His Ultimate Temptation. Susan Crosby

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СКАЧАТЬ he shook his head. “This is Gabe’s fault. He’s the one who put us in this bind.”

      “We both know we’re never going to change Gabe, so we just have to deal with it.”

      “You’ve already forgiven him?”

      “I’m focusing on damage control. We can’t tell Erin that we couldn’t get along well enough to share the same space for a few days, Ben. We’ve always gone out of our way to be civil with each other. And it’s your turn. Your Christmas.”

      “It’s not easy having The Perfect Divorce, is it?”

      “It’s paid off well with Erin.” Leslie waited. He didn’t ask her to stay. Her throat ached, but she stood and forced herself to speak. “It’s settled, then.”

      After a few seconds he nodded.

      And that tiny flicker of hope that still burned in her heart died.

      

      He dreamed of a woman crying. Trying to soothe, he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her close, his lips brushing her soft and fragrant hair until she quieted. Her hands flattened against his back, then dragged down his body. She was naked. So was he. He angled his head to kiss her and she moaned, her tongue meeting his, her body moving silkily against him. Heat pooled low in his abdomen, throbbing, aching. She whispered his name—

      

      His eyes opened with a start. He struggled to catch his breath against the erotic images. Drenched in sweat, he tossed the bed covers aside and rubbed his face with his hands. So real. It had seemed so real.

      There was no doubt who he’d held in his dream. She lay sleeping in the next room. oblivious. He glanced at the clock—2:00 a.m.

      Needing a drink of water, he pulled on his sweatpants and headed for the kitchen, slowing as he reached the living room. Cocking his head, he listened, then he moved to the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out.

      He hadn’t dreamed it. Les was there, on the porch. Crying. And crying was a mild word for the sounds coming from her as she curled in a ball, an afghan wrapped around her, her face buried against her knees.

      Letting the curtain drop, Ben leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the window. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry. Not even the night they separated, when they’d parted with angry words.

      What could be this devastating? Certainly not a problem at work. In the almost decade she’d been with the department, she’d proven herself again and again, even to her father, third-generation S.F.P.D. Hugh Sullivan didn’t believe in women becoming police officers, much less detectives, a promotion Les had earned almost six months ago—Inspector Leslie O’Keefe, Domestic Violence Response Unit.

      Ben had never gotten used to her being a cop, especially when she was in full uniform, which was when the reality of her work hit him the hardest. But she was good at her job, that much he knew.

      So, what possibilities were left? A man? What else could cause tears to this extreme? Ben knew she’d been dating someone. He’d seen them sharing a candlelit dinner a couple of months back, the image popping into his head at odd moments since then. Now it flashed brilliantly.

      Another man had held her. Kissed her. Made love to her.

      Had he broken it off?

      Pushing aside the curtain again, he looked at her. She’d stopped crying and was just staring at the night, her shoulders hitching every few seconds, like Erin when her tears were spent. The difference was that Les wouldn’t want his comforting, his protection.

      Helpless, he returned to his bedroom, closing the door quietly, leaving her to her private misery.

      Two

      Ben heard the distant sound of humming and the sizzle of something frying. And he could smell—he sniffed the air—sautéing onions. Was there a more-mouth watering fragrance on earth? Erin must be anxious to get to the slopes.

      Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he followed the scents and sounds to the kitchen. It wasn’t his junior-chef daughter, however, who stood at the stove humming “Jingle Bells.” It was his ex-wife.

      He leaned against the door frame and watched her. She looked competent as she sliced mushrooms with a large chef’s knife, the rocking motion she used an indicator that this wasn’t the first time she’d handled such a utensil efficiently. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes...

      “You’re cooking,” he said finally, unable to hide his amazement.

      “Jingle Bells” faded away. She turned around, knife in hand, a smile on her face. “Good morning.”

      Lord, she looked good. She wore a long, loose, red cotton shirt over black leggings. He could see the ridges of her undershirt, scooping low. No bra. She hated bras, believing they were designed by a torturer bent on sadistic pleasure. Her breasts weren’t small, but not large, either. Perfectly formed, easily aroused. His gaze lingered, traveling down her long legs, stopping at her bare feet.

      He’d almost forgotten her other aversion—shoes were the second most torturous of man’s inventions. He hadn’t forgotten nibbling on her toes in a shared bath. The picture branded itself in his mind as clearly as if they were neck deep in bubbles right then, teasing each other. Who would’ve thought that toes could be erogenous zones?

      “Still not talkative in the morning, I see,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

      “When did you learn to cook?”

      “Erin’s been teaching me what you teach her,” she said, the pink in her cheeks deepening. “And then, of course, there was the matter of survival. How could any decent mother raise her child on a consistent diet of cereal and fast food? The amazing thing is, I kind of like to cook.”

      She seemed to retreat a little then. Embarrassed? Uncomfortable? He didn’t know.

      “I’m not a quarter as good as you, of course,” she continued. “But we’re eating healthy.”

      “You’ve put on a few pounds. You look good, Les.”

      She turned away to add the mushrooms to the onions. “I work out now. The pounds are muscle, I think.”

      “Need any help?” he asked, moving beside her at the stove.

      She made a quick sidestep and grabbed a bowl containing beaten eggs. “Nope. Thanks. Table’s already set. Fried potatoes are in the oven staying warm, along with some cranberry-and-nut muffins. I’m just going to cook the eggs. Coffee’s ready.”

      “Not waiting for Erin?”

      “She’ll be up.”

      “I didn’t hear any noise from the bedroom as I passed the door.”

      “She’ll wander in. Timing is everything.”

      He wondered how she could be so cheerful, after what he’d seen during the night. Especially when he could see the aftermath of tears in how fragile she СКАЧАТЬ