“I don’t want you to be hurt!”
They had been engaged in a shouting match. But at his last sentence, her head came up and she stared at him. He had spoken with an earnestness that she couldn’t ignore, with a soft emphasis that was more puissant than his raised voice had been.
He was bending over her closely. He had tossed his eyeglasses on his desk and the eyes that looked down at her now were dark. His face was resolute and hard, but …
Compassionate? She shook her head. No. Not compassionate. That was impossible. How could he be compassionate toward her and intend to malign Thomas? That was one and the same as insulting her personally.
She gained control of her voice and said levelly, “I’ve already been hurt, Mr. McKee. It hurt to identify my husband’s body as the victim of a needless, grotesque accident. He was a wonderful man and now you want to … Oh, God!” she groaned as she felt the prickle of tears behind her eyelids. “Just let me out of here.”
She didn’t want to cry. Not in front of anyone. Certainly not in front of him. But tears of rage and anguish filled her eyes. She ducked her head to hide them.
He couldn’t bear it. He had known it wasn’t going to be a picnic, but he couldn’t stand being the villain of the piece. Why must he be the one to bring her more pain when she’d suffered so much? She looked so utterly helpless and forlorn.
Damn Wynne! Why had that crooked sonofabitch died and gotten off the hook, leaving her to suffer the consequences of his double dealings? Had Wynne still been alive, Hunter couldn’t have held him in more contempt than he did now as he gazed down at the halo of blond hair on his widow’s head.
He was alarmed to see that his fingers were strained white around her wrist. Immediately he relaxed them, but didn’t let go. The hand she had squeezed into a tiny fist flexed at the lessening pressure. He studied that hand. More than anything he wanted to press the inside of her wrist to his lips and hold it there until the pulse slowed down. He wanted to open her hand and lay his mouth against the palm.
With his other hand he unthinkingly reached out and let one errant blond curl wind around his finger. It was as silky as it appeared. He wanted to crush each curl in his hand, bury his face in a mass of them, feel their caress against his lips.
Instead he lowered his hand without her ever knowing of his touch. He was sure she would have flinched with loathing. For, whatever her husband had been, it was evident that she had idolized him.
He, Hunter McKee, was the man who was going to knock that idol off his pedestal. And where would that leave him in her opinion? It was common knowledge what happened to the bearer of ill tidings.
“I didn’t want you to be hurt.” He hadn’t intended to repeat the words, especially with such heartfelt regret and in such an intimate whisper and with his thumb lightly grazing her inner wrist.
But she heard him and raised her head to glare up at him, condemning him more with the eloquence of her green eyes than she could have with shouted insults.
“Good-bye, Mr. McKee,” she said coldly. This time when she pulled on her hand, he had no choice but to release it.
His mouth formed a grim line as he moved aside and held the door for her. Tossing back her hair and proudly straightening her shoulders, she marched past him.
He followed her into the corridor and watched her go.
If he had fashioned her himself, she couldn’t have been more perfect. Just the right size. Slender, but feminine. Her derriere was gently rounded beneath her skirt; her breasts filled out the bodice of her dress. Oh, yes. He had noticed them, too, and cursed himself all the while for being a lecher while he was noticing. Forbidden thoughts about shape and color and texture and taste had also filtered through his mind.
Her legs were long and shapely in their high heels and silk stockings. He knew they were silk. If he imagined hard enough, he could feel their texture against his palms and the way the curve of her calf would fit his hand.
And her hair, and her face, and those animated expressions were so exactly what he had always wanted in a woman. And her scent and her eyes and her mouth. God! Don’t even think about her mouth. He was already aching.
When she left the building by way of the front door, he closed the door to his office and returned to his desk. “Hellfire and damnation,” he sighed, sinking into the chair and running a hand through his hair.
She was a widow of three months. And even if it had been three years, she would hate him forever for what he must do to her husband’s memory.
Still, how did one turn off desire, desire stronger than any ever felt before? He hadn’t arbitrarily turned it on. He hadn’t picked her out of a crowd to be the recipient of his desire. Because of the situation, she would have been the last one he would have willingly selected. He hadn’t asked to be attracted to her, it had just happened. Now what the hell could he do about it?