Free The Unwilling Bride by Jennifer Greene

fierce and frantic, as if she were just discovering gold and was afraid that dream would disappear in a puff of wind, a wrong breath, a beat of time.
    He was not going to disappear.
    He might burn up and explode, but positively he was not going to disappear.
    She bucked away from him suddenly, lifting her head, her drowsy eyes suddenly bolting wide and huge. Beyond the cool crunchy sound of the incredibly uncomfortable leather couch, there’d been no sound, no change, nothing he knew that had startled her. But the blaze in her soft brown eyes was kin to fear, sick-sad fear, and shock. Just as quickly, her whole posture turned rigid.
    “I don’t know how this happened,” she said desperately.
    He had no idea how to soothe her, because he had no idea what she needed soothing from. He touchedher cheek. “I kissed you, lyubeesh. You kissed me back. It’s okay. I don’t think this takes complicated analysis.”
    “But…I didn’t mean to. We were just watching Star Trek …” She glanced wildly at the TV. Star Trek was long over. Men dressed very foolishly like gorillas had taken over the screen. Her eyes whipped back to his, still looking dazed and confused. “Stefan, I thought we were friends.”
    “I hope this, too. I hope this strongly.”
    “I didn’t…I never…meant to lead you on.”
    “Lead me on?” It was a helluva time to have his knowledge of English fail him, and something about that phrase painted two flags of color on her cheeks.
    “Lead you on means to tease you.” She swallowed. “To make you think I was inviting a chance to sleep with you. To lead you to believe that. Unfairly.”
    That, he had no trouble understanding. Perhaps it was time to admit to a character flaw. “No one, lambchop, leads me anywhere. It is a problem I’ve had my whole life, that I listen to my own heart, my own conscience, and cannot seem to follow where anyone else is determined to so-called lead me.” He grappled again for more words, since those didn’t seem to be reassuring her worth carrots. “We neck, yes. But we did not get it on. We did not hit your sack. You still even have your socks on. No reason to be afraid, Paige.”
    “I’m not afraid,” she said sharply.
    Poker was no game for her; she was disastrous at fibbing. But he said gently, “I probably said wrong word. You know how bad I am with my struggling language. But I am relieved to hear that you’re not afraid of me.”
    “I’m not,” she said again.
    “Good. Because we would have to discuss this fear, if that were so. I would not harm you, not do anything you did not want, not ever deliberately scare you. A man would do that, in my eyes, is frog.”
    As if suddenly realizing she was still on his lap, she scrabbled off quickly…but she also suddenly chuckled.
    “I not mean anything funny,” he said quietly.
    “You didn’t say anything funny. You just said something wonderful. I agree with you, any man who would force a woman is a low-down frog. But Stefan, I was not afraid you would do that.”
    Low-down. He mentally stored that term, sure he would use it again now that he knew it made her smile. Temporarily, though, there seemed no recovering from how uncomfortable she was with him. Deliberately he glanced at his watch. “Good grief, I didn’t realize it was this late. I better go home, to work, and you must get back to work, too, lambchop.”
    “You couldn’t be more right.”
    Stefan left, but his assessment of the situation was the total opposite. Nothing was right. Something very serious, in fact, seemed to be wrong. She’d come apart in his arms as if she were a lover born for him. That kinship of spirits was rare and precious, and he could not believe he had mistaken her response.
    So she was afraid. Of something.
    Somehow he had to find a way to uncover whatever it was.

Five
    P aige locked herself in the workshop for an hour. Never mind that Stefan had totally broken her concentration. Until he’d come over—and