Just About Sex (19 page)

“What if he knows it’s a bad idea and he should move past it?” Greene’s husky voice dropped lower, into a range that made her think of silk sheets, the slide of bare skin and secrets in the dark. “What if he can’t sleep and can’t work for thinking of this woman he can’t have?” He swallowed audibly. “What would you tell him?”

Simone couldn’t look away from his unsmiling dark eyes even though every second she stared at him put her a second closer to grabbing his hands and pressing them to her aching sex and breasts. Nameless emotions crossed his face, each more intense than the one before, and she felt them all in her quivering belly.

Her turbulent thoughts could only latch on to one clear idea: he was unhappy. He did not want this attraction between them any more than she did, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

Neither did she.

It came back to her then—why she was here, and what she had to tell him. They’d pretended long enough. She didn’t belong here in his beautiful house, spending time with his wonderful family, and it was past time for them to stop acting like she did.

Sickened at the thought of arguing with him again and then leaving, she felt suddenly drained and achy, as if she’d contracted the flu in the last three seconds. Pulling her napkin off her lap, she dabbled at her lips with a composure she didn’t feel, and then put the napkin on her plate.

“That’s easy,” she told him. “If a man can’t stop thinking about an unsuitable woman, he should just stop seeing her. Out of sight, out of mind. Don’t you agree?”

His lips twisted and his nostrils flared, as if listening to her made him nauseous. “Is it that easy?”

“It has to be.”

Again his lips twisted, this time into a sneering smile. “Well, then. I guess it’s back to business for us, huh?” Sliding to the edge of the booth, he stood and gestured to the hallway. “Let’s go to my office. I guess you have something to say to me.”

Looking away—it was getting more and more painful to meet his eyes when he looked at her as if he hated her—Simone put her hands on the cushion, meaning to press herself to her feet. But for the longest time she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t have the energy to move—or to fight.

“Simone?” he asked softly.

This time her mouth twisted, into what was probably a grimace. What was she doing? Dreaming silly little dreams and hoping hopes that would never in a million years see the light of day. What had happened to her? When would she get back on track and go back to being the Simone she knew and understood?

With a sudden burst of energy she surged to her feet and marched down the hall in front of him, ignoring the obvious disappointment on his face.

Alex steered her through the living room and into his office, closing the French door behind them. He watched her turn in a slow circle and take inventory of his bookshelves, desk and family photos on the end table. She picked up one that was about a thousand years old, of his parents smiling together in one of those awful posed Sears portraits, right before their marriage imploded.

After she’d studied the picture for several seconds, she turned to him. “Are these your parents?”

Swallowing hard, as if he could choke down the bitter taste of disappointment lodged in the back of his throat, he tried not to lose his temper.

If she wouldn’t stay, he wanted her to say what she’d come to say and get out. No more pretending she liked it here. No more pretending she wanted to get to know anything about him or his family. Enough was enough.

Reaching out, he meant to take the picture and put it back on the table in a civilized manner, but wound up snatching it.

She flinched.

“Yeah, my parents,” he said, slamming the stupid thing down so it was hidden behind other, bigger, photos. “The year before they split up when I was ten.” He flapped a hand at the sofa. “Why don’t you sit? You might as well be comfortable while you tell me to go to hell.”

She stayed where she was. “I want you to pull your blog. The press has found out about it.”

“I did.” He gestured wide, toward the door, hoping against hope she’d just leave before things got worse. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“You…you
did?
”

“Yes,” he said, enjoying the absolute astonishment on her face, knowing he’d done the right thing.

“When?”

“A few minutes ago. I couldn’t stand to read what people were writing any more.”

“What
people
were writing? What about what
you
wrote?” Her voice rose, both in octaves and volume. “How could you post that nonsense? You know I don’t hate men!”

“Don’t you?”

“No!”

“Well, someone’s screwed you up about sex.”

Something panicked and stricken flashed behind her eyes, and it took her a little too long to issue her denial. “I am
not
screwed up about sex!” Her tiny hands balled into tight, ineffectual fists by her sides. “And now someone’s claiming I’m
frigid!
”

Alex remembered the nasty entry. It’d been the straw that broke the camel’s back and he’d pulled the blog. The end. Thank God. Thinking about it, even now, made him furious. He’d stared at it, seething with each additional word until finally his vision grew hazy and red with anger. Not for the first time, he’d wished he could dive into his screen and swim through the cables to rip out the guts of the person who would write something like that about her. Who was this man who’d touched Simone and tried to force himself on her?

He’d kill him.

She made a small, distressed sound; her flushed cheeks screamed mortification. His jealous anger paled in comparison with her misery—misery he’d caused. Misery he’d regret for the rest of his life. How could he have ever thought an apology was so important?

“You’re not frigid, Simone.” Shame, for himself and the jerk who wrote this crap, made his voice hoarse.

“You sure?” Tears glistened bright in her eyes and one corner of her soft mouth lifted into a self-deprecating smile.

Yeah, he was sure. Hadn’t he felt her lips, eager and hungry under his? Hadn’t he heard her thrilling little whimpers of pleasure? Hadn’t she opened for him?

“I’m positive.”

Slightly mollified, apparently, she seemed to realize how close she was to him and moved away, to the other side of the desk.

“Who was that guy?” he demanded. “Who wrote that?”

Her startled gaze flew back to him and she hesitated. “Who says it’s true? Maybe someone made it up.”

Thinking of her near-hysteria as she unbuttoned her dress the other day, he chose his words with surgical precision. “You’re not frigid, bright eyes. But you’re afraid of sex and I want to know why. Tell me.
Please.
”

He’d said the wrong thing. In fact, judging from the way her face purpled, he couldn’t have said a more hurtful thing to her if he’d tried. Hurrying around the desk and reaching for her, he tried to undo whatever damage he’d inflicted.

“Simone—”

She twisted out of reach. “No!” she screeched. “Don’t you turn this around into what you think you know about me! I’m the psychologist here, not you!”

“Simone—”

Backing hastily away from him, she wrapped her arms around herself in a protective move that tore his heart out. She looked harsh and haggard, her features unbalanced, but she took a deep breath and seemed to pull herself together. “Thank you for pulling the blog, Greene,” she said sincerely. “I’m very sorry that my column embarrassed you. Please forgive me.”

So there was the pretty apology he’d wanted so badly. It meant nothing to him now. Absolutely nothing.
Forgive her?
He only prayed one day she’d forgive him.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “I don’t deserve it.”

Suddenly she looked exhausted, as if she was ready to collapse to the floor. “I’m going home now.”

“Don’t,” he cried, reaching for her arm, refusing to let her go.

Her fine brows knit.
“What?”

“Stay.” He pulled her closer. “I did the right thing, Simone. The blog is gone now. Will you give me a chance now? Give
us
a chance?”

Chapter 16

H
e hurried to make his case, to explain what he thought was obvious. “I pulled the blog, so you have no reason not to date me now—”

Her jaw dropped as if he’d suggested she should have sex with a horse. “No reason? What about the fact that you yourself have told me how you don’t like commitments? That you break the heart of every woman you date? Wasn’t that you?”

“Simone,” he said reasonably. “I’m not proposing marriage. I want to spend more time with you and I want you. You want me. It’s logical that we should get together. Why deny ourselves?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she furiously rubbed her forehead, as if to force his words to sink into her brain. When her eyes opened again, he saw a new fury in their gray depths. “No. I do not believe in casual sex—”

“There’s nothing casual about it!” he roared, his rising desperation making him crazy.

“—and I don’t trust you.”

His entire body clenched with frustration. He felt like someone had reached under his skin and tied all his muscles into tight knots. Why couldn’t he reach her? Why wouldn’t she listen to reason? What did he have to do to get through to her?

“P-please, Simone. I just made a huge gesture that shows you can trust me. There’s something between us. We have to explore it.”

At his stutter, her expression softened almost imperceptibly. She looked away and a hand fluttered up to worry with one side of her hair.

“You could have any woman you wanted. You don’t have to browbeat someone into it. Where’s your pride, Greene?”

“It seems to be gone,” he told her, the truth. She had something he needed even if he couldn’t identify it, and he wasn’t strong enough to let it go without a good fight. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “Will you have dinner with me? We can take things as slowly as you want.”

Her chin trembled and her gray eyes swam in tears he knew she was too proud to shed. He couldn’t remember when in his life he’d ever seen someone this unhappy.

This
scared.

“I can’t,” she said softly, and there was no mistaking the regret in her voice.

She turned and left and, just like that, he lost this battle to the private demons that tormented her and made her afraid of men and sex.

But the war wasn’t over yet.

Exhausted after her scene with Greene, Simone let herself into her darkened apartment, where the only illumination came from the blue glow of her computer screen. She climbed the stairs with what little energy she had left, and went to her desk without bothering to turn on any lights. It was after ten now, her normal bedtime, but sleep would be impossible tonight and it would be foolish to even try. Besides. She needed to read the e-mail she somehow knew would be waiting for her.

First, she confirmed that he’d really pulled the blog. Sure enough, when she tried to access the site, a message flashed:
This URL cannot be found.

She felt relief, but not nearly as much as she would have thought. She was more concerned with seeing if he’d e-mailed her again, or if he’d given up on her. But, no, there it was—a precious e-mail to her site. Posted within five minutes of when she’d left Greene’s house. Her heart pounded so powerfully she felt its beat in her throat.

Dear Dr. Simone:

I’m at my wits end. The woman I want more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else treats me like a leper—most of the time. The other times, though, she looks at me as if I hung the moon, and she seems to understand me more than almost anyone else does. The one time we kissed was more exciting than any sexual experience I’ve ever had. Don’t worry—I am not a stalker/wacko.

How can I figure out what these mixed messages mean before I lose my mind? I really care about this woman and I can’t give up—please help me.

—”A.G.” in Cincinnati

The words thrilled her beyond anything she could imagine, and that, strangely, made her feel worse. In the dark loneliness of her apartment it was easy to believe she’d gone crazy. What kind of maniac was she? Scared to be with Greene and scared to let him go. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Why couldn’t she just write him off and be done with it?

Why couldn’t she take a chance with him?

Despite all odds, her gut told her she could trust him. He’d pulled the blog before she apologized, and she knew if she hadn’t been so stubborn about saying she was sorry, he’d have pulled it long ago. She knew other things, too. That he would never publicly discuss what happened between them. That if she went to dinner with him, he would never force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

Maybe that was the problem—she couldn’t imagine anything she wouldn’t want to do with Greene. That would certainly explain the leaden, petrified feeling in the pit of her gut.

Greene terrified her.

More than the thought of losing her career. More than the thought of dying alone in this lousy apartment, as she surely would if she kept up like this—with only her doorman and maybe a cat or goldfish to mourn her loss. More than anything else she could think of, Greene scared her.

Or…was it the way Greene made her feel?

Like the most fascinating woman on the planet. A sexy, beautiful woman, worthy of being treasured. A woman he
needed.

When would she ever stop thinking about him?

Even now, her body burned for him. Even now, she wanted to go back to his house, curl up on the booth next to him, and watch his face scrunch with concentration as he put that monstrous puzzle together. Even now, she wanted to know everything about him: why his parents divorced, what it was like to stutter, what he put in his chocolate cake that made it so delicious.

But her fear controlled her.

Sitting down, she did something she’d never done before: deleted his e-mail without answering.

Late Thursday morning, Simone was back at the sunny Banker’s Club conference room, prepping for the final luncheon meeting before the auction, which was in two days. Thank goodness her duties were largely supervisory and ceremonial. Her hardworking subcommittees had done most—well, nearly all—of the planning.