Nothing but Trouble

* * *

Monday morning when she arrived for work, he stood across the kitchen, looking at her as if he was trying to figure something out. Something he was extremely unhappy about it. She left him alone and worked on his fan letters, which seemed to grow by the day.

Tuesday he seemed even less happy, and by Wednesday, he acted like she’d committed some unforgivable sin. Like she’d kicked him in the leg or wrecked his Mercedes.

VThursday morning she spoke with a real estate agent and put together a few listings that Mark had expressed an interest in seeing. Then she looked for him in the big rambling house. After five minutes of searching, she climbed the long, curving staircase. She’d never been on the second floor, and stood on the landing and looked about. She glanced through the open door of the master bedroom. Rumpled white sheets and a thick blue comforter lay in a tangle on the unmade bed. A pair of jogging pants and flip-flops rested on the floor next to an over-stuffed couch, and beyond the bed, a second door led to a bathroom with stone floors.

A series of clangs drew Chelsea’s attention and she moved down the hall. She passed several empty rooms and stopped in the doorway of the last room on the right. It was filled with a big home gym, a workout bench, and rows of free weights. She knew that he worked with a physical therapist up there, but today he was alone.

Mark sat at the leg press, pushing the bar with his feet, while he watched his progress in the wall of mirrors. Soundgarden poured from hidden speakers and filled the room with “Black Hole Sun.” Sweat dampened the hair on his head and bare chest. He wore a pair of gray cotton shorts and white running shoes. An ugly pink scar gouged the skin of his left thigh to his knee. For several moments, Chelsea watched him through the mirror, his powerful legs pressing out a steady rhythm. She lifted her gaze to the moist, hard planes of his muscular chest and shoulders, to the determined grimace flattening his lips.

She reached for the control switch next to the door and turned down the volume of “Black Hole Sun.” The weights dropped with a loud clang as Mark jerked his head around and looked at her. His dark gaze landed on her face. He stared at her for several heartbeats before he asked, “What do you want?”

She held up the papers in her hand. “I just wanted to give you some information I printed out about the houses you were interested in seeing.”

He lowered his feet to the floor, grabbed a bar in front of him with his good hand, and stood. He pointed to the workout bench a few feet away from him. “Leave them there.”

Instead of doing as he asked, she rolled up the papers and tapped them against her leg. “Have I done something today to make you angry?”

He reached for a white towel and wiped his throat. His brows lowered as he watched her from across the room. “Today?” The corners of his mouth turned down and he shook his head. “No, but the day isn’t over.”

She moved to the weight bench and set the papers on top. She had to talk to him about a few things. He would call it prying. She called it doing her job. “Did you get an invitation to the big Stanley Cup party?”

He scrubbed his face. His muffled “Yes” came from within the towel.

“Are you going?”

He shrugged one big, bare shoulder. “Probably.”

“Do you have a suit?”

He chuckled and hung the towel around his neck. “Yeah. I gotta suit.”

She sat on the bench next to the papers and crossed one leg over the other. Today she’d worn an orange lacy tunic, a brown leather belt, and a pair of beige capris. Sedate for [s. her. She wondered if he’d notice. “Do you need a car service to pick you up?”

“You’re not going to insist on driving me?”

“I don’t work weekends.” She shook her head. “But even if it wasn’t on a Saturday night, I’m going with my sister.”

“The mini sisters.” One brow rose up his forehead. “That should be interesting.”

She wondered if he meant “interesting” in a good way. She decided not to ask. “Have you given any more thought to the charity golf tournament?”

He tilted his head to one side but didn’t answer.

“Coaching youth hockey?”

He held up his bad hand, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing his splint. “Stop.”

“I just hate to see you sitting around when there is so much more you could be doing.”

Mark reached above his head and grasped the chin-up bar. His right middle finger pointed toward the ceiling, and damp curly hair darkened his armpits. “Let’s talk about you for a change.”

Chelsea placed a hand on the front of her blouse. “Me?”

“Yeah. You want to get all up into my life. Let’s get into yours.”

She grasped the bench with her hands and locked her elbows. “I’m just your average, ordinary girl.” Staring at fine pecs covered in short, dark hair. Normally Chelsea wasn’t a huge fan of chest hair, but looking at Mark, she could become a convert. The fine hair growing on his chest surrounded his flat male nipples, then tapered to a fine line running down his bare sternum to his navel. Just like in the sports drink ad.

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s not a lot to get into.” He’d lost the defined edges of his eight-pack, but his belly was still tight as a drum. Defined ab muscles bracketed his stomach. A thin slice of white elastic was visible just above the waistband of the shorts hanging low on his narrow hips.

“Let’s get into it anyway.”

The kind of elastic that meant he wore briefs. More likely a pair of boxer briefs because she just couldn’t picture him in tightie whities. Not that she should be picturing him in his underwear. That wasn’t right. She worked for him. Well, maybe not technically, but…

“You think that I should do something with my life. What are you doing with yours?”

“At the moment, I’m your assistant.”

“Isn’t there ‘so much more that you could be doing’ other than driving me around and butting into my life?”

She raised her gaze before her interest wandered lower and she started to speculate about his magnum package—again. “I have plans.”

“Like?”

She looked up into his brown eyes. “I’m working and saving money.”

With his good hand he motioned for her to continue. “Saving for?”

“I’d rather not say.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Something personal?”

“Yes.”

“There are only a handful of things that a woman won’t talk about.” He lifted a finger off the bar. “The actual number of past lovers for instance. You all want to know the exact number of women that a man has had sex with, how often, and every juicy detail. But you don’t want to share the same information.”

“That’s because there is still a double standard when it comes to casual sex.”

He shrugged one shoulder and leaned forward, still holding on to the bar above him. “I get that, but women shouldn’t ask me about my sex life if you all don’t want to talk about yours.” He straightened and dropped his hands to his sides. “Some things are private.” He moved to the weights and lowered the pin. “Maybe I don’t want everyone to know my personal business.”

Too late. That letter from Lydia Ferrari had been posted in the guest book for several months before Chelsea had deleted it. She figured she should probably tell him about it because someone else might. “Do you know a Lydia Ferrari?”

His brows lowered, and he moved to the seat he’d been in when she’d come into the room. “Like a car?” He grabbed the bar above his head and lowered himself.

“No. At least I don’t think so. She wrote a letter on your guest book page.”

He spread his hands wide and pulled the bar to his chest. “I don’t know her.”

“She claims that you met her at Lava Lounge, had sex with her at her apartment in Redmond, then didn’t call.”

The weight stopped mid-air, and he looked at her through the mirror. “What else did she write?”

“That it was the best sex of her life and her feelings were hurt when you didn’t call her back.”

He raised the bar and lowered it, the muscles in his arms and back hardened and flexed. “She was a freak.”

“You do know her.”

“I remember her. Hell, it’s hard to forget a woman with that many sharp body piercings.” His jaw tightened as he pulled the weight.

“Where was she pierced?”

“All over. I was half terrified I’d end up with some missing skin and lasting scars.”

“Obviously the terrified half wasn’t below your waist.”

A deep chuckle escaped the smile cracking his lips. “Is the letter still posted?”

“I deleted it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She watched him for several mo [forments, then said, “You don’t seem all that upset that ‘everyone’ knows your ‘personal business’ with Lydia Ferrari.”

“First of all, I doubt that’s even her real name.” He sucked in a breath and let it out. “Second, women say stuff like that all the time. Even if I’ve never met them.”

Chelsea was just about to point out that he had met Lydia when he added, “I’m used to it.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

He shrugged. “People are going to say and write whatever they want and they don’t care if it’s the truth. Everyone has an agenda. When I said I didn’t want to talk about my personal business… I meant I don’t want to get into it while I’m naked and about to get busy. It can ruin the mood.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. Chelsea thought the subject of Lydia Ferrari was over but then he added, “Considering what that woman was into, I just thank Jesus for what she didn’t write.”

She chewed her bottom lip, fighting the battle not to pry. She lost. “What?”

“None of your business, Ms. Nosy Toes.” He moved his hands closer in on the bar. “We’re talking about my business again and you still haven’t told me yours.”

“Why, when I ask questions, am I prying and a ‘Ms. Nosy Toes’?”

He sucked in a breath and let it out as he worked the weights. “The second thing women don’t generally want to talk about,” he said instead of answering her question, “is plastic surgery. A lot of women have it, but none of them admit it.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you saving to get your nose done?”

“What?” Chelsea gasped. “There’s nothing wrong with my nose.” She raised a hand to her face. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

“Nothing. My ex got her nose done but she wanted to keep it a big secret.” He returned his gaze to the mirror. “Like everyone who knew her wouldn’t take one look at her face and figure out the obvious.”

She dropped her hand to her side. “No. Not my nose.”

“Your butt? Karlsson’s wife had fat sucked out of her thighs and shot into her butt.”

“It’s called a Brazilian butt lift. And no, I don’t want that.” She stood and moved to a rack of free weights. What the hell? What did she care if he knew? It wasn’t like she cared about his opinion or that he could take any sort of moral high road. Not after he’d admitted to having sex with a woman even after he feared she’d turn him into a human pin cushion. She ran her hand across the top weight. “I want to save enough to have breast surgery.”

The weights crashed down, and his gaze lowered to her chest. “Don’t you think you’re big enough?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I want breast reduction surgery.”

“Oh.” He looked back up into her face. “Why?”

Typical. She knew he wouldn’t understand. Heck, her own family didn’t understand. “I don’t like having large breasts. They’re heavy and get in the way. It’s hard to find clothes that fit me, and I get back and shoulder pain.”

He stood and reached for the towel still around his neck. “How small would you go?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m thinking a full C.”

He nodded and wiped the side of his face. “C’s a good size.”

Geez. Was she really talking about her breast surgery with Mark Bressler? A man, and he wasn’t howling about the travesty of going smaller? “You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“What do you care what I think? If your back hurts, and you can do something about it, you should.”

He made it sound so reasonable.

“How big are you now?”

She stared at the floor between his shoes. “I’m a double D.”

“On someone taller that might not be a problem, but you’re a small girl.”

She looked up. At him standing a few feet away. Big and bad and half naked. His damp hair sticking to his head and chest. If she didn’t know Mark, didn’t know what a surly jerk he could be, she might be in danger of falling in love with him. Of throwing herself against his hot, sticky chest and kissing him full on the mouth. Not for how he looked, which was pretty damn good, but for understanding how she might feel.

“What?”

She shook her head and glanced away. “My family doesn’t want me to do it. They all think I’m impulsive and will regret it.”

“You don’t strike me as all that impulsive.”

She looked back at him, and her lips parted. All her life she’d been told she was impulsive and needed direction. The urge to kiss him full on the mouth just got a little stronger. “Compared to everyone else in my family, my life is chaotic. Out of control.”

He tilted his head to one side and studied her. “Things around you might be chaotic, but you’re in control.” One corner of his mouth lifted a little. “My life used to be like that. Now it’s not.”

“You look in control to me.”

“That’s because you didn’t know me before.”

“Were you a control freak?”

“I just liked things done my way.”

Of course he had.

“I lost control of my life the day I woke up in the hospital hooked up to machines and strapped down to a bed.”

“Why were you strapped down?”

“I guess I was trying to pull the tube out of my throat.”

Even seeing the scars, it was hard to look at him now and see how si [andck he’d been and how close he’d come to dying. He was strong and in control more than he thought.

“Have the surgery if that’s what you want.” He shrugged one bare shoulder. “It’s your life.”

“Bo thinks it’s mutilation.”

“You’re not Bo.”

“I know but… ” How could she explain it to someone who wasn’t a twin? “When you live your whole life looking like someone else, changing that is scary. Weird.”

“You’re talking about boobs. Not your face.” He reached for his cane leaning against the weights. “But maybe I’m the wrong person to give my opinion. I’m a thigh man.” The cane fell from his hand and landed on the carpet with a soft thud. “Shit.” He grabbed on to the weights for balance and slowly lowered himself.

Without thinking about it, Chelsea moved forward and knelt on one knee. She grabbed the cane and looked up. His face was just above hers, and something dark and intense entered his brown eyes.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said, his voice a rough whisper against her cheek.

“Do what?”

He rose and towered over her. “Rush around treating me like I’m helpless.”

She stood also, so close that nothing but an inch of air separated the front of her lacy blouse from his hard chest and fine dark hair.

He stared into her face as he reached for the cane. His hand wrapped around hers, and his warm, strong grasp sent a tingle up her wrist to her elbow. “I’m not a child.”

She was so close she could see a darker line around the edges of his irises and all the little variations within the deep brown of those eyes surrounded by those thick, enviable lashes. “I know.”

His hand squeezed around hers. His gaze lowered to her lips. “I’m a man.”

Yes. Yes he was. A half-naked man with big sweaty muscles and smoldering eyes. Suddenly she felt kind of hot and light-headed. Probably from all the testosterone she was inhaling. “I know.”

He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. Instead he dropped his arm to his side and walked around her. She had a feeling that if he could have run, he would have sprinted from the room.

“Don’t you want to see the real estate listings I’ve put together for you?” She grabbed the papers off the workbench and took a few steps toward him.

“I don’t need to. You know what I’m looking for.” He stopped in the doorway, practically filling it with his broad shoulders. “Set something up and call me.”

“You want me to call you about real estate showings?”

“Yes.” He placed a hand on the white door frame and turned his face to one side. Light and shadow cut across his profile. “You have my cell number. There’s no need for you to wander around looking for me again.”

Her gaze lowere [er d from the back of his dark hair to the indent of his spine. “I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

“But… ” She shook her head. “What if you’re just in the next room? Should I still call?”

“Yeah. We don’t need to talk in person.”

What? Had she missed something? How had the conversation gone from her wanting to kiss his face to her wanting to smack him in the head?

And why wasn’t she the least bit surprised?

Chelsea called him five times that day. Mostly just to annoy him.

“Do you have an aversion to maroon carpet?” she asked. “I found a house you might be interested in, but it has maroon carpet.”

“Just set up a showing.” Click.

She waited a half hour, then called again. “Do you need your suit taken to the dry cleaner’s?”

“No.” Click.

At noon she dialed and asked, “How about a sandwich?”

“I can make my own damn sandwich!”

“I know.” She smiled. “I just thought if you were making one for yourself, you could make me one too. I like ham and cheese. Lettuce on the side with a dab—”

Click.

He never appeared with her sandwich, which annoyed her even further when she heard him in the kitchen loudly banging around. She answered more letters on the computer and waited until two to phone him again. “There’s a squirrel in your driveway.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No. I’m looking at it.”

“You’re calling me about a fucking squirrel?”

“Yeah. Sure. Do you want me to get an exterminator to put out some rodent traps? Squirrels have been known to carry rabies, you know.”

He muttered something about her being nuttier than squirrel shit, then—click.

Shortly after that, a shiny red truck pulled into the driveway, and Mark sped away in it. Probably with one of his hockey buddies at the wheel. She called his cell but it went directly to voice mail. Jerk had turned off his phone.

The next morning when she arrived at work, she called to see if he’d turned it back on. This time she did have something important to tell him.

“I’ve set up three house showings for Monday after your dentist’s appointment.”

“I hate the dentist.”

“Everyone hates the dentist.” She flipped through the notes she’d taken when she’d spoken with the Realtor. “There’s a four-bedroom in the Queen Anne district. A five-bedroom on Mercer Island, which I’m t [ch old isn’t all that far from where you live now. And a stunning six-thousand-square-foot home in Kirkland.”

“Fine. Is that it?”

“No. I think you should look at a condo on Second Avenue. I know you said you didn’t like the noise downtown, but you really need to see it.”

“No.” Click.

She waited a half hour and called. “I brought some grapes. Do you want some? They’re really fresh and delish.”

Click.

She waited an hour and then: “What does it mean to fall head over heels? If you fall, shouldn’t it be heels over head?”

He swore so loudly it sounded like he was in the room. “I’m going to kill you,” he said from the doorway.

Chelsea jumped and spun around in her chair. “Crap!” She clutched a handful of Pucci dress above her heart.

“I swear to God, I will strangle you with my bare hands if you call me with bullshit just one more time.” He looked like he meant it too. His eyes were squinty yet shooting fire at the same time. He wore jeans for a change with his white T-shirt. A pack of smokes rolled up in one sleeve would have completed the look.

She slid her fingers to the side of her throat and felt her racing pulse. “You scared me to death.”

“I’m not that lucky.” He gave her a hard stare for several moments, one that she was sure he’d used on his hockey adversaries. One that she was sure worked. “I’m expecting a call on the house phone in about fifteen minutes. It’s my agent. Don’t pick it up.” He walked away, and his voice trailed behind him. “And for the love of God, don’t call my cell.”

She wisely bit her tongue. She reminded herself that she wanted this job. Needed it. For the rest of the day, she kept herself busy. She scheduled an appointment for an appraiser to come look at Mark’s house next week, right after the cleaning crew left.

At three, the real estate agent called Chelsea’s phone. A house in Bellevue had just been put on the market within the past hour. It wasn’t even listed yet, but she was sure once it was, it would go fast. Probably before Monday. After Chelsea hung up with the agent, she stared at the cell in her hand. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want be strangled… but if she didn’t tell him about the house, she wasn’t doing her job. And the new listing wasn’t a “bullshit” call. She took a deep breath and dialed fast. It rang somewhere in the house but he didn’t pick up. She dialed again and followed “American Woman” around the stairs and toward the back of the house.

She found Mark asleep in the leisure room. Once again, the sound on the television was turned way down and he lay on the wide chaise asleep. She stood near the doorway and called his name. “Mr. Bressler.”

He didn’t stir and she moved toward him. His right hand was resting on his chest, and he wasn’t wearing his splint. “Mr. Bressler.” He scratched his chest through his T-shirt but still didn’t wake up. She leaned over and touched his arm. “Mr. Bressler. I need to talk to you.”

Slowly his lids lifted and he looked up at her. Confusion knitted his brow and he asked in a voice all rough and smoky from sleep, “Why are you dressed again?”

Chelsea froze with her hand on his shoulder. “Huh?”

“That’s okay.” A beautiful, sweet smile curved his lips. He looked at her as if he was actually pleased to see her—as opposed to how he’d looked at her earlier—ready to kill. Seeing his smile reach his eyes, she could almost forgive him anything.

“I need to talk to you, Mr. Bressler.”

“And I need to talk to you.” He reached for her. One second she was looking down at him, and in the next, she was on the chaise next to him, looking up into his face.

The wind left her lungs with a soft oomf. “Mr. Bressler!”

He gazed down at her from beneath heavy lids. “Don’t you think it’s time you call me Mark? Especially after all the things you let me do to you?”

“What things?”

He chuckled and lowered his face. “This,” he said just above her mouth. “Here.” His lips slipped across her cheek and he whispered into her ear. “Everywhere.”

They hadn’t done this. She’d remember if he kissed her. Especially “everywhere.” She raised her hand to his shoulder to push him away. Beneath her palm, his hard muscles bunched and turned rock-hard.

“Yes,” he whispered against the side of her neck. “Touch me again.”

Again? His soft breath caressed her skin and spread warmth across her chest. He kissed her just below her ear, and it felt good. Nice. Like slow, lazy sex on a hot summer day. Definitely something she shouldn’t be feeling for her employer. “I thought you didn’t like me very much.”

“I like you too much.” He opened his wet mouth against the side of her neck and softly sucked her skin.

Her throat got tight. “I don’t think we should do this,” she managed.

“No. Probably not.” He kissed the hollow of her throat, worked his way to her chin, and said just above her lips, “But what the fuck.” Before she could protest, his mouth covered hers and robbed her of breath. His warm palm cupped her face, his thumb brushed her cheek. Sexual awareness shimmered like a heat wave across her chest and down her belly. The sudden and unexpected desire heating up her body stunned her.

This wasn’t wise. It wasn’t a good idea. In the past, she’d easily managed to rebuff employer sexual advances. She should stop him. Instead of doing the wise thing, she slid her hand from his shoulder to the side of his neck, and a groan vibrated deep in his chest. “Kiss me, Chelsea. Open your beautiful mouth for me.”

And she did, responding to the rough texture of his voice and the pleasure of his touch. Her lips parted, and he kissed her. Soft, slow, with his wet mouth and tongue, teasing a response out of her. Turning her into the aggressor as any last thought of resistance melted a [tanway beneath his hot desire. Her tongue slipped inside his mouth, slick and welcome. He tasted good to her, like need and lust and sex. She slid her fingers into his hair and held the sides of his head in her hands. Her body arched toward him, wanting more of his solid warmth as he fed her wet kisses. A deep, sensuous moan escaped her mouth and touched his lips.

He pulled back and looked into her face, his breathing heavy. Within the shadows of the room, he blinked and his brows lowered. “Chelsea.”

She liked how he said her name. All smoky with lust. She moved her hands to the back of his head and slowly brought his mouth down to hers once more. She gave him slow, hungry kisses that tightened her chest and knotted her stomach.

His palm slid down her side and she held her breath, waiting for him to grab her breast. When he didn’t, she relaxed and slipped her hand from the back of his head, down the side of his neck and shoulder. She touched the hard planes of his chest, and her fingers grasped the front of his shirt. The knot in her stomach moved lower as Mark slid his hand over her hip and down her leg. He found bare skin, and he slipped his hand beneath the edge of her dress and palmed her thigh.

Somewhere in the distance a bell rang. Chelsea didn’t know if it was real or imagined. She didn’t care. All she cared about was Mark’s mouth on hers and his hand caressing upward. She turned toward him, and he grasped her behind in one of his big, warm hands. His thumb brushed across her lace panties and slipped beneath the elastic edge.

The bell rang once more, and Mark lifted his head and looked down into her face. His gaze moved across her face, down her arm and side, to his hand cupping her butt cheek.

“Shit.” He removed his hand and rolled onto his back.

Desire still pounding through her veins, Chelsea wondered if he’d meant “shit” because he’d had to stop. Or “shit” because he shouldn’t have started.

He raised one arm and covered his eyes. “Please let this be another nightmare.”

She guessed that answered her question. She swung her legs over the side of the chaise and stood. The fact that he considered kissing her a nightmare hurt more than it should have, given the nature of their relationship. It wasn’t like they were boyfriend and girlfriend. She worked for him. It was a nightmare. Still, he didn’t have to be so rude. Especially not after the kiss had been so good.

“How in the hell did that just happen?” He lowered his arm and looked at her. “You’re not even supposed to be in here.”

It sounded suspiciously like he was trying to blame her, and she was the innocent party. Well, maybe not innocent. “I had something important to talk to you about and you wouldn’t answer your cell phone.”

He sat up and reached for his cane resting on the floor. “Another rabid squirrel sighting?” He stood and turned to face her from the other side of the chaise. The front of his shirt was still rumpled from her grasp. “Grapes that you just couldn’t wait to tell me about?”

“You make it sound as if I planned what happened.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I’m the innocent party here.”

“If you’re so innocent, how did I end up with my hand on your ass and your tongue in my mouth?”

She gasped. “This wasn’t my fault! You grabbed me and pulled me down next to you.” She pointed at him. “And then you kissed me.”

A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

Mark looked across the chaise at his assistant. Her hair was messy and her lips a bit swollen. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane to keep from grabbing her again. To keep from pushing her down and sliding his hand up her smooth thigh to her tight little butt.

“Well, at first I was in shock. Then I was just waiting for you to relax so I could get away.” She shrugged her shoulder like the little actress she was. “I was just about to knee you in the nut sac and run.”

He laughed. No wonder she was out of work. She just wasn’t that convincing. Not when he could still hear her long, needy moan in his head.

The doorbell rang once more. “I’m not expecting anyone,” he said. “Did you set anything up without telling me?”

“Of course not. Maybe it’s the Realtor. She’s really excited about a house in Bellevue.”

He held his hands wide and didn’t need to look down to know there was an obvious bulge in the front of his jeans. “You’re going to have to get that.”

Her gaze slid down his chest to the zipper closing the front of his Lucky’s. For several long seconds she stared at his erection as red crept up her cheeks. “Oh.” She spun on the heels of her sandals and practically ran from the room.

Mark watched her go, then leaned over to grab the remote from the end table. He turned off the television and tossed the remote on the chaise. He’d been dreaming of her. Again. He’d been dreaming of her and then she’d become a living, breathing part of that dream. When he’d first awakened and looked up at her, he’d been confused. In his dream she’d been naked, and they’d been having mad, crazy sex. Then he’d opened his eyes and she was wearing that horrible Pucci dress.

He moved to the French doors and looked out into his backyard and the golf course beyond. Pulling her down beside him and kissing her neck was all a dreamy haze, reality mixed with fantasy. But the sound of her hungry moan had cleared the confusion, and he’d lifted his head to look at her. He’d had a fleeting thought that he should stop, but then she’d pulled his head down to hers and kissed him with her wet mouth and smooth tongue. Any thought of stopping instantly vanished, replaced by darker, hotter thoughts. Thoughts of doing all the naughty little things he’d been doing to her naughty little body for the past week in his dreams. He didn’t know if that made him lonely or obsessed or sick. Maybe it made him all three.