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  “Yes.” She captures me, holding me prisoner with those eyes. Her words are low and husky. “I know what you need, too.”

  WARNING, WARNING. My fantasy of being a starship captain rolls through my head. Raise shields, Commander Seven.

  I tear my gaze from hers and suck in a deep breath, hoping the flare of my nostrils doesn’t give away that she’s spoken my worst trigger phrase. Only she knows what her body needs, but I don’t know what mine needs? I’ve worked hard to take charge of my life, to overcome the submissive Lauren emotionally neglected by my mother and verbally beaten down by my father. Her showing up today made me feel a small bit of control in what seems to be developing between us. Now I feel like I’ve stepped into a steel-jawed trap. Before I can lash out or chew my leg off in a panic to escape—figuratively, of course—she steps back from her slouch against the truck, easing out of my personal space.

  “But I’m sure you’ve had a long day. Maybe you’d rather go home to have a long soak.” She takes another step back. “I can recommend several stretches after your bath.” Then she stops, and her gaze reaches for me as sure as an outstretched hand. “I had hoped to share a special reserve Jägermeister I brought back with you. My brother Harrison and Alex have no taste for anything but beer.” She tilts her head as though considering something. “I imagine your palate is quite refined.”

  She’s walking backward toward the rear of her truck to circle around to the driver’s side, and my defenses melt a little more with every step.

  Marsh smiles. “I’ll see you Monday.” She turns away, and an altogether different panic engulfs me.

  “Wait.” I limp a few cautious steps, then stop. I don’t trust myself to be within touching distance.

  Marsh faces me again, a spark of…something…lighting her eyes before her expression morphs into a well-schooled question.

  “I was…” I’m nearly choking on the rush of words trying to burst from my mouth, so I clear my throat and begin again. “Actually, before I performed that graceful stumble off the curb, I was about to ask if you’d like to have a drink with me so I can wind down.” I’m beginning to feel more like the best-selling writer and less like the inept equestrian. “My go-to drink after a long day of talking and signing books is Fireball, so Jägermeister sounds perfect.” To her credit, Marsh doesn’t point out that I’m inappropriately comparing a sow’s ear to a silk purse.

  “And?”

  A hesitant limp closer. She is a magnet that gently tugs at my iron will. “I think I pulled something in my groin.” Her gaze drops to where my fingers play along the juncture of my hip and thigh, and my crotch heats. “I’m not sure what would be good for that type of injury.”

  Her cheek twitches, her eyes never leaving my hand as I massage closer to the apex of my thighs. “Should I try to stretch out or just massage? Should I use ice or heat?” God, I’m wet. I don’t know who might break first.

  “Do you trust that I do know what you need?” Her words feel like an invitation this time, not a trigger.

  “I do,” I say as her gaze moves up to hold mine.

  We stare at each other for a long moment, and then she smiles and dips her chin in acceptance of my admission. “Then I’ll see you at the farm. Follow the drive that goes past the stables and up the hillside. My cottage is the one on the right. Parking is in the rear. I rarely use the front entrance.”

  I nod without hesitation and limp backward a few steps. “I’m right behind you,” I say, but she’s already climbing into her truck. Pain shoots down my leg when I spin to jump in my Volvo and follow. Crap. I can hardly walk. And it sure as hell isn’t because my leg is sore.

  Chapter Five

  Marsh’s cottage is everything I’ve imagined—immaculate, leather and wood—and lots of things I hadn’t—exquisite modern and abstract paintings that hint of sunsets, horses, and Southwest scenes. Her home is much larger than it appears from the outside. It’s hardly a cottage. More like a chalet—larger and better appointed than a simple cottage. Built-in shelves run from the hardwood floor to the cathedral ceiling, and between pieces of pottery and wood carvings are books and more books. Possibly more than a thousand books.

  She moves behind the bar of the open kitchen and brings out some glasses while I turn in a slow circle, taking in the space. She disappears into an adjacent room, and I glimpse her open suitcase on a large bed covered in a summer-weight down quilt of brown and green. The brief glance doesn’t allow me to decipher the pattern of it. When she emerges with the bottle of Jäger in hand, I look up and pretend I’m taking in the exposed beams overhead.

  “Your home is beautiful,” I say.

  “Thank you.” She places two delicate cut-glass tumblers on the counter and pours a scant quarter inch of the dark liquor in each, then sets one on the bar next to where I stand. Figuring it to be mine, I take the drink and inhale its pungent aroma of licorice and spices while Marsh continues preparing two more drinks in two taller highball glasses.

  “I didn’t realize you were such an avid reader,” I say. I scan the titles for some insight to this woman who has so fully captured my attention. And why has she?

  One of the pitfalls of being a writer is that you constantly dissect life as you pass through it—people, phrases, facial expressions, situations, etcetera—and catalog them in your head or in a notebook like parts of a puzzle you’ll piece together in a story later. Why I’m so drawn to Marsh, however, isn’t something I’m ready to dig into yet. Much less something that will ever find its way into one of my books.

  I mentally scold myself for drifting into my own head and refocus on the books. But I find few clues to my host because the titles range from mystery to classics to pulp fiction. I scan down the eye-level shelf, moving slowly, then nearly stumble when I spot several full shelves of books about sex—the history of sex, sex manuals, sex in literature, the psychology of sex, and erotica. Several of the books are obviously very old, while others appear new. Some of the erotica is lesbian and very current. I recognize a few of the titles, and heat flashes through me like I’m experiencing early menopause. God, what I’d give for something to fan myself with right now. Better yet, a walk-in freezer. I close my eyes and try to calm my runaway libido.

  I don’t have to see her. I can feel her moving behind me, almost touching me. The sweet breath on my neck is no longer a memory from the barn office. It’s real, and I’ve been caught perusing her erotica titles. Without thinking, I toss back the glass of Jägermeister in my hand. Its blend of licorice and spices is smooth and warm on my tongue, then sharp and hot. My throat tightens around the burn, and my eyes water. My effort to suck in a cooling breath produces a series of weak “hic” without the “up.” I cough, then wheeze a scant breath into my lungs.

  “Jesus. You don’t drink Jägermeister like Fireball.” Her arms come around me, and her hands press against my upper abdomen. “Close your eyes and breathe through your nose.”

  I fight down my panic at not being able to draw a full breath and close my eyes to concentrate on Marsh’s hands pressing just below my breasts.

  “That’s right. Your diaphragm has to relax.”

  I draw in a breath, but my chest tightens again when I realize I’m bent over with Marsh plastered against my back, her hips snug against mine as she loosens her arms and begins to gently massage my upper abdomen. My breathing hitches again, but it isn’t because of my paralyzed diaphragm this time. I will her hands to drop lower. Damn. This woman is administering first aid, and I’m thinking about jumping her bones.

  “You can’t toss back Jäger Reserve unless you are conditioned for it,” she says, releasing me and stepping back.

  I realize she’s already snatched the glass from me and placed the taller glass in my hand. Then she takes my other hand in hers. Her fingers are long and her hand cool from handling the ice she put in the taller glasses. I want to shove that hand down my pants whe
re I burn from desire rather than liqueur.

  “Sip that.” Marsh touches the glass she’s placed in my hand.

  Still unable to speak, I shake my head. Another gasp of air and I croak out the necessary words. “No more.”

  One corner of her mouth twitches with what I interpret as a smile, or maybe a smirk she’s holding back. Is she laughing at me? I want to be furious, but I can’t. The rosy tint of her neck and perfect ears gives her away. Our inadvertent, rather intimate position has affected her, too.

  “It’s only ice water,” she says, leading me to sit on the butter-soft leather sofa that faces the large fireplace.

  I groan when I sit as my thighs protest rather loudly to my brain. I forgot about those horse-sore muscles.

  “Okay. That’s it. Let’s get you into the treatment room.”

  “No-o-o. I just sat down. Don’t make me stand up so soon.” I offer my best pout to persuade her. “I’m comfortable here. Just for a few minutes.”

  She laughs, no longer holding back her amusement at my predicament…well, more antics than actual injury. “You’ll stiffen up if you sit there.”

  “I have to sit here. I can’t get up just yet.” I tug at her hand, encouraging her to sit with me. I maybe—but refuse to admit—bat my lashes a few times.

  Marsh’s eyes narrow and her expression turns hungry, then stern. She kneels next to my knees, her face close to mine. “We agreed that you would do exactly as I instruct. Are you changing your mind about our arrangement?” Her breath smells sweet from Jägermeister, and her blue eyes drill into mine.

  “No. I haven’t changed my mind.” I sway toward her. Another couple of inches and my lips will be on hers. I want so badly to taste them, to feel her tongue against mine.

  “Good. Because I have a waiting list of students requesting private lessons with me.”

  Really? I thought we were connecting…silently admitting a mutual attraction, and she’s getting all bossy on me again. I edge back. She’s kneeling too close for me to stand without pushing her away, so I scoot to the side a bit and steel myself. If I stand quickly, it shouldn’t hurt as much.

  “Marsh!” Is that me squealing? I would never. Shriek maybe. Before I can gather my courage to stand, Marsh slips one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, easily lifting me as she stands. I instinctively loop my arms around her neck and forget my intent to leave. She is so strong.

  Marsh carries me through a doorway opposite her bedroom. The therapy room is more like a sunroom adjacent to the deck that spans the rest of the home’s backside. Three of the walls are glass. Late afternoon is giving way to dusk.

  “Ingrid, attend.”

  Ingrid? Housekeeper? Girlfriend? Sex slave? A disembodied voice speaks in German, flowing over us from surround-sound speakers mounted in the corners of the room. I have a penchant for languages and speak Spanish, French, Italian, German, and a little Russian.

  “Good evening, Marsh. What do you desire?”

  Marsh replies in German. “Initiate privacy settings, and bring lights to eighty percent.”

  The glass walls turn opaque, while the interior lights embedded in the ceiling come on but stay dim. I open my mouth to demand Marsh put me down. I’m getting the hell out of here because I’m not into threesomes. Wait. I stop trying to wiggle out of her arms. I’m dizzy from ping-ponging back and forth between indignation and swoon. I steady my rattled brain and review Marsh’s tone and words. Initiate privacy settings.

  “Tell me that’s a computer and not some Fräulein you have watching us from a security booth somewhere.”

  She raises an eyebrow and lowers my legs so I can regain my feet. “You speak German?” Her perfect German heats me in places already too warm.

  “Ja.” I reluctantly release my hold around her neck but don’t step back. “I switched my major in college when I discovered I have an aptitude for languages”—I offer her my most cheeky smile—“and language professors.” I sway toward her, and she doesn’t move away. Our faces are inches apart, and her gaze drops to my lips. Yes. I want her to kiss me with that mouth that forms the Germanic guttural inflections so easily. “How about you?” She speaks English with a regional accent distinctive to parts of Virginia, so I doubt German is her native language.

  Marsh steps back, her eyes shuttering, her expression going from hungry to…well, unreadable. “I have business interests in Germany.” She points to the hot tub. “Twenty minutes of hydrotherapy.” She points across the room to a padded table. “Then your massage.”

  I stare as she turns away and begins to program the controls of the hot tub. She obviously considers my question sufficiently answered. I open my mouth to ask, to say…what? My writer brain kicks in.

  If character one said this, how would character two react? Okay. How do you want this scene to end? Both naked in the hot tub. What should character one say to restore their flirtation?

  Marsh activates the program she’s punched in, and my attention is drawn to the tub. I’m mesmerized by the roiling water that reflects my current mental machinations.

  What kind of business interests? Horses? Or something else? Her reaction seems too intense for business. It must be something personal. Old girlfriend? An ex? Perhaps a tragic riding accident? Should character one say nothing at all and pretend she didn’t notice character two’s withdrawal?

  “It’s ready for you.”

  I am so far into my head, I’m startled by her low burr in my ear. I stammer a protest. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

  Her touch to my shoulder is light, her fingertips tracing down my arm to clasp my hand. She leads me to the teak bench beside the stairs to get into the tub. “You don’t need a suit. You can leave your clothes on the bench.”

  I turn to face her. I don’t have a problem with stripping to get in the whirlpool…not if she is, too. “Are you planning to join me?”

  The blue of her eyes darkens, and hunger flashes across her face for an instant before she schools her expression into casual nonchalance again. “I’m going to get fresh towels and open a bottle of wine.”

  It isn’t a direct answer but does sound promising. Still, I hesitate. Marsh hasn’t moved. Is she waiting for me to undress? The idea thrills my submissive desires but challenges my hard-won sense of control. The two opposing emotions wrestle.

  “Are you shy?”

  “No.” My answer is a bit louder, more emphatic than I intend.

  Marsh moves back without taking her eyes from me. One step. Two steps, and then she stops. Her eyes say everything that hangs unspoken between us. She’s going to watch. How very brazen. I can leave. Or…I can stay. My choice. I choose to toe off my shoes but demurely turn my back to release the button on my pants and slide the zipper down to step out of them.

  I can feel her gaze like hands moving down my toned runner’s legs and catch a glimpse over my shoulder of her flared nostrils and parted lips. I congratulate myself for being right.

  Our heterosexual majority has conditioned women to believe that breasts are our greatest allure. But the weeks I’ve spent ringside during my niece’s lessons have revealed, without fail, that my tennis shorts drew Marsh’s glances like a horse to clover. Legs are her kryptonite.

  I take my time folding my pants before unbuttoning my blouse, unhooking the front closure on my bra, and letting them both slide from my shoulders, almost to my hips. I’m angled away from her now so she can see my left breast in profile, but a peek confirms that her eyes are glued by anticipation to another part of my physique. The big reveal is still hidden by the long tail of my silk shirt. I mentally applaud my choice of underwear, especially since I had no idea Marsh would show up at the bookstore.

  I thank the heavens for every mile I’ve run, then let the silk flow slowly, very slowly over the curve of my buttocks and black thong. No flat ass for me. Marsh’s face is a stoic mask, but
the flush that again reddens her neck and ears is her tell.

  My sex throbs and slicks. I’m no longer sure who has the upper hand as we play out our scene. I bend to pick up my blouse and bra, then feign nonchalance as I face her to slowly lower my thong down my legs to step out of it and toss all the clothing carelessly onto the bench.

  “You were going to open some wine?” I look from her to the door in an obvious but silent order for her to go do it.

  Marsh doesn’t move. “After I make sure you don’t slip when you get into the hot tub.” She moves to my side—closer than necessary—and holds out her hand to steady my foray into the steaming, swirling water. I accept her assistance, oddly turned on that she is fully clothed while I am completely naked. She waits until I settle. The water and the massaging jets feel wonderful. I intentionally moan as I sink into the liquid warmth, and Marsh’s slow blink confirms the effect of my sensuous sound. The tub is spacious enough for four but equipped with only two seats. Each seat has a cushioned headrest. Perfect.

  Marsh clears her throat. “Close your eyes and relax while I open the wine.”

  * * *

  I jerk awake. Damn. Disoriented for a moment, I tense and take in my unfamiliar surroundings, then relax when I see the glass of champagne and small plate of sushi on the ledge of the hot tub. That’s right. Marsh, Jägermeister, the undressing game. It all floods back. But the water is still now. Maybe the jets cutting off woke me. The lights are down, and the soothing cadence of a classical string quartet plays softly through speakers I guess are hidden in the walls or ceiling.

  Marsh is nowhere in sight. Maybe she put my plate down and went back to get one for herself. I stare at the sushi roll, realizing I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I should wait for her, but I’m starving and pop a slice of the roll into my mouth. The savory flavors flow over my tongue.

  My lecherous libido flashes an image of something else I’d like to put in my mouth. I hum, warmed at the thought. Where is she? I swallow the first bite and stuff a second into my mouth, then nearly choke on the champagne when movement in a far corner of the room draws my attention. I cough, then take a large swallow of the sparkling wine to wash down the rest of the food in my mouth.