Читать книгу Postcards From… Collection - Maisey Yates - Страница 29

MADDY PUSHED HERSELF away from Max’s embrace and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes. He appeared utterly blown away to see her. She suddenly realized how stupid she must seem, arriving on his doorstep unannounced and crying all over him.

She was feeling kind of blown-away herself. It had been eight years since she’d last seen his face, and she was surprised at how much older and grown-up he seemed. He was thirty-one now, of course. No longer a young man. She hadn’t expected him to remain untouched by time, but the reality of him was astonishing. He almost looked like a stranger, with new lines around his mouth and eyes. His formerly long, tousled hair was cut short in a utilitarian buzz cut. His body was different, too. As a dancer, he’d been all lean muscle and fluid grace, but the man standing before her seemed bigger, wider, taller than the friend she remembered.

She laughed self-consciously as she realized they were both simply staring at each other.

“Always knew how to make an entrance, didn’t I?” she said.

“It’s great to see you,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were in town. Where are you dancing? Or perhaps I should ask who’s trying to steal the great Maddy Green away from the SDC?”

She opened her mouth to tell him her news, but nothing came out. Instead, a sob rose up from deep inside and she felt her face crumple.

“Hey,” Max said. He moved closer, one hand reaching out to catch her elbow. “What’s going on? Who’s got you so upset?”

She pressed her face into the palms of her hands. She couldn’t look at him when she said it. God, she could barely make herself say the words.

“They retired me. I had a knee reconstruction in July after I tore my anterior cruciate ligament. It’s been coming along well, getting stronger, but the company’s surgeon won’t clear me to dance. So it’s all over,” she said, the words slipping between her fingers.

“Maddy. I’m so sorry,” Max said.

She dropped her hands. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go. And then I thought of you. And I caught the first plane to Paris. Didn’t even bother to pack,” she said. She tried to laugh at her own crazy impulsiveness, but the only sound that came out was an odd little hiccup.

Max’s eyebrows arched upward and his gaze flicked to her dance bag, lying on the ground at her feet where she’d dropped it when he opened the door.

She understood his surprise. What kind of person took off around the world on the spur of the moment and lobbed on the doorstep of a man she hadn’t seen in over eight years?

“Guess I wasn’t really thinking straight,” she said.

An icy breeze raced down the alley, rattling windows and cutting through the thin wool of her sweater. She shivered and Max shook his head.

“You’re freezing.” He tugged her through the doorway as he spoke, reaching to grab her bag at the same time.

“Merde. This thing is still as heavy as I remember,” he said as he hefted the black suede bag.

The ghost of a smile curved her lips. Max used to give her a lot of grief about all the rubbish she hauled around. He always wondered how someone as small as she needed so much stuff. One time he’d even tipped the entire contents onto the coffee table and made her justify every piece of detritus. They’d been laughing so hard by the time they got a third of the way through the pile that Maddy had begged him for mercy for fear her sides really would split.

“Girl’s got to have her stuff,” she said, the same response she’d given him all those years ago.

He smiled and kicked the door shut behind him.

“I was just opening a bottle of wine. That’ll help warm you up,” he said.

She glanced around as he led her across the large open space. Ancient beams supported the roof high overhead, and the walls were rough brick with the odd, haphazard patch of plaster smeared over them. A workbench lined one wall, filled with hand tools, and a row of sculptures sat side by side near a painted-over window.

She knew from the mass e-mail that Max had sent to his friends that he’d recently moved into a new apartment after the death of his father, but this was the last place she’d imagined him living. In the old days, he’d always been the one who complained the most about the moldy bathroom and crusty kitchen in their shared rentals. He’d even painted his bedroom himself because he couldn’t stand the flaking, bright blue paint that had decorated his walls.

But maybe his appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Maybe the years had given him a different appreciation for what made a home.

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” she said as he dumped her bag on a low modern leather couch. At least that conformed to her idea of the old Max’s tastes—sleek, welldesigned, high quality.

“Yeah. Thanks for the flowers, by the way. I can’t remember if I sent a thank-you card or not,” he said. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, to be honest.”

“You did.”

They were both uncomfortable. She wondered if it was because she’d brought up his father, or because she’d miscalculated horribly in racing to him this way. She hadn’t expected it to be awkward. She’d expected to walk through the door and feel the old connection with him. To feel safe and warm and protected.

Stupid. She could see that now. E-mails and Christmas cards and the occasional phone call were not enough to maintain the level of intimacy they’d once shared. She’d run halfway around the world chasing a phantom.

“Maybe I should come back tomorrow,” she said, stopping in the space between his makeshift living zone and the counter, sink and oven in the back corner that constituted his kitchen. “You’ve probably got plans. I should have called before coming over. We can meet up whenever you’re free.”

Max put down the bottle of wine he’d been opening and walked over to stand in front of her. He reached out and rested his hands on her shoulders. The heavy, strange-but-familiar weight warmed her.

“Maddy. It’s great to see you. Really. I wish it was for a happier reason, for your sake, but I’m honored you thought of me. Now, make yourself at home. I don’t have a thing to do or a place to be. I’m all yours,” he said.

More foolish tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, then nodded. “Okay. All right.”

He returned to the wine bottle, and she sat at one end of the couch. She was tired. Emotionally and physically. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath ever since Andrew had looked her in the eye and confirmed Dr. Hanson’s pronouncement that her career was over.

“Here.”

He slid a large wineglass into her hand. Red wine lapped close to the brim and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Save me a trip back to the kitchen to get you another one,” he said.

“I haven’t been drunk in years,” she said, staring down into the deep cherry liquid. “I guess if there was ever a time, this is it.”

“Absolument,” he said.

She drank a mouthful, then another.

“I was wondering what else was different about you,” she said when she’d finished swallowing. “Apart from your hair and your face. It’s your accent. It’s much stronger now.”

“That would come from speaking my native tongue for the past eight years,” he said wryly. “These days, the only time I get to practice my English is when someone from the old days calls or visits.”

“It’s nice,” she said. “The girls from the corps would love it. I remember they used to be all over you because of your accent.”

“I think you’re forgetting my stellar talent on stage and my legendary status as a lover,” he said mock-seriously.

Her shoulders relaxed a notch as she recognized the familiar teasing light in his eyes. There was the old Max she knew and loved, the Max she’d craved when her world came crashing down around her.

“Right, sorry. I keep forgetting about that. What was that nickname you wanted us all to call you again?”

He snorted out a laugh and she watched, fascinated, as his face transformed.

He’s been too serious for too long, she realized. That’s what’s different about him, as well.

She could only imagine what caring for his wheelchair-bound father must have been like. Terrifying, exhausting, frus-trating and rewarding in equal measures, no doubt.

“The Magic Flute,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about that. Never did catch on.”

“We had our own names for you, don’t worry,” she said. She toed off her shoes. As always, it was bliss to free her feet. If she could, she’d go barefoot all day.

“Yeah? You never told me that. What did you use to call me?”

He settled back on the couch. He filled the entire corner, his shoulders square and bulky with muscle.

“Not me, the corps. Wonder Butt was the most popular,” she said. “Because of how you filled out your tights.”

Another laugh from Max. The warm wine-glow in the pit of her stomach expanded. The more he laughed, the more the years slid away and the more she saw her old friend. Maybe it hadn’t been so stupid coming here after all.

“Some of the girls called you Legs. Again, because of the way you filled out your tights.”

“We’d better be getting to the Magic Flute part soon or I’m going to be crippled with size issues for weeks.”

She felt her cheeks redden as she remembered the last nickname the other ballerinas had for Max. She shifted on the couch, not sure why she was suddenly self-conscious about a bit of silly trash talk. It had been a long time since she’d been coy or even vaguely self-conscious about anything sexual.

She cleared her throat.

“I believe they also used to call you Rex, too,” she said.

He frowned, confused. She made a vague gesture with her hand. She couldn’t believe he was forcing her to elaborate.

“You know. As in Tyrannosaurus Rex. Big and insatiable.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. She found herself joining in.

“Maddy Green,” he said when he’d finally stopped laughing. His light gray eyes were admiring as he looked at her. “It’s damn good to see you. It’s been too long.”

A small silence fell as they both savored their wine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked after a while. “Call people names, throw a tantrum? I’m happy to listen if you do.”

She drew her legs up so that she was sitting cross-legged.

“I wasn’t ready for it. I mean, they told me the surgery was a long shot, but I’ve always been a good healer. And the knee was getting better. If they’d just given me more time…”

She looked down and saw her left hand was clenched over her knee, while her right was strangling the glass.

“What did the doctor say?”

“A bunch of cautious gobbledygook about my body being tired and not being able to compensate anymore. I know my body better than any of them. I know what I’m capable of. I know I’ve got more in me. I can feel it here,” she said, thumping a fist into her chest so vehemently that the bony thud of it echoed.

“Careful, there, tiger,” he said.

She took a big, gulping sip.

“I still can’t believe that Andrew took Hanson at face value like that. Like it was gospel.”

“Hanson? I was wondering who treated you. He’s supposed to be pretty good, right?”

She shrugged a shoulder dismissively. “Yes. The best, according to Andrew. Which is why they use him exclusively. But he’s not the only doctor in the world. Remember Sasha? He was told he’d be crippled for life if he kept dancing, and he went on to score a place with the Joffrey Ballet. He’s one of their lead soloists now.”

He smiled. “Fantastic. Good for him. I’ve lost track of so many people, I’ve been out of it all for so long now. Is Peter still dancing? I tried to keep an eye out for him. Always thought he’d make it big.”

“He got sick,” she said quietly. “You know what he was like—never could say no.”

Despite the well-known risk of AIDS, there were still plenty of beautiful, talented dancers who slept their way into an early grave. The travel, the physicality of the dance world, the camaraderie—passions always ran high, on and off the stage.

“What about Liza? I heard she’d gone to one of the European companies but then that was it.”

Max and Liza had had a thing for a while, Maddy remembered. Was he thinking about making contact with her, now that he was free to make decisions for himself once again and Maddy had turned up on his doorstep, reminding him of the past?

“She’s with the Nederlands Dans Theatre,” she said. “I heard she’d gotten married, actually.”

Max looked pleased rather than pissed. She decided he’d merely been curious about an old friend. For all she knew, he was involved with someone anyway. She’d seen no evidence that there was a woman in his life in his apartment, and he’d never mentioned a girlfriend in any of his e-mails, but that didn’t mean a thing. He was a good-looking man. And there was that whole Rex thing. A man who enjoyed sex as much as Max apparently wouldn’t go long without it.

She frowned. Since when had Max’s sex life been of any concern to her? Their friendship had always been just that—a friendship. Warm, loving, caring and totally free of any and all sexual attraction on either side, despite the fact that they were both heterosexuals with healthy sex drives. Without ever actually having talked about it, they had chosen to sacrifice the transient buzz of physical interest for the more enduring bond of friendship. Which was why Max remained one of her most treasured friends—she hadn’t screwed their relationship up by sleeping with him.

She lifted her glass to her lips and was surprised to find it was empty.

Maybe that was why she was wondering about things she didn’t normally wonder about where Max was concerned—too much wine, mixed in with the unsettling realization that her old friend had changed while she’d been dancing her heart out around the world.

He pushed himself to his feet. “Let me fix that for you.”

She watched him walk away, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. There was no hint of the lithe young dancer she’d once known in his sturdy man’s walk. He still moved lightly, but his feet didn’t automatically splay outward when he stopped in front of the counter, and there were no other indications that he’d once been one of the most promising, talented dancers she’d ever worked with.

Max had abandoned his career as a dancer to care for his father. Walked away just as his star was rising. At least she had had the chance to realize many of her dreams before Andrew and Dr. Hanson had written her off.

Her bleak thoughts must have been evident in her face when he returned because he shoved a plate of sliced, pâté-smeared baguette at her.

“Eat something, soak up that wine. I don’t want you messy drunk too soon,” he said.

“I’m off carbs,” she said before she could think. “Need to drop weight.”

How stupid was that? She didn’t need to drop weight anymore. She could eat herself to the size of a house if she wanted to.

She looked at Max, desperately seeking some magic cure for the hollow feeling inside her.

“How did you do it?” she asked in a small voice. “How did you walk away? Didn’t you miss it? Didn’t you need it?”

He slid the plate onto the table. There was sympathy in his eyes, and old pain.

“I had lots of distractions. Worry over Père, practical things to sort out. I didn’t have the time to think about it for a long while.”

“And then?”

“It was hard. Nothing feels like dancing. Nothing.”

She nodded, swallowing emotion. “It’s my life. I’ve given it everything, every hour of every day.”

“I know. It was one of the things I always admired about you. You were the most passionate dancer I knew.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to use past tense,” he said.

God, he was so perceptive. Always had been.

“I can’t believe it’s over. It’s too big, too much,” she said.

A heavy silence fell. She could feel Max trying to find something to say, something that would make it all right. But there was nothing he or anyone could say or do. The decision had been made.

She shook her head and shoulders, deliberately shaking off the grim mood that had gripped her.

“Tell me about you. About your dad and…Charlotte, right? That’s your sister’s name, isn’t it?”

They talked their way through the first bottle of wine and then the second. Maddy ate more than half of the bread and pâté and by ten was bleary-eyed with fatigue and alcohol.

“I need to go find a hotel,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re staying here.”

As soon as he said it, something inside her relaxed. She’d been hoping he would offer. She could still remember how she used to crawl into bed with him when it was cold and the heating wasn’t up to the task of fending off the drafts from the many, many cracks and gaps in their house. The smell of Max all around her, the warmth of his body next to hers. He used to pull her close and she’d fall asleep with her head on his shoulder.

Just the thought of feeling that safe again made her chest ache.

“You can have my bed, I’ll sack out on the couch,” he said, standing to clear the dishes.

She stared up at him.

“I don’t mind sharing with you. We used to sleep together all the time. Remember?” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

He hesitated a moment. “Sure. I’ll try not to hog the quilt. It’s been a while since I’ve shared with anyone.”

She smiled up at him, relieved. “You know, I’m glad I came. It was a bit weird at first, but that was only because we hadn’t seen each other for a while. And now it feels like the old days.”

He looked away, his focus distant.

“The old days. Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I have a shower first?” she asked.

“Of course not. I’ll get you a towel.”

He moved away, disappearing through a doorway to one side of the living area. Maddy began weaving her long hair into a braid to prevent it from getting wet.

She had no idea what tomorrow held. Even acknowledging that fact was a scary, scary thing for a dancer who had lived a life of strict self-discipline.

For a moment she got dizzy again and her heart began to pound. No rehearsal. No costume fittings. No classes. No gym or Pilates. What would she do with the time? God, what would she do with the rest of her life?

Max reappeared with a fluffy white towel and a fresh bar of soap.

“The bathroom’s pretty primitive, but it gets the job done,” he said.

The panic subsided as she looked into his clear gray eyes.

It would be all right. She was here with Max, and somehow she would find a way through this.

She stood and took the towel, then rested her hand on his forearm for a few seconds to feel the reassuring warmth of him.

Definitely she had done the right thing coming here, no matter how crazy it had seemed at first. Definitely.

MAX RAN A HAND ACROSS the bristle of his buzz cut as Maddy disappeared through the bathroom door.

Maddy Green. He couldn’t quite believe that she was in his apartment after all these years.

The shock of seeing her on his doorstep continued to resonate within him. It was almost as though thinking of her today at his father’s apartment had conjured her into his life.

She was still beautiful, with her long, rich brown hair and deep brown eyes. And being in the same room with her was still an experience in itself—her body vibrated with so much emotion and intensity, she was utterly compelling. It was one of the reasons she was such a joy to watch on stage—she had presence, star quality. She’d always drawn people to her.

He heard the shower come on and began collecting glasses and plates.

Her perfume hung in the air, something flowery and light. The same perfume she’d always worn.

Jesus. I still remember her perfume. How sappy is that?

A part of him was flattered that she’d thought of him in her hour of need. But he also wasn’t sure how he felt about her barreling back into his life.

Once, she’d been the center of his world. He’d devoted half his twenties to loving her.

The wine bottles clinked together loudly as they hit the bottom of the recycle bin. Max wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans.

His gut tightened as he thought of her news. Her career was over. Tough enough for someone like him to walk away from dancing. He’d only been in the early stages of his career. But Maddy had given her whole life to dance. She’d flown high—and the resulting fall was going to be long and painful.

He thought of her wounded look as she’d told him the doctor’s verdict. Despite his ambivalence about seeing her again, he wished he could take away her pain. The old feelings still had that much of a hold on him. He didn’t want to see her hurting.

He bounded up the stairs to the sleeping platform suspended above the kitchen zone. If she was staying in his bed, he needed to change the linen.

He was spreading a clean sheet across the mattress when she spoke from behind him.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Bachelor lifestyle.” He turned, and something primitive thumped deep in the pit of his belly.

She wore one of his T-shirts. The hem hit her at midthigh and her hair was loose around her shoulders. He could see the soft outline of her nipples through the well-worn fabric. She’d always been small in the breast department, like most dancers, but she was nicely rounded and very perky. His gaze dropped to her bare, finely muscled thighs. Was she wearing any underwear?

Damn.

“I borrowed a T-shirt. Hope that was okay?”

He shifted his attention back to the sheet and concentrated on making the crispest hospital corners in the history of mankind.

“Sure.”

“I’ve always wanted a loft,” she said, wandering to the rail to look down over the rest of the apartment.

If he looked up, he knew he’d have a great view of her ass and the backs of her slim thighs. He kept his gaze fixed where it was.

Eight years had passed. How could he still want her so badly?

He glanced toward the stairs. It was one thing to want to comfort her, but it was another thing entirely to desire her. He’d been down that road before and he knew it went nowhere.

He unfolded the top sheet and flicked it hard to send it ballooning out over the bed.

You don’t love her anymore. You stopped loving her years ago.

The thought sounded clear as a bell in his mind. Some of the tension left his shoulders. He was getting wound up about nothing. It was true—he’d gotten over Maddy long ago. Stopped thinking about her, fantasizing, wondering. It had literally been years since he’d been a slave to his feelings for her.

Which was reassuring, but didn’t quite explain the hard-on crowding his jeans.

She’s a woman. A gorgeous, almost-naked woman. And you spent the better part of three years fantasizing about her. That kind of sexual attraction doesn’t just die. But it doesn’t mean anything except that you’re horny, and she’s hot.

He looked at Maddy.

She was a beautiful, sexy woman. That was undeniable. Probably any guy would feel something down south at the sight of her in his big T-shirt and precious little else.

Okay. Good. He’d rationalized his hard-on to death. Now he had to deal with the minor problem of their sleeping arrangements. The last thing he wanted was for Maddy to realize he was hot for her. She’d come to him seeking solace, not sex.

“You know, I think you’d be much more comfortable if I slept on the couch,” he suggested casually. “I tend to toss and turn a lot. And you need to get over your jet lag.”

She turned from studying his apartment, a frown on her face.

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed, Max. If you’re worried about it, I’ll sleep on the couch,” she said.

“I’m not worried. I was just thinking of you.”

A little too much, as it turns out.

“Well, if I get to choose, I’d rather sleep with you. I don’t really want to be alone right now, you know?”

The lost look in her eyes sealed it for him.

“Fine. I’ll just go brush my teeth,” he said.

And try to find something to sleep in. Preferably something armor-plated.

By the time he’d brushed his teeth, discovered he had a choice of workout pants or boxer-briefs and opted—reluctantly—for the boxer-briefs since he could only imagine Maddy’s reaction if he rolled into bed wearing full sweats, ten minutes had passed. When he climbed to the sleeping platform, Maddy was curled up on one side of the bed, her eyes closed and her head pillowed on one hand.

She stirred as the mattress dipped under his weight.

“I thought you were never coming to bed.”

“Had to put the dog out and check on the kids,” he said.

She smiled faintly, her big eyes drowsy. Up close, he could see how fine and clear her skin was, as well as note the few endearing freckles that peppered her nose. She’d always hated them, calling them her bane and covering them every chance she got.

He smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“I’d forgotten about your bane.”

She pulled a face.

“Trust you to notice them.”

“They’re cute.”

“On a ten-year-old. Not on a prima ballerina. I bet Anna Pavlova didn’t have freckles.”

He saw the exact moment that she remembered, again, that she was no longer a prima ballerina. The light in her eyes dimmed and her full lips pressed together as though she was trying to contain something.

“Come here.”

He held out an arm and she shifted across the mattress until she was lying against his side, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest.

If he kept concentrating on the lost, bewildered look in her eyes, he figured he had a fair to middling chance of pulling this off without embarrassing either of them. She needed him. That was enough to push all other thoughts into the background.

“It’s going to be all right, Maddy,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“I should have been ready for this. All ballet dancers have to retire, I know that.” Her words were a whisper. “Is it so wrong and greedy to want a little more? Another year? Two?”

Max tightened his embrace. He could feel how tense she was, could feel the grief and confusion in her.

“It’ll be all right,” he repeated, smoothing a circle on her back with the palm of his hand.

He felt the tension leave her body after a few minutes as the wine and jet lag and emotion caught up with her. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing.

Knowing Maddy, she would probably be off home again tomorrow, her mad, impulsive trip having served the purpose of helping her express her grief and confusion. She had friends in Australia, a home. A life. She’d want to go back to the familiar as she tried to work out what happened next in the Maddy Green story.

She shifted in her sleep. As her perfume washed over him, a memory hit him. When they’d lived together, she’d left a scarf in his car after they’d gone to the movies one night. Rather than give it back to her, he’d hung on to it because it smelled of her perfume. A secret memento of Maddy.

Talk about besotted. He’d been so far gone it was a wonder the words hadn’t appeared over his head and followed him around: I am in love with Maddy Green.

Another memory: the night he’d decided to tell Maddy how he felt. It had taken months to screw up his courage enough to risk their friendship. He’d arranged candles and red roses and bought a bottle of French champagne. The kitchen of their crappy rental had looked like a bordello by the time he’d finished decking it out—a kid’s idea of a romantic scene, he recognized now. Then Maddy had come home, jumping out of her skin because she’d just been invited to join the Royal Ballet in London. He’d watched her unalloyed joy, untouched by regret for what she would be leaving behind. When she’d ducked off to call her mom, he’d quietly snuffed the candles and hidden the champagne in the back of the fridge and left his declaration unmade.

Thinking about it now, he could only thank God she’d been so preoccupied with her own news that she’d never thought to ask why she’d walked into the best little whorehouse in Sydney. She’d saved them both a painful and awkward conversation.

Maddy murmured in her sleep, her head moving on his shoulder restlessly. She rolled away from him, sprawling across half the bed.

He rolled the other way and resolutely closed his eyes. He had his first session with the life model he’d hired tomorrow. He needed to sleep, despite his circling thoughts and how aware he was of Maddy lying just a few feet away. He wasn’t a kid, held to ransom by his body and his emotions. If the past eight years had taught him anything, it was to grab sleep when he could find it.

HE WOKE TO FIND HIMSELF curled into Maddy’s back, her butt nestled into the cradle formed by his hips and thighs. One of his arms was wrapped around her torso.

He was painfully hard, his erection pressed against the roundness of her backside. So much for the protection of his boxer-briefs. His hand had somehow crept beneath her T-shirt to rest beneath the lower curve of her breasts. He could feel her ribs expand and contract as she breathed in and out.

She felt good. Small and sleek and feminine.

He knew he should back off, roll away before she woke and realized where she was and who he was and what was happening in his underwear.

He didn’t move. He wanted to flex his hips and press himself against her so badly it hurt. His whole body tensed as he imagined sliding his hand a few vital inches and cupping her breast. He could almost feel the softness of it in his palm.

Thanks to the notorious lack of privacy in dancers’ changing rooms, he’d seen Maddy in various states of undress over the years. She had small, pink nipples, and when she was cold they puckered into tight little raspberries.

He imagined plucking them, rolling them between his fingers. Pulling them into his mouth and tasting his fill of her.

His hard-on throbbed.

Man, oh man.

He closed his eyes. He had to back off. Now.

Maddy stirred, her body flexing in his embrace, her backside snuggling into his hips.

He’d never been so close to losing control in his life. His hand lifted from her torso. But instead of sliding it up and over her bare breasts, he twisted away from her warmth.

He slid to the side of the bed and sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Talk about close. Too close.

His underwear bulging, he made his way downstairs. The cold water of the shower hit him like an electric shock, but it took care of business below stairs very effectively.

He eyed himself in the mirror as he shaved. He wasn’t going to give himself a hard time for waking with an erection. It was pretty much an everyday occurrence, with or without a hot woman in his bed. He wasn’t even going to give himself grief for horning onto Maddy while she slept. He was only human, after all.

But those few moments of temptation…

They were a whole other ball game. His jaw tensed as he imagined Maddy’s reaction if she’d discovered him feeling her up. She’d come to him seeking comfort and understanding and he’d almost jumped her when she was at her most vulnerable.

Just as well she’d probably be going home tomorrow. He clearly couldn’t be trusted where she was concerned.

Dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he headed into the kitchen to make coffee. He worked as quietly as possible to fill the stovetop espresso maker. While he was waiting for it to brew, he cleared away some of the debris on the kitchen table. Which was when he saw the envelope icon flashing on his cell phone, indicating he had messages.

He clicked it open with his thumb, frowning when he saw it was a message from Gabriella, his life model.