Free Memories of Us by Linda Winfree Page B

figured out how to pretty it up yet, even with your law degree and silver tongue.”
    Annoyance shot through him, made him edgy. He released her but stepped between her and the door. “You think that’s all I’m interested in? Sex?”
    She arched an eyebrow. “Pretty much, yeah.” A harsh laugh bubbled from her throat. “And I can’t blame you for it. I put the damn idea in your head.”
    Put the idea in his head? He remembered how she’d seemed to know what he was thinking. A frisson moved down his spine. “What do you mean?”
    “With that stupid ‘I want you’ last night. So don’t worry, McMillian, I’m a big girl, plenty old enough for my wants not to hurt me. This little interlude or whatever is over—”
    “The hell it is.” He stepped forward, thighs brushing hers, and she stepped back, surprise flaring in her gaze before her legs collided with the desk. He leaned into her, resting both hands on the desk edge, either side of where she gripped the fine cherry wood.
    She sucked in a breath, chest rising near his. “Back off.”
    Uncertainty trembled in her voice. He eyed her, picking up unmistakable signs of attraction—the way her pupils dilated, the slight flare of her nostrils, the tip of her tongue flirting along her upper lip. “Is that really what you want?”
    Her lashes dipped and she worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. When she opened her eyes, he caught a glimpse of the bruised look he’d seen there the night before. A cold lump settled in his gut, wistfulness for something lost or carelessly thrown away curling through him.
    She straightened, staring him down. “I really need to go home and change if you expect me to make your meeting on time.”
    He stepped away, ran a hand over his hair. “Celia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
    “No.” A pensive smile curved her mouth and disappeared. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ll see you at nine.”
    Head high, she walked by him into the hallway.
    With the knot still holding residence in his belly, he closed his eyes. God, he was a stupid son of a bitch.

    Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
    Celia rested her forehead against the shower wall and pounded her fist on the tile. Stupid to tell him she wanted him. Stupid to let him get to her all over again. Stupid to be this wound up in a man.
    Any man.
    “Enough.” She lifted her head, water streaming over her, and wiped her face. And why the vague sense of disappointment? What had she expected? She’d dangled sex in front of a man. How was he supposed to react? Ask to get to know her better before she spread her legs for him? Jesus above, she was so incredibly stupid. Like a naïve virgin, expecting more.
    She didn’t want more.
    She swallowed, the humiliation twisting and striking in her belly like an angry snake. Was this what her mother had experienced, over and over and over again?
    When would she finally get the idea that men were all alike? A woman couldn’t trust them and they only wanted one thing. If her mother’s men hadn’t proved that, Turello certainly had. How many times did she have to have proof of that before it sank in?
    What was wrong with her? The worst part was, pressed against that desk, looking up into his hungry gaze, she’d still wanted him. Wanted to strip off his jacket and tie, peel away her jeans and let him have her, right there, screw the consequences. She closed her eyes.
    Damn it all.
    As far as her self-respect balance went, she was seriously overdrawn.
    She still had to sit in that meeting, listen to him, look at him. Face him. Tears welled and she sucked them down.
    Pushing her hair from her face with one hand, she turned off the water with the other. A handful of drops pattered onto the tile floor and she swung the door open, grabbed a towel and stepped out.
    Her phone was ringing.
    Hell, like she wanted to talk to anybody right now. With the towel wrapped around her dripping form, she hustled to the bedroom and grabbed the cordless