Free A Minute to Smile by Ruth Wind, Barbara Samuel Page A

sides, up to her shoulders.
    Esther lost herself in the glory of him, in the riotous feel of his curls clinging to her fingers, in the hard wall of his chest against the aching rise of her breasts, in the heat emanating from his body as he pressed into her urgently. He tasted of chocolate and wine and strawberries. She moved against him in unconscious invitation.
    When his hands began to explore the outer swell of her breasts, Esther came with a sudden crash to her senses. They were in her garden, she thought with embarrassment, and broke away from him urgently.
    For an instant, they stared at each other in stunned silence. His hair was mussed by her fingers and his changeable eyes were a dark, vivid turquoise. Her lips felt bruised, her knees shaky, and her body burned with his imprint. Shocked at the invitation she had issued—especially in light of the fact that she took great pains to avoid giving the wrong impression to men—she turned away, flushing painfully, and crossed her arms over her chest protectively. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
    Alexander growled in frustration and touched her shoulder. “Look at me.”
    She squeezed her eyes shut, keeping her head bent, remembering the wanton way she had moved against him, the provocative way she had rubbed lavender oil over her neck and chest. “I can’t,” she whispered.
    He put his palms on her shoulders. “Esther.”
    When she still would not turn, he let go of her. “All right. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
    She knew her manners were horrible, that she ought to turn and tell hint she had enjoyed his company, but when she’d been ready to tear her clothes off for him and make love amid the herbs, polite pleasantries seemed a bit absurd. She kept her face resolutely turned away, imagining over and over her hands reaching up to cover her flesh with lavender oil, then cocking her head...
    From the deep closet of her mind where the memories of her failed marriage were stored, she heard another voice, annoyed and tired:
Damn, Esther, all you ever want to do is jump into the sack.
    As she listened to the whispering sounds of Alexander retreating through the garden, she ached at that old voice and the shame it made her feel. Intellectually she knew John had been lashing out at her to cover the guilt he felt over his inability to remain faithful to her. Emotionally—well, emotions were always harder.
    Alexander’s voice reached her over the grass. “Good night, Esther.”
    She couldn’t let him leave on this note, she thought wildly. Abruptly she turned. “Alexander,” she said on a note of entreaty.
    He waited.
    But she had no idea of what she wanted to say. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” she said.
    “Tuesday it is,” he replied.
    Esther watched him go with a sinking feeling. This had all been a mistake, she thought. A great big mistake.

Chapter Five
    A lexander bolted awake in the dead still of the middle of the night. Next to him, Piwacket glared at having been disturbed, but settled back down as Alexander got up.
    He’d been dreaming of Esther. Not in any of the typically male ways his mind ordinarily conjured up in these circumstances. Instead, he’d dreamed of her standing on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea off the coast of England, her arms stretched out in jubilant celebration, her pale red hair tossing on a wild sea wind. It was night in his dream. A full moon gave her bare white shoulders a pearlescent wash and the wind pressed her dress against her lush, round figure.
    Staring out the window of his bedroom to the sleeping landscape, he had to smile at his imagination. Almost equal measures of Maxfield Parrish and Guinevere—a vision of Esther brimming with power and holy strength.
    He frowned. Not Guinevere, he decided—or a Maxfield Parrish painting, for that matter. Both were too wispy, too ethereal, too vague to be the robustly drawn Esther.
    Again the dream flashed in his mind—the