Any Man Of Mine: A Waiting Game / A Loving Arrangement. Diana Palmer

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      “You’re fouling up all my plans,” she grumbled, her eyes spitting fire at him.

      “You’re not doing mine a hell of a lot of good, either,” he replied, his broad face harder than she’d seen it in weeks.

      “I am not, repeat not, going back to New York until I’ve renovated this house and given my party,” she pouted. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

      “I don’t smoke a pipe,” he pointed out.

      She shifted restlessly. “What do you want?” she moaned. “What are you trying to do, Nicholas?”

      “Maybe I’m trying to get you to stop running from me. Have you ever thought about that?” he asked thoughtfully.

      She gaped at him. “But I’ve never run from you,” she protested.

      He searched her face with slow, darkening eyes. “Honey, you’ve done little else since the day we met. You’ll let me just so close before you start backing away.”

      “Do I?”

      He turned away, reaching for his cigarettes and lighter. He lit up before he turned back, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke. “What are you afraid of, Keena? Is sex such an ordeal for you that you’ve given it up, or are you afraid that I’d be too rough with you? Despite the way you seem to have a knack for making my temper boil, Keena, believe me, I’m not an impatient lover.”

      “I’m not...not afraid of you like that,” she replied. The conversation was getting rapidly out of hand. “Don’t rush me, Nicholas.”

      “Rush you? For God’s sake!” he ground out, his dark eyes splintering. “It’s been six years!”

      “The world is full of women,” she growled, feeling a surge of sheer fury as she remembered his mistress. “If all you need is to satisfy a passing urge, I’m sure you could pick up someone in town.”

      He looked as if she’d slapped him in the face, and for just an instant he tensed as if he was considering retaliation. She tensed, too, ready to run at the first movement of that tall, overpowering form. But all at once the tension seemed to drain out of him. He turned around and moved to the bed, pausing to pick up the white alarm clock and set it.

      “We’ve been friends for a long time,” he said quietly. “I thought you knew me well enough to realize that I could never think of you that way.”

      She felt shame like a fog surrounding her, and she had the grace to flush. “I didn’t mean that,” she told him. “Nick, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. I haven’t meant half of what I’ve said. I just... I think I’m rattled, that’s all,” she finished, and ran a smoothing hand over her hair. “Don’t hate me.”

      “That’s not likely.” He unfastened the robe and threw it on a chair, throwing back the covers to ease himself under them. The sheet and coverlet covered him to the waist, leaving his broad, hair-rough chest and muscular arms bare. “Turn out the light on your way out, will you, honey?” He yawned. “God, I’m tired.”

      She studied him lying there, so strong and imposing, and she wanted more than anything to climb into bed with him and be held and soothed and comforted. It had been a horrible day, and the time she’d been away from him had dragged on forever. And now here he was, and all she could do was scream at him. James Harris, the party, revenge, all of it took a backseat to the things she’d said to Nicholas tonight, and she hated herself for every single one of them.

      “Nick...” she whispered, her lips trembling, her eyes misting with unshed tears.

      He studied her sad little face across the room, and suddenly held out his arms. “Come here, little fox,” he said deeply.

      She all but ran to him, hurting with all the pent-up emotions of a lifetime, like a little wounded thing seeking a gentle hand.

      He pulled her down beside him, with the cover between them, and held her close and warm in his bare arms. Under her moist cheek she could feel the crisp dark hair and warm muscles. She could smell soap and cologne mingling with the scent of the man himself and she’d never felt so safe, so utterly safe.

      “I’ve been horrible, haven’t I?” she whimpered softly. Her small fist collided gently with his chest. “Oh, Nick, what’s the matter with me?” she wailed.

      “The shell’s cracking loose, that’s all,” he murmured comfortingly, one big hand idly caressing on her back through the softness of the velvet.

      “Shell?”

      “The one you’ve worn around you for the past six years,” he explained. “There have been men in your life, but even if you’ve been with them physically, you’ve managed somehow to remain untouched emotionally.”

      She opened her eyes and stared across his broad chest to the chair against the wall. “Nick...”

      “Hmmm?” he murmured.

      She licked her lips, hesitating over the question.

      He tugged at a short lock of hair. “There’s nothing you can’t ask me. What is it?”

      “Would it matter if I’d been with other men?”

      “To me?” he asked casually. “No. Why?”

      She couldn’t explain the question to herself, much less to him. It had been important to know the answer, despite the fact that there had been only one man in her life in any intimate sense.

      “You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” he commented, his voice tender in the silence of the room.

      She raised her head and propped herself up beside him, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the rough hair on his chest.

      “I can’t figure you out,” she replied gently. Her eyes searched his, looking but not finding anything out of the ordinary in them. Only a slight dilation of the pupils disclosed any emotion at all.

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