Page 89 of Girl Anonymous

Owen held her arm and patted her hand. “Then you’ll have the wedding ofmydreams, and when it’s over, all the choices of the world will be yours.”

CHAPTER 42

Maarja woke up to roll over, because she couldn’t roll over without pain and careful planning. As she moved, one inch at a time, she observed that the sun was setting, the room over Connor’s garage was both a spacious office and a spare bedroom, and someone behind her was snoring loudly. A slow glance over her shoulder showed Dante, naked and sprawled on his back, eyes closed, head tilted and mouth open.

He was bruised. He had a fat lip. He was cute.

That betraying thought made her wrench herself around, and groan as every joint protested.

He woke immediately and smoothly sat up, like being knocked around by his own stunt driving posed no problem forhismovements. “You okay?” he asked. “Whiplash? Need help to get up and take a piss?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He sighed as if much put upon. “Need help to get up andmake à le pipi?”

She wanted to make fun of him, but she was still too tired to fight.

Her restraint made him look carefully into her eyes. “You aren’t concussed, are you?”

“No, I’m not concussed.” She wore a soft denim shirt buttoned up enough to cover the essentials. The shirt was probably Owen’s. He’d probably helped her into it. She sort of remembered that. “Yes, please help me to my feet and I’ll use the facilities.” Which sounded so straitlaced after his blunt language.

He grasped her around the ribs, which interestingly enough weren’t bruised, and gently lifted her off the bed. Quite a change, since he was usually pressing down on a bed. As she hobbled toward the bathroom, he asked, “Are you going to be okay by yourself?”

“Yes!” She drew the line at that intimacy.

“When you come out, we’ll talk.” He shut the door behind her.

That sounded ominous.

She couldn’t read the man. Was he upset with her?

As she used the facilities, brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, and did a little light stretching, she tried to figure out how to reassure him about whatever he was perturbed about.

When she came out, he was barefoot, wearing a torn T-shirt and faded jeans that hugged his thighs so well she could see every muscle and sinew. Her mouth dried. He looked ready to play his role inThe Innocent Gardener and the Seductive Exchange Student.

And she needed to get a grip on her fantasies. They were spinning out of control and she was in no shape, physically, to tackle him. Instead she tackled the first uncomfortable subject. “You didn’t say anything when I said we should get legally married. I’m not trying to trap you.” She fiddled with the buttons on her shirt. “It doesn’t have to be forever, you know.”

“Maarja, I know. The number of times you’ve assured me that I don’t have to marry you and you don’t want to marry me and our union isn’t ordained by fate or blessed by love…could cause dents in the ego of a lesser man.” He sounded snappish and turned toward the door. “Owen asked if you want a bath in some herbal concoction he prepared to ease your aches. I’d say yes if I were you. You’ll hurt his feelings otherwise.”

He was definitely snappish, and her feet dragged as she made her way toward him. “If someone will be there to haul me out.”

“I’ll be there. I can see you without clothes without fucking you.”

“Withoutwantingto fuck me?” She laughed at him. She hadn’t had enough sleep, so it followed that he hadn’t had enough sleep. Probably that was the reason for his grim mood.

“Look. I can see you naked without fucking you because you’re hurting and it’s my fault.”

Dismayed, she protested, “Not your fault! Your driving saved us.”

He paid so little attention she might not have spoken. “But I can’t see you naked withoutwantingto fuck you, without thinking what it’s like when I’m inside you and all I want to do is come inside you and yet never finish, because it feels so damned good and so damned right. My skin against your skin, the way you clutch me, your voice when you get that little sob that means you’re on the edge… There’s never been a woman like that for me. Put on your robe—”

“Owen’s robe.”

“And I’ll help you to the guest bath with the soaker tub.”

He helped her slide into the robe, and he sounded impatient, but the words he said! Not poetry; that wasn’t Dante. Blunt, earthy, sexual. Life was precarious and all she could think of was…fucking. He made her want to pull him on top of her. He made her want to sit on him and ride him. She wanted to press her legs together to ease the ache. Instead, as he took her arm and walked her down the stairs, she was lasciviously ready and wondered if he had plans to join her in the tub. Hoped he had plans…

As hopes went, hers were unfulfilled.

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