by Donna Hill
“Why?”
She was surprised by his question. “Um, I…thought I had more important things to do in New York.”
“Like what?”
She blinked, not sure how to answer, how much to tell him about her life. She went with the basics. “Work, friends…”
“Anyone special?”
Inwardly she flinched. But the soft sincerity of his tone took away the sting. She reached for her drink.
“You don’t have to answer that.”
“There was someone,” she blurted out, surprising herself with the painful admission.
Maurice waited for more. Briefly he wondered if her hands made that someone feel the way that she made him feel. Or maybe it was the other way around. He reached for his now empty glass and wished that he’d ordered another one earlier.
Why was he looking at her as if he wanted to bore straight into her past and scoop it out? Layla cleared her throat. “Didn’t work out,” she managed. She brought her glass to her lips.
“His loss.”
His luscious lips curved into a half grin and her legs involuntarily opened. Her knee brushed his. The jolt from the contact had her dribbling her drink over her bottom lip. She would have laughed but that would have made it worst. She reached for a napkin and quickly dabbed her lips.
The waitress returned with their soups.
“Enjoy,” she said, placing one bowl in front of each of them. “Would you like me to refresh your drink, sir?”
“Yes, please.”
She offered a short nod of her head and left them to their meal.
Maurice spread the cloth napkin on his lap. “You were telling me about the man you left behind.”
“I’m pretty sure I wasn’t saying all that.”
“Something like that.”
“Actually I wasn’t telling you anything about him at all, other than it didn’t work out.” She dipped her spoon into her soup and lifted it to her mouth. “Oh…this is incredible.”
“Hmmm, yes it is.”
Layla glanced at him through her lashes. He was staring at her and he hadn’t tasted his soup yet. He was talking about her. The realization sent a tingle right down her spine.
She cleared her throat. “How’s your leg feeling?”
Maurice’s dark gaze leapt to Layla’s questioning face. He nodded slowly. “Bearable.”
“How long?” she asked gently.
“Year and a half.” He spooned the bisque into his mouth and avoided her stare.
She wanted to know more, but she could see the return of the set of his jaw and the deepening furrow of his brow. It was really none of her business anyway.
Maurice finished off his soup and pushed his bowl aside. He wiped his lips with the cloth napkin and set it neatly beside his bowl. The waitress returned with his drink. He thanked her with a brief nod and took a long swallow. His eyes briefly closed against the warm burn.
Layla watched every move—his economy of motion, even with the simplest of maneuvers. There was a purpose and precision with everything that he did. No excess. No extra. Fleetingly she wondered if he ever let go and what it would be like if he did. All that pent-up maleness released. The muscles in the bottom of her stomach curled deliciously in response to the possibility.
“So…you’re related to the Lawsons. I’ve met—”
“I won’t talk about my family.”
The hard impact of his words was as precise as a missile. The target was the center of her chest.
“I’m sorry. I—”
His upheld hand stopped her mid-sentence. “No need to apologize.”
Mercifully, the waitress returned with their dinner. She took the bowls away, reset the table and served their dinner. The few minutes that the whole process took wasn’t enough time to erase the awkwardness that sprung up between them.
They spent the balance of their meal murmuring about how good the food was and how perfect the weather.
Layla hadn’t felt so uncertain in a long time. One minute Maurice was charming and sexy. The next minute he was an impenetrable brick wall. It was clear that family was off-limits. Talking about his career as a Navy SEAL was a minefield. There were doors to his life that he kept shut. To everyone or just her? She shoved a forkful of grilled salmon into her mouth and chewed slowly while stealing a glance at Maurice.
As rigid as he sat, as stern as his expression was set, intermittently she would catch flashes, just a glimmer of vulnerability and a hurt that wasn’t connected to his injury. It was reflected in his eyes or the softening of his mouth.
Maurice Lawson was a gorgeous, sexy, complex being of contradictions. She wanted to get to know him better, peel away the armor that he shielded himself with, but she didn’t believe that he would let her. Besides, after tonight’s fiasco she probably wouldn’t get the chance.
Chapter 8
It had been a week since he’d had dinner with Layla. A week since he’d felt the healing of her touch, the pleasure of her presence. He knew he’d made a mess of things during dinner and she probably thought…well he didn’t know what she thought but it couldn’t be good.
He took his cup of tea and slowly made his way out to the covered porch. Another glorious day—alone.
How could she know about the unbridgeable rift between him and his family, the reasons why he’d cut himself off from them? She couldn’t. No one did. Except his uncle Branford. The almighty and powerful Senator Branford Lawson. He knew what he’d done and for that Maurice would never forgive him and by extension his family.
He leaned against the post and set his cane against it. He sipped his tea. For more than a decade the hurt had festered and bloomed into a living, breathing thing. He’d entered the military to get away and to find a means to expel the emotional pain by enduring the physical, by putting himself in danger, by taking unimaginable risks. It helped—until that night in the mountains.
Absently he massaged his injured thigh, the constant memory to his own failures. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, remembering the heat of Layla’s touch, the magic of her fingers and the relief she brought not only to his body but to his wounded soul. She came to him in his dreams, chasing the nightmares away. She would reach for him and he would stretch out his hand and when he was only inches away from her fingertips he would wake up to the searing, throbbing pain.
He looked out toward the main building and stilled. Layla was walking along the path, carrying a backpack. She was heading in his direction.
Moments later she stood in front of him, looking up into his face from the step below the porch.
“Hi.” She offered a hesitant smile.
“Hi.”
Layla shifted her backpack from her right shoulder to her left. “How are you?”
“Okay, and you?”
“Busy.”
“How’d you manage to get away? I’d think you would be pretty busy around this time.”
“I decided to make a house call today.”
He frowned slightly. “House call?”
“To you. I asked at the front desk which one was your cottage.” She lifted her chin almost daring him to say something to send her away.
“Why?” His jaw tightened.
Layla placed her foot on the step. “I learned long ago in my training that it takes more than one session to make a real difference. So, I figured I’d have to come to the mountain.”
His studied her for a moment. His mouth softened. “Really?”
A flicker of a smile lit her eyes. “Yes, really. I can prove it—if you let me.”
Maurice angled his head to the side. “How do you plan to do that?”
She dropped her backpack at her feet and opened it, displaying the contents. “I have everything I need. The only thi
ng missing is a willing candidate for my extensive skills.”
Maurice tossed his head back and laughed, a deep, soulful sound that wrapped around her with its joyful noise. “Well, Ms. Brooks,” he said, slowly sobering, “since you’ve come this long way, I’d be less than a gentleman if I denied you.”
She bent and closed her bag, lifted it onto her shoulder and stepped up on the porch landing. “My sentiments exactly.”
As much as he didn’t want to, Maurice reached for his cane, but he wanted to be with Layla more. He led the way inside.
Layla released a breath of relief as she followed Maurice inside. When she’d made up her mind that she was going to put her doubts and insecurities on the back burner all she could do was hope that when she wound up on Maurice’s front door it would be at the moment when there was the slightest chink in his armor and she could slip in. She smiled inside. He may be a Navy SEAL but she had some stealth moves of her own.
“Can I get you anything?” Maurice asked once they were inside.
“No, thanks. You can tell me where I can set up.”
Maurice looked around. A moment of adorable bewilderment etched itself on his face. He ran his hand across his chin.
“Not many choices. I don’t think the couch will work. Legs too long.” His gaze bounced around the room and finally landed on Layla.
“If you don’t mind we can set up in your bedroom,” she suggested, trying for professional and not seductive.
His right brow flickered just a hair. He gave a slight shrug. “All right. The bedroom is this way.”
His cottage was similar to hers in design except that because of her cottage’s location on the path, her rooms were on the opposite side.
Maurice pushed open the bedroom door. The striped blue-and-white sheets were twisted on the bed as if someone had been in a life-and-death struggle with them.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” he said making his way to the bed to straighten the sheets.
“I can do that,” she offered, dropped her bag with a thud on the floor and walked to the bed. “I have a sheet that I use to keep the oils from getting on the bed.” She stripped the sheets from the bed and placed them in a pile on the floor.
Maurice watched, amused and a bit put off by her take-charge attitude. He was the one accustomed to giving orders and having them followed not the other way around. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Once she’d stripped the bed she pulled out her sheets from her bag. The top was soft cotton with a light lining on the opposite side. She spread it out on the bed and tucked the edges under the mattress. She returned to her bag and began laying out the items that she would need: her oils, the burners, a towel and a smock to put over her clothes and a portable headrest.
“I’m going to close the blinds and pull the curtains, okay?”
Maurice was leaning against the dresser with his arms folded tightly across his chest marveling at how swiftly she had insinuated herself into his space. Within moments the room was bathed in dimness as if the sun had suddenly set.
Layla set up an oil burner on the nightstands on either side of the king-sized bed and lit them. She pulled a CD player out of her bag and put the music on. The room was slowly awash in soft light, heady scents and the soothing sounds of waterfalls and nature.
Maurice felt the tension ease from his shoulders and the tightness in his gut.
Layla slipped on her smock, tied the strings in front of her and was thankful that the light hid her shaking hands and the music drowned out the drumbeat of her heart. What made her think that this was a brilliant idea in the first place? The bravado that she felt when she hatched this little scheme was somewhere on the other side of that bedroom door—where she should have stayed and been safe.
“Ummm, you can change,” Layla said, and was mortified that her voice sounded like a ten-year-old girl. “Or not.” She swallowed, loving the way his sweatpants hung just right from his hips
Maurice gazed down at his not dressed for company attire. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it on top of the dresser.
Layla stifled a gasp when she set eyes on the expanse of his chest. Her pulse beat picked up a notch while heat pooled in her center. Was he going to step out of his pants—right here, right in front of her?
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He went into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door behind him.
Layla took a shaky breath and all but crumpled on the bed. This was not a good idea. She paced in a nervous circle and then the door swung open and she froze in place.
Maurice had a towel wrapped around his sculpted middle. He was a glorious sight to behold. He eased over to the bed and sat down on the side.
“Ready when you are,” he said, looking up at her, taking in her silky cinnamon brown skin, the wide luminous brown eyes and the way that one tendril of hair always slipped out from behind her ear.
Layla licked her dried lips. “You can, um, stretch out, get comfortable, with your head at the foot of the bed. Place it in the headrest.” She quickly turned away and reached for her bottle of oil. She drew in a breath of the aromatic scent of the burning oil that was mixed with the natural maleness of Maurice. The bottle slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the floor. They both reached for it together and came within a heartbeat away from each other’s lips.
Their gazes connected in the twilight and Layla could feel the warmth of his breath brush erotically against her face. Her hand encircled the bottle and slowly she stood. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession. She swallowed. “Let’s…get started,” she whispered.
Maurice slid up on the bed and slowly turned over onto his stomach. He stretched his arms down at his sides.
Layla briskly rubbed her hands together to warm them then squirted a quarter size dot of oil into her palm. She moved the oil between her hands until they were coated and slick and then slowly placed her hands on his broad shoulders.
An inexplicable burst of energy rose up her arms. Her eyes fluttered closed as she allowed the sensation to envelop her. It was she who was here to bring relief, use her skills to ease his pain, yet touching him, set off something inside of her that she’d never before experienced. This was why she’d sought him out, to regain the feeling of being alive again after being dead inside for so long.
As she pressed her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and his back, ran her hands along the tendons and muscles, her body came alive as if ignited from the inside.
She moved down to the small of his back then to his thighs. Expertly she reapplied the oil without completely removing her hands from his skin. Her fingers brushed over the thick, deep scar on his thigh. He flinched and she could feel him withdraw, slip away. She refocused, zeroing in on that part of him that he believed imperfect, his badge of weakness, and channeled the healing energy of her touch as she moved in gentle stroke, heightening and then lessening the pressure, willing the pain away.
By degrees she felt his body relax and give in to the sensation. Her own body was so hot as she worked his over, not from exertion but pure sensual stimulation. Her hardened nipples ached against her clothing and the dampness between her legs begged for attention. Inadvertently, a moaned escaped her lips.
Her eyes flew open. No.
Maurice lifted his head, turned in her direction and their hot gazes combusted. His arm came up from his side and his hand clasped her wrist.
Layla inhaled a sharp breath and her eyes widened. Maurice’s grip tightened. He managed to turn half onto his side and pulled her down onto the bed next to him.
Her chest heaved. He reached up and cupped the back of her head in his hand and pulled her toward him.
“If you don’t want this…tell me now.”
A rush of want welled up inside of her, and she knew in the instant that she lowered her head
to meet his moist lips that Maurice would be the only one to extinguish the fire that had flooded her veins.
Lights exploded behind her closed lids when her lips met his. Something deep within her began to bloom and uncurl as she sank against him and his hard, roped arms snaked around her and pulled her closer. His mouth was so sweet, like a tropical fruit and the feel of his tongue dancing with hers made her spine literally tingle.
The fit, the taste, the touch was perfect. The hum of electricity vibrated in the room like a third person.
Maurice groaned against her mouth. His fingers splayed across her back, kneading her spine until she was like putty in his hands.
Layla’s breath hitched when she felt the bulge of his erection press against her stomach. Instinctively, she adjusted her length on the bed so that she could capture the epicenter of his maleness in the hot crevice between her tight thighs.
They melded together as if an artist had carved them as one entity.
Maurice ran his hands through the length of her hair, down the curve of her back to the rise of her behind that he cupped and pulled toward him so that she was flush against the pulse of his desire.
Layla moaned as her body ignited with the realization that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. Her thoughts spun. What was she doing? She didn’t know this man, yet everything about him felt as if she did. In some deep part of her she knew him. It didn’t make sense, but neither did what she was doing.
She caressed his bare back, and then threaded her fingers through the soft natural curl of his hair. Maurice pulled his mouth from hers only to trail hot, wet kisses along the cord of her neck, across her collarbone to the tiny pulse that beat out of time at the base of her throat. Her whole body shuddered. He held her closer and his groan of desire enflamed her own.
Somehow he managed to slide his hand between their bodies and he pulled the loosely knotted tie of her smock belt and in a single swift motion his hands were under her T-shirt and on her heated skin. Her tummy quivered beneath his touch. By torturous degrees his hands made a slow path upward, until the tips of his fingers brushed against the underside of her bra.
