Ann Major - Shameless

“How come you left Vegas in such a hurry?”

Her eyes widened in blank shock. The last thing she could tell him was the truth. He’d really despise her. Oh, why hadn’t she checked into a motel and freshened up? Why hadn’t she given herself a day to get her story together, a day to buy clothes and makeup?

Because unlike him, she wasn’t a planner. Besides, she’d been too hysterical.

Instantly his silver eyes went opaque, and he met hers unsmilingly as he waited for her answer that didn’t come. Suspicious, his carved face was a mask of military, tough-guy expressionlessness. Not by so much as a flicker of a black eyelash did he reveal that the sight of her in his hall looking weak and helpless and yet sexy and wild in a slinky black gown ripped to the thigh might disturb him.

His hard gaze returned to her breasts. The fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off her body made her feel a little better. Even though she felt shyly nervous that he still found her desirable—she still felt better. Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t here for sex or love or anything like that. She didn’t want him wanting her. She didn’t!

Liar.

“I must look a terrible mess,” she said with an air of innocence that was completely false. Idly she fluffed her hair. “You look good,” was all he said. But his voice was bitter.

He stepped into the light and she saw the deep cut on his cheek.

“You’re hurt.” She slid across the hall and raised her hand, intending to touch him.

“It’s nothing,” he snapped.

Still, she came closer. Before he could move, she had her hand on the hot, rough skin near the ugly wound, her fingers tracing its edges tenderly.

“Oh, Phillip….” There were tears in her voice. “What happened?”

“Don’t!”

“Did you go off on some silly mission again?” she asked.

“As if you give a damn— I could’ve died for all you’d care.”

She had cared, but better not to go there, she thought.

He grabbed her hand, intending to push her away, but the minute he touched her, she went strangely breathless. So did he.

Their eyes met, locked. On a raw, tortured note he whispered her name and she whispered his back, her voice as tremulous and lost as his.

Then it was as if they were caught in a spell. Some power outside of them and yet a part of them took over. Before she could stop herself, or he could push her away, she flung herself toward his hard, powerful body. Then she was in his arms, hugging him, clinging with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed.

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