Whiskey Beach(22)

Saying nothing, she dimmed the lights, walked over to turn on her iPod to soothing music. “Close your eyes,” she murmured, “and take a deep breath. In . . . out. Another,” she said as she poured the oil into her hands. “One more.”

As he obeyed, she pressed her hands on his shoulders. They didn’t even touch the table, she noted. So stiff, so knotted.

She stroked, pressed, kneaded, then slid her hands up along the column of his throat before she began a light facial massage.

She knew a headache when she saw one. Maybe if she could bring him some relief there, he’d relax a little before she began the heavy work.

It was hardly his first massage. Before his life had shattered he’d used a masseuse named Katrina, a solidly built, muscular blonde whose strong, wide hands had worked out tensions built up from work, strains generated from sports.

With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine he was back in the quiet treatment room of his club, having his muscles soothed after a day in court, or a couple hours’ competing on one.

Besides, in a few minutes, the deal would be met, and the woman who wasn’t the sturdy Katrina would be gone.

Her fingers stroked along his jaw and pressed under his eyes.

And the screaming violence of the headache quieted.

“Try another breath. Long in, long out.” Her voice melted into the music, just as fluid and soft.

“That’s good. Just in, then out.”

She turned his head, worked those fingers up one side of his neck, then the other, before she lifted his head.

Here, the firm, deep press of her thumbs brought a quick, stunning pain. Before he could tense against it, it released, like a cork from a bottle.

Like breaking up concrete, Abra thought, an inch at a time. So she closed her eyes as she worked, visualized that concrete softening, crumbling under her hands. When she moved to his shoulders, she increased the pressure, degree by degree.

She felt him relax—a little. Not enough, but even that slight yield equaled a victory.

Down his arm, kneading the tired muscles all the way down to his fingertips. Part of her mind might have smiled smugly when that ten-minute deadline went by unnoticed, but she focused the rest on doing the job.

By the time she lifted the face rest, she knew he wouldn’t argue.

“I want you to turn over, scoot up and lower your face into the rest. Let me know if you need me to adjust it. Take your time.”

Zoned, half asleep, he simply did as he was told.

When the heels of her hands pressed into his shoulder blades, he nearly moaned from the glorious mix of pain and release.

Strong hands, he thought. She didn’t look strong. But as they pushed, rubbed, pressed, as her fists dug into his back, aches he’d grown used to carrying rose to the surface, and lifted out.

She used her forearms, slick with oil, her body weight, knuckles, thumbs, fists. Every time the pressure hovered on the edge of too much, something broke free.

Then she stroked, stroked, stroked, firm, rhythmic, constant.

And he drifted away.



When he surfaced, floating back to consciousness like a leaf on a river, it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t in bed. He remained stretched out on the padded table, modestly covered by a sheet. The fire simmered; candles glowed. Music continued to murmur in the air.

He nearly closed his eyes and went under again.

Then he remembered.

Eli pushed himself up on his elbows to look around the room. He saw her coat, her boots, her bag. He could smell her, he realized, that subtle, earthy fragrance that mixed with the candle wax, the oil. Cautious, he pulled the sheet around him as he sat up.

He needed his pants. First things first.

Holding the sheet, he eased off the table. When he reached for his jeans, he saw the damn sticky note.

Drink the water. I’m in the kitchen.

He kept a wary eye out as he pulled on his pants, then picked up the water bottle she’d left beside them. As he shrugged on his shirt he realized nothing hurt. No headache, no toothy clamps on the back of his neck, none of those twinges that dogged him after his attempts to get some exercise.

He stood, drinking the water in the room soft with candlelight and firelight and music, and realized he felt something he barely recognized.

He felt good.

And foolish. He’d given her grief, deliberately. Her answer had been to help him—despite him.

Chastised, he made his way through the house to the kitchen.

She stood at the stove in a room redolent with scent. He didn’t know what she stirred on the stove, but it awakened another rare sensation.

Genuine hunger.

She’d chosen grinding rock for her kitchen music, turned it down low. Now he felt a twinge—of guilt. No one should be forced to play good, hard rock at a whisper.

“Abra.”