Diana Palmer - Emmett

Emmett came back wearing a checked shirt and black boots. Being fully dressed made him feel better armored to talk to Miss Bossy in the kitchen.

“They’re getting up,” he muttered, sitting.

“I’ll warm everything when they get in here.” She busied herself washing the dishes and cleaning the sink until the boys came out of her room, dressed. Then she escaped into the bedroom and closed the door. Emmett’s stare had been provokingly intimate. She’d felt undressed in front of those knowing eyes and she wondered why he had suddenly become so disturbing to her.

Seeing him without his clothes had kindled something unfamiliar in her. She’d never been curious about men that way, even if she did daydream about love and marriage. But Emmett’s powerful shoulders and hair-roughened chest and flat stomach and long, muscular legs, along with his blatant masculinity, stuck in her mind like a vivid oil painting that she couldn’t cover up. He hadn’t even had a white streak across his hips. That was oddly sensual. If he sunbathed, he must do it as he slept: without anything on. He looked very much like one of those marble statues she’d seen photographs of, but he was even more thrilling to look at. She reproached herself for that thought.

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