Читать книгу Undressing Mercy - Deanna Lee - Страница 6

I’d been seeing Dr. Lesley Price for about eight months; she knew more about me than anyone else on earth, and I resented that. She knew what kept me up at night, and what it took to push the world away. It was her knowledge of me that would help me heal, and for that reason alone I tried to keep my resentment to myself. There are those that say therapy is a relieving experience. It’s always left me tied up and out of sorts.

“You’re close to your goal.”

I nodded, pulled one leg underneath me, and tried to find a spot on the beige wall behind her head to focus on. “Yes, close.”

“And the nightmares?”

“None since March.” I sighed and finally met Lesley’s gaze. “Okay, fine, there have been a few.” I frowned and shook my head. “I should’ve gotten a male therapist.”

“You find it easy to lie to a man?”

I chuckled. “What woman doesn’t? Come on, how many times have you told a man that size doesn’t matter?”

Lesley pursed her lips briefly and then shook her head, brown curls bouncing around as she did. “Okay. But we’re off track.”

“You started it.” I crossed my arms over my breasts. “I’m still not sleeping through the night, and the only reason I’m not checking the doors and windows is because I force myself not to. So when I can’t sleep, I lie there and worry about not getting up to check the fucking windows and doors.”

“He’s not in Boston.”

“No, he isn’t.” I looked around the room, taking in the elegant leather furniture before snuggling into the recliner that I was in. The leather furniture should’ve made the room seem formal, yet it was soothing and comfortable. Odd. I’d never imagined I would be comfortable in a therapist’s office.

“How’s your sex life?” She cut right to the chase with that one. But I supposed I deserved it.

“Absent of a cock, small or otherwise.” Shrugging, I looked down at my hands. “I just can’t find a man that I can get sexually interested in.”

“You mean you can’t find a man you can dominate in bed, so you don’t bother.”

I shrugged and then nearly giggled as I imagined myself in a black leather outfit, with whip in hand. “Well, that image has appeal.”

“Don’t be flippant, Mercy.” I glanced up and met her stare. Her face was as serious as her tone had been.

“Fine, weak men turn me off. Strong men…” I sucked in a breath.

“Scare you.”

“No, I’ve told you before, I don’t fear men or sex. I fear Jeff King, and I’m afraid of him in a way I never thought I was capable of.”

“How do you feel about that fear?”

I stood and walked away from the recliner. “Why don’t you have a couch?”

Lesley laughed. She had a good strong laugh, and I found her amusement comforting. “It’s rather old fashioned. I prefer the recliner.”

I glanced toward the sleek leather recliner that I’d just left. “I’m not afraid of sex.”

“I believe that you believe that.”

I hate psychobabble. Frowning, I looked out the window. “When did you get the new Jag? It’s good to see that my money is going to such a good cause.”

“Last month.” She cleared her throat. “Take a seat, Mercy.”

I walked back over to the chair and sat down. “I have a big meeting this afternoon.”

“Yes, you mentioned it earlier. Will this meeting further your career with the gallery?”

“I believe so. The Board of Directors will be hard pressed to find a reason not to renew my contract next year.”

“It’s important to you.”

“Success is important to everyone.” I drew in a deep breath; my tone had been hard and angry. My next words sounded more like me. “I’ve never met anyone who enjoyed failure.”

“Is your boss still a source of stress for you?”

“He’s frustrated, I can see that. I understand that he doesn’t want to lose his place at the gallery. It doesn’t matter who’s sitting in my place, come August he’ll be gone anyway.”

“You’re enjoying watching him squirm.”

I flinched and then grimaced. “He uses power to manipulate women.”

“His lack of respect for women makes you want to punish him.”

Hell, yes, I did want to punish him. “Perhaps.”

“Do you view him as someone like the man that raped you?”

“No. He’s nothing like Jeff King. Milton Storey is a small-minded man who has no ability to adapt. He’s used social standing and the connections he gained through his marriage to keep his position at Holman. It’s no longer enough, and now he’s grasping trying to stay on top.”

“Are there any men in your life that you trust, Mercy?”

“I trust Martin.”

“Yes.” Lesley sighed. “But Martin Colwell is in New York. He’s in your past. You know that.”

“Okay, fine. I’m not much on trust these days.” I looked up, and she was writing on a legal pad. I hated when she did that, because I was never sure if she was writing a grocery list or creating a psychological profile that would put me in an institution. The timer ending the session dinged gently. I bolted out of the chair. “I’ll see you later.”

“Mercy.”

I sat down and clenched my teeth. “Okay.”

Lesley reached out, plucked the timer off the desk, and then dropped it in a desk drawer. “Your work stresses aside, it is important to your continued progress that you address your personal issues.”

“I’m here because I want to address my personal issues.”

“Yes.” She nodded and inclined her head. “Yet you back away when we come close to making progress.”

“I try.”

“I want you to think about sex, Mercy. Think about sex and its place in your life. Write down what a normal sex life would be to you. Tell me what you enjoyed about sex before you were raped. Did you like it rough?”

I flushed in anger and shame. “How could I possibly want or even think about wanting violent sex?”

“Rough sex is a far cry from rape.”

“Yeah.”

“Lust can make people want things that are normal when they take place between consenting adults.”

“Perhaps.” I didn’t want to discuss this. I stood. “I need to go.”

“Do your homework.”

I nodded. “I will.”

Walking into the art gallery twenty minutes later, I felt a little of my past lift away. The work I had done with Holman Gallery had fulfilled me in a way that I had never known before. My world was just fine without a man.

On the gallery’s top floor, I found my assistant, Jane Tilwell, hovering near my office door. She was wearing an Armani pantsuit that displayed a slim, athletic figure many women would have cheerfully killed for. She’d cut her honey-brown hair, and I liked the short, spiky do. It gave her a modern and slick edge. Something that jibed, I suppose, with the image she was trying to project. Jane was one of my favorite people.

When I had joined Holman Gallery, I’d realized immediately that Jane Tilwell was being wasted in her current position and that she should be made Assistant Director. That was a situation I had hopes of resolving when I became Director. She offered me that quick and easy smile of hers.

“What’s up?” I asked, pausing in front of her and peeking into my office.

“Mr. Storey wants to meet with you before the Montgomery contract discussion.” She handed me the folder that held the contract for Shamus Montgomery.

“Where is he?” I asked and glanced at my watch. Frankly, the last thing I wanted to do was chat with Milton Storey once again about the Montgomery contract.

“Mr. Storey is already in the conference room.” She jerked her head toward our large conference room, which was on the opposite side of the building from where we stood.

I looked her over and shook my head. “I hate how good you look in that suit.”

“I got it on sale.” She smiled the smug smile of a woman who’d saved a lot of money.

“You bought an Armani suit on sale and didn’t call me?” I glared at her briefly. “That could be grounds for dismissal.”

Jane laughed as I went into my office, shoved my purse into a desk drawer, and picked up my handheld. The important meeting, with Shamus Montgomery himself, was my last one of the day; it was funny how that didn’t do anything to put me in a good mood. My office in the art gallery was the second largest on the third floor, and something of a fishbowl. The wall facing out into the bull pen was made entirely of glass. The architect who had designed the building had favored glass, metal, and modern design. I hated him. I would’ve given my best Gucci purse for a real wall.

The rest of the room was painted off-white, and the furniture blended right in. At first glance, visitors might think the furniture grew right up out of the carpet. I found it unsettling. The bull pen was no different, with lots of glass and steel popping up out of the metal-gray carpet like a garden of metal.

I picked up the file folder that held the Montgomery contract, and a pen. Putting off a confrontation with Milton wouldn’t make the meeting or the day go any faster. The men and women working in the bull pen grew quiet as I left my office and walked through the area. There were people in the gallery that supported me, and there were those who didn’t. Milton Storey had been the director of the gallery for nearly fifteen years, and the Board’s decision to bring me in had ruffled a few feathers among the staff. I knew that in August, when I became Director, I would probably have a few positions to fill.

When I entered the conference room, Milton Storey was talking on his cell phone. I sat down several chairs away from him and dropped the folder on the table in front of me. I’d only been at the gallery six months. I’d spent that six months rearranging and reorganizing the gallery to suit me. Milton had taken most of the changes in silence, yet he’d grown adept at picking his battles.

He ended his call abruptly and turned to me. His face appeared calm, but his eyes betrayed his irritation, and a fear I wanted to ignore but couldn’t. Milton Storey was being forced out of a job he loved. He finally spoke. “This contract with Montgomery is a mistake.”

“James Brooks wants this contract with Shamus Montgomery. In fact, he made it clear that he has a significant amount of personal interest in this contract succeeding.” So much so, that he’d made it clear that losing the Montgomery account could be bad for me. “I realize that he isn’t an artist that you would’ve pursued, but we both know the Board has plans for this gallery that you are unwilling to even consider.”

“You don’t have my job yet.” His face was flushed with anger, but it was the coldness of his eyes that startled me.

I replied, “What do you hate the most about me? My gender, my age, or that the Board no longer chooses to believe that you know what is best for this gallery?”

“I don’t like you, Ms. Rothell. Your age and gender have nothing to do with it,” he snapped and then sat back in his chair. It was the first time I could ever remember him actually admitting that he resented me specifically.

“I was brought to Holman Gallery to do this type of project.”

“All you’re doing is tearing down a gallery I’ve spent years building. You’ve brought in a series of vulgar and profane works that will alienate our clientele.”

“Our revenue has doubled in the six months that I’ve been handling the collections.”

“Money earned through thinly disguised pornography.”

“If you have a problem with the way things are being done around here, talk to the Board.”

I watched his face redden with anger, but he said nothing else. Achieving my failure and dismissal had been number one on his to-do list since the day I’d replaced the young and frankly ill-equipped woman he’d had in the Assistant Director’s position.

I wasn’t worried about his plotting. I knew what the Board of Directors wanted, and I was providing it in spades. The door opened, and we were both forced to put smiles on our faces as Jane showed Shamus Montgomery in.

I’d spent three days preparing for my first meeting with Shamus Montgomery. Yet as I set eyes on the man for the first time, I knew I hadn’t prepared nearly enough. My grandmother once told me that men are like wine. Some are bitter and hard to swallow, and others lie on your tongue with a full-bodied sweetness that can make your toes curl.

I wondered what he would taste like.

Shamus Montgomery, known for his passionate and erotic sculptures, was one solid and sexy reminder of my empty bed—and he was stripping me bare with his gaze. I returned his brazen inspection with one of my own.

Dark brown skin. Eyes so dark they were nearly black. And a strong and chiseled face any model would love. His hair was shaved close to his head in a style that most black men seemed to prefer. A soft slant to the corner of his eyes reminded me that he had a Chinese grandmother.

I knew a lot about Shamus Montgomery as an artist. However, the need to know more about him as a man surfaced within seconds of seeing him for the first time. There was no mistaking the lust stirring in my body. My physical reaction surprised me. It had been a long time since a man had stirred my sexual interest.

I stood up from my chair and offered him my hand. I sucked in a small breath as my fingers disappeared in his. Warm, calloused, and strong were the first things I thought about his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Montgomery. Holman is honored to be the first choice for your next show.”

There, two whole sentences. I pulled my fingers from his and fought an overwhelming urge to crawl across the conference table and into his lap. I sat down.

I used the time it took Milton to greet Shamus to regain control. My thoughts had been scattered to the four winds by pure, unadulterated lust.

“I’m here because of you, Ms. Rothell. Your reputation precedes you.”

Heat swept over up my face, and that pissed me off. Blushing was not part of the smart, modern-woman image I’d spent more than two years redeveloping. Therapy, self-defense classes, and determination had helped me carve out a place in the world where I felt safe and in control.

Settling back in my seat, I watched Shamus Montgomery pull out the chair directly in front of me. He was tall, at least six feet three inches, and had the grace of a big hunting cat. He sat down in the chair and focused on me as if I were the only person in the room. It was the sort of attention that I had enjoyed from men in the past, but felt uncomfortable with now. God, the man was breathtaking.

I waited until he was settled before speaking. “I understand you have twenty-two pieces ready for the show.”

“Yes, but there are always twenty-three. It’s what my audience will expect.” He inclined his head and fixed his gaze on my face. “I need the right woman for the final piece.”

“The gallery will help you find a willing model.” I pulled out the contract and set it in front of me. The right woman. I fought a frown. Had I just promised to find this gorgeous and amazing man the right woman?

“I’ve chosen a model.”

He’s already found the right woman, I thought. Lucky girl. As soon as I found out who she was I figured I’d hate her guts. “Good. I’ve made the changes to the contract that your lawyer insisted on and have included the changes that you had previously agreed to. However, I must admit your breach-of-trust stipulation was a hard sell to the Board.”

“I don’t like sharing my work with people I can’t trust. If exhibiting at Holman Gallery proves to be a pleasurable experience for me, I’ll have no need to withdraw my work from your skillful hands.” He paused, looked over my face carefully, and then asked softly, “Aren’t you interested in knowing who’ll pose for me?”

I forced myself to meet his gaze, taking in those dark brown eyes and thick, dark lashes. There was humor in his eyes and in the curve of his firm lips. Again, the desire to know what he tasted like surfaced. I let my gaze slide over the strong, angular features of his face. The man looked like a fallen angel. A profoundly naughty fallen angel.

Smiling back, I looked pointedly at the contract before speaking. “The gallery will secure the model you require for your last piece.” I pushed the contract across the table with a pen.

Milton Storey grunted when Shamus picked up the pen and signed both copies with bold, deliberate strokes. He pushed the contract back across the table at me, but didn’t lift his fingers when I reached for it. “I’ll see you at six P.M.”

I looked up and met his gaze, ignoring Milton’s intake of breath at the statement.

My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the model for my last project, Ms. Rothell.” He stood as I signed the contracts. “You do know where my studio is?”

I nodded, overwhelmed. With hands that were surprisingly steady, I handed him his copy of the contract, then sat back in my chair. Dimly, I was even slightly proud of the fact that I had remembered to sign the contracts and give him a copy. I watched him fold the contract and then slip it into a pocket inside his jacket.

After a brief exchange with Milton, the damn man walked out, leaving me alone with the contract.

Trying not to shake, I placed it back in the folder with Shamus Montgomery’s name on it and stood. “This should be filed.”

Not bothering to look at Milton, I left the room and hurried toward my office.

Jane was in my office when I entered. She hopped up from my desk and smiled. “I’ve answered all of the e-mails in your query folder. You have four meetings tomorrow morning before lunch, and I’ve confirmed the travel arrangements for Ms. Carol Banks. She’ll be here on Friday as scheduled.” She walked to stand in front of me and stared. “Well?”

I nodded. “He signed.”

“Holy shit, Mercy! That’s cool.” She took the folder from my now-numb hand. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed hard and shook my head. “You won’t believe me.”

“Come on, spill it.”

“Shamus Montgomery wants me to pose for his final piece for the show.”

“Oh. My. God.”

Oh my God, indeed. The blasted man had signed the contract after I’d assured him the gallery would secure the model he wanted. He’d backed me into a neat little corner. And it was a fascinating corner to be in. I was both excited and scared. It would’ve been foolish to deny that I found Shamus Montgomery insanely attractive.

“Mercy, this is awesome.”

I turned and glared at her. “Tell me, Jane, exactly what part of this is awesome?”

“Come on! That sexy man wants to strip you naked and sculpt you. What the hell could be better?”

I was thirty pounds past my ideal weight, and pushing a size twelve. I’ve never been one of those women who dieted obsessively; however, I preferred being slightly slimmer. Also, I had no interest in getting naked for an artist. Shaking my head, I turned to find Jane staring at me. She frowned, walked to my office door, and shut it.

She turned and stared at us with a determined expression. “Mercy, you’re a beautiful woman.”

“Thanks, Jane.” I didn’t consider myself unattractive, and I had no way of explaining to Jane what I was really thinking.

“You have a lovely face and a great curvy body.” She held out her arms to display the trim, tidy body I secretly envied. “I’m nearly a boy.”

Laughing, I shook my head and sat down at my desk. “You don’t look like any boy I’ve ever seen.”

Jane leaned against my desk. “Look, a man like Shamus Montgomery doesn’t make mistakes. He wants to sculpt you, Mercy. Not me and not Miss Perky-Fake-Tits Johnson out there.”

I looked through the glass wall and out into the bull pen where Sarah Johnson worked. “You think they’re fake?”

“Are you kidding? They can’t be anything else,” Jane snorted. “I’ve considered reporting her to the EPA.”

“For what?”

Jane shrugged. “There is no way she’s still biodegradable.”

I laughed and looked back to Sarah; Milton was holding court at her desk. I personally found him tedious on most occasions, but it was obvious why Sarah feigned interest. She believed that he could help her get somewhere in the art world. Despite his upcoming forced retirement from Holman Gallery, Milton Storey did have influence.

Milton finished preening for the environmental hazard and started toward my office. “You’d better scoot,” I said to Jane, “or he’ll have a chance to ask you why you still haven’t gone out with his son.”

Jane grimaced and darted past Milton just as he entered the room. The sudden movement confused him for a moment, and his gaze jerked from her exiting form and to me several times before he settled on my face.

“What can I do for you, Milton?”

“I was just telling Sarah about the deal with Shamus Montgomery. She’d be willing to take your place as a model.” Milton tucked his hands into his pants pockets and inclined his head. “She’s young and thin.”

Young, thin, and plastic. I glanced toward Sarah and knew exactly what was on her mind. It would be a cold day in hell before I’d let her parade around in all of her manmade glory for Shamus Montgomery. I wasn’t exactly convinced I could pose for him, but I knew I couldn’t allow her to do it either. “Mr. Montgomery made his choice. I did promise the man the gallery would secure the model he wanted.” I leaned back in my chair, and watched Milton fidget.

Finally he looked out at Sarah and shrugged.

Miss Perky Tits glared at me and went back to her work.

My phone rang. Milton strolled out of my office, leaving the door open, which I hated. As I picked up the phone, Jane was at the door, gently pulling it closed. I was going to miss her when I went to prison for killing Milton.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Rothell.”

Shamus Montgomery. His voice was smooth and cultured, yet it woke something wild and nearly unspeakable in me. I wanted to be angry with him for his presumption. The truth was that I enjoyed his arrogance so much that I couldn’t wait to tangle with him again. The fact that he’d had called me so soon led me to believe that maybe he felt the same way.

“Mr. Montgomery. I’m glad you called. You didn’t give me much time to consider your offer.” My opening volley was met with a brief silence.

“It wasn’t an offer.”

Looking down at my desk, I sighed and then glanced out at Jane in the bull pen. She held up a piece of paper with SHAMUS MONTGOMERY IS A GOD written on it in big red letters. I glared at her and turned in my chair so I didn’t have to see her or her stupid sign.

“I can assure you there are scores of women who would happily strip naked and pose for you. I just don’t happen to be one of them.” That was a damn lie. Well, it was a half-lie. I could easily see myself getting naked with Shamus Montgomery; it was the posing part that put me off. I focused on one of my fingernails and frowned at the cuticle. It was a prime example of how I felt inside: ragged.

“I have a feeling that it’s time you did something different,” he said.

“I’m not stagnating,” I snapped and then frowned, realizing that he hadn’t said anything like that.

His silence wasn’t comforting. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he considered what my response had revealed. Closing my eyes, I waited for him to say something. Anything.

“Don’t be late, Mercy.”

He hung up. I crossed my legs at the knee and tried to ignore the dampness in my panties and the gentle throb of my clit. Anger and want twisted in my body, and having no outlet for either left me frustrated and thoroughly confused. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d met a man that stirred my body as Shamus Montgomery did.

I turned in my chair and stared at Jane pretending to be working on her computer. Glancing at my own monitor, I noticed that my instant messenger was flashing. I clicked on the window, and I saw a message from Jane.

“Only an idiot would turn down the chance to spend the summer NAKED with Shamus Montgomery.”

“Bite me,” I responded and then cut off the messenger.

I watched Jane giggle for a moment, and then swiveled my chair to look out the window. She was right. Shamus Montgomery was a sexy and talented man, and women traveled thousands of miles to pose for him. I should feel honored that he wanted me in his studio. He was a powerful artist, and I knew what he could draw out of a woman. Still, his desire to capture my soul wasn’t a comforting one.

Exposing myself to a man like Shamus was a far bigger step than anything my therapist and I had worked on. The thought of being vulnerable was an unbearable one. I’d tried so hard to put my experience in New York behind me, but that didn’t mean I was ready to go on display.

Despite all of those fears and the anger that he’d outmaneuvered me, I was left with a fine layer of arousal that simmered under my skin. I could almost feel his hands moving over my body, the pressure of his body against mine, and the blunt tip of his cock pushing into my emptiness.

I lowered my head to my desk. “What a fucking nightmare.”

After work, I hurried home to hide in my apartment. I’d lived in Boston two years and had used that time to create a space that was unique and mine. The apartment had four rooms, including the kitchen and the large bathroom. My furniture was modern without being uncomfortable, and I’d used a crème foundation color for each room. Then, when the mood struck, I’d bought outrageously colorful pillows and rugs and strewn them throughout every room. I could admit to myself that my apartment was my sanctuary from the world. I’d learned the hard way just how cruel life could be.

I toed off my shoes and left them near the door. After quickly sorting the mail and tossing all of the junk, I took the rest to the kitchen table and sat down.

The first envelope was from New York, with my ex-boyfriend Martin’s return address on it. My relationship with Martin was one of the few in my life that had returned to a friendship after the sex was over. It looked like a wedding invitation. It was. I frowned as I read over the details and then dropped it onto the table. I knew I wouldn’t go. Going to New York, even for the wedding of a friend, was completely impossible for me.

The wedding invitation had unsettled me, and I knew why. It was selfish and terribly cruel, but I regretted that Martin had found someone to share his life with. Though he certainly deserved it. Martin was the best man I’d ever known. A very selfish part of me wanted him to be waiting in the wings for me. Disgusted with myself, I rubbed my face briskly.

I stood up, made myself a sandwich, and brought it back to the table. Then I opened the rest of my mail until all I had left was a large manila envelope from the museum I had worked for in New York. With dread, I opened it and spilled the contents out onto the table. I didn’t remember signing up for the museum’s mailing list with my home address, but I must have. It was a foolish error. The glossy advertisements slipped across each other as I picked up a press release with a photo of Jeff King’s face on it. He’d been promoted and now held the position I’d left more than two years ago.

God, I hated him. I wondered if there would ever be a day I could look at his face and not feel his hands biting into me. I could almost smell his cologne. It made me furious that even his picture had the ability to invade and hurt me.

The phone rang as I choked down the rest of my sandwich. I jumped on it immediately, relieved. “Hello?”

“Hey. What are you wearing to Montgomery’s tonight? Did you pick out matching underwear? Wear that great perfume we bought at the mall last week, the one named after that singer.” Jane paused briefly. “Hey, are you there?”

“Yes. I’m going to wear my blue sundress, and I planned on putting on matching underwear and no perfume.”

“Oh, come on, Mercy!”

“Jane, it is not my aim to seduce or in any other way provoke Shamus Montgomery.” I glanced around the kitchen and then briefly to the mail I’d abandoned on the table.

“If you don’t get laid soon, I’ll have to renew my subscription to Penthouse Forum.”

I laughed, amused by her petulant tone. “Why don’t you run out and get laid? Hell, get laid for me, too.”

Jane snorted and then sighed deeply. “Men suck, Mercy. I might start going to gay bars, try to find a gay male friend and a lesbian lover. Then I can pretend I’m on some sexy cable show and not worry about tedious things like real life.”

I leaned on the counter. “You and I both know that you aren’t going to give up men. However, a wild night with a woman would broaden your horizons.”

She laughed and I could almost see her shrug. For all of her bravado and charm, Jane was fairly tame, and I doubted that she would allow herself to be with another woman. She chattered for another few minutes and reminded me again to wear perfume, and then we ended the call. I valued Jane. Female friends had always been a rarity in my life, but that didn’t mean I was going to douse myself in scent.

I put the phone back on its base and walked back to the table. Jeff King’s handsome, cruel face stared back up at me. Grimacing, I picked up the photo and tore it down the middle. He was nothing to me. I had to believe that. I’d left him and that life behind.

At 4:30 P.M., I forced myself into the shower. Under the cool water of the massaging showerhead, I tried in vain to clear my mind. The truth was, as fascinating and sexy as Shamus Montgomery was, I knew that he was far too dangerous to get involved with. He wasn’t the sort of danger that scarred and damaged, but the kind of danger that made blood boil and flesh heat with impatient passion.

Leaning against the tile wall of my shower stall, I pulled the massaging showerhead from its hook. I rinsed the soap from my body casually, and then slipped the pulsating head between my legs. The cool water rushed against the heat of my pussy, making my clit throb with the sweet pain of sexual arousal. With my thumb, I changed the setting on the showerhead and pressed it more firmly against my labia. The water beat against my clit as I carefully started to move the head around.

Would Shamus be the kind of man who enjoyed a woman’s pleasure as much as his own? Would his hands move over skin with knowledge and skill? I pressed against the wall with all of my strength and shuddered against the rushing water on my clit. I imagined a tongue moving over me, dipping into my pussy, and then moving up to tease and brush over my clit. The dangerous and stimulating pleasure of teeth grazing and then firm lips sucking.

Eyes closed. Legs stiffened. I came. The orgasm swept over my clit. My insides clenched and tightened in response. The emptiness of my womb was harsh against my body’s response to the incessant push of water. Had it been so long since a man had filled me? I wanted a man, and I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that any man would do. I wanted Shamus. Momentarily weak, I put the nozzle back on the hook and sucked in a deep breath.

The edge was off. The burning lust that I’d been pushing aside since I’d set eyes on Shamus Montgomery had dissipated, but I wondered how long that state would last. I had a feeling that masturbation wouldn’t be a permanent substitute for him.

I was half-dressed when the phone rang. By the time I reached for the receiver, the answering machine had already picked up. Pausing, I waited while the electronic version of me told the caller I wasn’t available. The beep came, and all I heard was silence. Then the caller hung up with a gentle click. I sucked in a breath, irritated at the fear that slipped over me.

Though it had been nearly fourteen months since Jeff had last called me, whenever I got a hang-up on my answering machine, my first thought was that it was him. I picked up the phone and checked the caller ID. The call showed up as an “unknown number.” I hung up the phone and stood for a few seconds, fighting with paranoia and self-hatred. I hated myself for allowing Jeff King a place in my mind. Finally, I went back to my bedroom to finish dressing.

When I couldn’t stall any longer, I gave in and gathered my purse and keys. I didn’t want to be late; it would give Shamus the upper hand.