Free Mine 'Til Monday by Ruby Laska Page B

her in very plain terms what women were to him. And he hadn’t excluded her from the list.
    “I think I’ve been in here long enough,” she said, nauseous with the emotions battling inside her. But somehow her limbs wouldn’t move to lift her out of the water.
    “Wait.” Mud stopped her with a word, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story and I had no right to go on that way.”
    “It’s okay, Mud. I’ve known you forever, remember? It’s not like you were telling me something I didn’t know.”
    “Dorothy...”
    Dorothy realized with a shock that he’d used her name. Her real name. Tentatively, haltingly.
    “I’m not the man for you, obviously. We both know that. But I am here for you. Let’s make this thing work. Give me another chance and I won’t let you down.”
    Dorothy nodded slowly. Her gestures felt wooden. Mud wanted another chance, to impress Miranda, of course, another chance to help her achieve her dearest goal of landing her dream job.
    And yet she couldn’t help wistfully thinking of another kind of second chance. A second chance for both of them to draw together, to light their bodies with the flame that simmered between them, to mend the damage their hearts had suffered. To love.
    But that wasn’t what Mud meant. Not at all. Dorothy reached for the side of the tub, closing her fingers on the tile, and pulled herself out of the water.
    The shock of the cool air on her skin jolted her back to her senses. Without a backward glance she reached for her towel and padded back into the cottage.
     
     
    Mud seized the chrome handles, squeezed his eyes shut and twisted with an almost savage yank. Needles of icy spray pelted his face, his shoulders, his torso as he let the full blast from the shower rain down on him.
    The Jacuzzi was way too empty without her. Mud stayed in the water only a few more minutes after she left, letting the gentle motion of the water rock his limbs. She’d beaten the tar out of him on the tennis court, and he’d pay dearly for it tomorrow when his muscles had a chance to contract overnight. She played a hell of a game. Consistent, unwavering, she gave every ball the same focused attention, never letting her concentration falter.
    She saw only the ball, the net, the arc of her racket as she returned every one of his shots. Mud, meanwhile, could barely keep his eyes off his opponent. Not that he’d stand a chance with her even if she hadn’t been wearing that little white thing, but he might have played slightly better...
    White cotton against that tanned skin. Mud groaned, then seized the bar of soap and began scrubbing his arms. Her shoulders were a deep bronze where the sun had kissed them; her legs an even copper, even where they disappeared under that tiny little excuse for a skirt. A white visor shielded her eyes from view, but he’d watched her mouth, parted slightly, her tongue now and then darting out to moisten her lips as she wound up for a serve.
    And the way she moved. Waiting for his return, she rested lightly on the balls of her feet, the muscles of her calves and thighs tensed and ready. And then she sprang into action, her arms gracefully arcing to prepare her shot, her compact body moving with such ease on the court that she seemed born to the game.
    She’d been like that the other night. As though she’d been born to make love with him. When she’d met his urgent need with her own, moving below him with her soft cries and splendid, arching rhythm, it had been as though every need he’d ever had was met. Every desire was satisfied, his emptiness filled. His heart, so long shielded, was warmed in the glow of their loving.
    He wanted that again. Wanted it now, and tonight, and tomorrow.
    But even as he scrubbed his skin raw he knew he couldn’t have her.
    Taylor men weren’t made to love women, not that way.
    Mud suddenly remembered a conversation he’d had with his father when he was