cracked her spine. “I’ll read it again when you’re done if you want.”
He tossed the pad onto the table and folded his hands over his stomach. “Why are you helping me?”
“What?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, surprised.
“After what happened between us, why are you helping me?”
That was not an easy question. She drew one leg up on the chair in front of her, as if that would give her another layer of protection against him. “Just because I can’t be married to you anymore doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you succeed.”
“That’s kind, I suppose. I just never thought of us as, you know, being able to stay friends.”
“Why not?” She looked at him sharply, heart squeezing.
“Well, we used to be able to talk, kind of like we have the past few days. But I always thought if we’d still been friends when we were married, we would have been able to work through a lot of the stuff.”
Her throat burned with tears for missed opportunities. Where would they be now if they could have worked things out then? Would they be in Belize or in Pensacola or someplace else? Would they have a child? She’d alw
ays wanted to see Adrian with their child.
“Friends don’t hurt each other the way we did,” she said instead, standing and walking to the connecting door. “Good night, Adrian.”
Friends don’t hurt each other the way we did.
The words played themselves over and over in Adrian’s head as he lay sleepless in his big bed, sensing her on the other side of the wall. He knew what she was talking about, even though he’d hoped she’d forgotten.
But she couldn’t have. He’d left bruises on her body and tears in her eyes.
They’d been fighting in their little house in Pensacola. Nothing unusual, they fought all the time in those days. He didn’t even recall what this particular fight was about, and that dragged at him, too. His mouth had been punishing when he’d pressed her up against the counter and kissed her. He still felt the way her soft lips had been crushed beneath his, and he rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand to erase the sensation.
They’d ended nearly every fight with lovemaking, so he could only hope that the reason he’d kissed her was to advance the peace. He could only hope.
She’d kissed him back but had been just as rough as she used her teeth. She had been the one to start tearing at his clothes. He was sure he remembered that right. Then they’d been naked and ravaging each other, first on the countertop, her head banging on the cabinet, then on the floor. Her nails scored his biceps as he drove into her with a violence he hated to claim.
Rough sex wasn’t unusual for them. Hell, most times they ruined at least one piece of clothing in their eagerness to get at one another. But this time was different. When he climaxed, he felt nothing. Not relief, not joy, nothing. He’d backed away from her, saw the tears in her eyes, saw the marks on her arms and hips that would become bruises from his touch.
This wasn’t the marriage he wanted. This was his parents’ marriage, and he’d lain awake too many nights listening to his mother cry. He wouldn’t do that to Mallory.
He’d left that day and never came back.
