There she had stayed most of the day, telling herself she needed the rest after her ordeal. Actually she had dreaded the moment of accountability to her conscience for what she had allowed to happen the night before. There was about half a cup of skim milk in the bottom of the carton. Sniffing it first to make sure it hadn't soured, she poured it over a bowl of Rice Krispies. They were so old, they barely had any snap, crackle, or pop left in them, but they would line her empty stomach.
She went into the living room, curled into a corner of her sofa, and reached for the TV's remote control. It was too late for the soaps and too early for the evening news. She was left with reruns of syndicated sitcoms.
In one, the male lead had dark blond hair and a mischievous, I'm-up-to-no-good grin. She quickly switched to another channel, unwilling to have anything remind her of the stranger she had spent the night with … been intimate with … made love with. The thought of it made her hand shake so badly she had to set the bowl of soggy cereal on the coffee table or risk spilling it. She covered her face with her cupped palms.
"Dear Lord," she moaned. What in the world had caused her to behave so irresponsibly? Sure, she could list a million excuses, starting with her emotional state yesterday and ending with the gifted way that man had kissed her when he drew her out of her dark loneliness and despair into his strong, warm arms.
"Don't think about it," she admonished herself, picking up the transmitter again and vigorously punching through the channel selector.
She had derided women who were susceptible to handsome faces, brawny physiques, and glib come-ons. She had thought she was smarter than that. She was far too intelligent, discerning, and discriminatory to fall for a pelt of gold-tipped chest hair and heavily lashed sky-blue eyes. His charm had melted her morals and feminist resolve. Lucky Tyler had succeeded in touching her where no other man ever had—her heart, her body.
Mortification made her whimper. To stifle the sound, she pressed her fingertips against her lips, then explored them tentatively, feeling the whisker burns. She had discovered those sweetly chafed places on her breasts, too, during her bath. They had brought back tantalizing sensations that swirled through her midsection.
When she had tried to sleep, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she recalled the tugging motions his mouth had made on her nipples. Her lower body contracted with a pleasurable ache whenever she remembered that first, sweet piercing of her flesh, then the strength and depth of his penetration.
Now she crossed her arms over her lower body and bent at the waist in the hopes of eradicating both the mental and physic
al recollections. They made her hot. They made her want. They made her ashamed.
Lust for a total stranger? In a cheap roadside motel? What a stupid thing to have done! How reckless! How wrong! How unlike her! But she hadn't exactly been herself yesterday, had she? Before one could pass judgment on her, one would have to understand the state of mind she'd been in twenty-four hours ago. One would have had to experience the same cruel rejection, traverse the same bleak corridors, feel the lingering sense of suffocation even after escaping those corridors.
One would have to experience the sense of futility and defeat she had felt upon learning that sometimes even making supreme sacrifices wasn't enough. Having reached the devastating realization that someone's love, or even gratitude, couldn't be won, she'd been at her lowest.
Enter Lucky Tyler—as gorgeous as an angel and as delightful as one of the devil's favored children. He'd been funny and sexy and needful.
Perhaps that had been his main attraction. He had needed her, fundamentally and simply, a man needing a woman. She had desperately needed to be needed. She had responded to his need as much as she had to the transporting caresses of his hands and mouth.
"Oh sure. Right," she muttered to herself impatiently. Rationalizations came a dime a dozen, and none was going to be sufficient justification. It had been a foolhardy thing to do, but she had done it. Now she had to come to terms with it.
Thank heaven she had had the foresight to use a phony name and pay in cash when she checked into the motel. He couldn't trace her. Could he? Had she overlooked something? In her haste to leave that morning had she left behind a clue that would lead him to her if he had a mind to find her?
No, she was almost sure she hadn't. As far as Mr. Lucky Tyler was concerned, she was totally anonymous. Only she would ever know about last night, and she would forget it.
"Starting now," she averred as she left the sofa. Giving the belt of her robe a swift tug, she moved into the spare bedroom that served as her office at home. She switched on the desk lamp and her word processor, slid on a pair of reading glasses, and sat down in front of the terminal.
Work had always been her salvation. Other people relied on alcohol, drugs, sports, sex, to forget their troubles and make life livable. For her—except for last night—nothing worked like work itself. Besides, she had a deadline. Once she got a clear screen on her computer, she referred to her notes and began typing. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. She wrote well into the night, as though the devil were after her … and rapidly closing in.
* * *
Chapter 6
Susan Young descended the stairs slowly, looking wounded, her mouth sulky. From her appearance, Lucky guessed that she had been crying most of the day, or at least wanted him to think so. Her eyes were watery and red. The tip of her nose had been rubbed raw by tissues. Her complexion was splotchy.
In lieu of hello she said, "Mama advised me not to speak to you." She halted on the third stair from the bottom.
Seeing a potential way out of this unwelcome encounter, Lucky asked solicitously, "Would another time be better?"
"No, it would not!" she replied tartly. "We've got a lot to talk about, Mr. Tyler."
Drat, he thought.
She descended the last three steps and swept past him into the formal living room. It smelled sickeningly of furniture polish. Afternoon sunlight was shining through the windows, dappling the pale blue carpet with patterns of light and shadow. It was a gorgeous day. Lucky wished he were outside enjoying it. He wished he were anywhere but where he was—in the Youngs' formidable living room being subjected to Susan's hurt, chastising glare.
"Well?" she demanded imperiously the moment she had closed the double doors.
"What can I say? I did something terribly stupid, and got caught."
His demeanor was self-deprecating. He'd learned early on that the only way to handle a woman scorned was to assume all the blame and be as honest as was prudent. There had been those occasions, however, when honesty had been suspended because either castration or his life were at stake. He didn't think Susan's wrath had reached that level of danger … yet.