Desiree Holt

In the soft light from the lamps he’d turned on, she got a much better look than she had at the Emersons. Now she could see the amazing silver color of his eyes, the thick, sooty lashes that framed them and the hint of mystery reflected in them. The slightly rough planes of his face and the thin white scar that ran along the left edge of his jaw—just enough to keep him from being too handsome and diluting his potent sexual appeal.

In his black cotton V-neck sweater and black jeans he looked like a sensual devil come to draw her into the unknown. She barely controlled the shiver that skittered along her spine.

He leaned gracefully into the corner of the couch, one arm along the back. “So, Molly Gerard, I’m curious as to why you think Daffy Dina has you on her ‘pity’ list.”

Molly dropped her eyes to the drink she was holding. “A story too sad to bore you with. And far too embarrassing.”

“I don’t think so.” His voice was pitched low and seductive. “Nothing about you could be boring. And you never have to be embarrassed in front of me. Ever.” He took a sip of his drink. “So tell me, Molly, what’s the problem? You mentioned no husband. Widowed or divorced?”

She sighed and swallowed some of the brandy, hoping the burning liquor traveling down her throat would give her courage. For whatever. She let out a slow breath. “Divorced. Publicly and humiliatingly.” Her short laugh held no humor. “Traded in for a buxom blonde half my age. The most effective way to point out my glaring shortcomings as a wife, I guess.”

She’d hardly noticed that he’d moved closer to her in tiny increments until his hand reached out and gently twisted one of her gold-streaked curls around an index finger.

“Age is relative, Molly. There are women in their twenties who I wouldn’t take to a dog show and women in their forties that I’d give my left nut to drag into the bedroom.”

Her laugh sounded false even to herself. “Pardon me for being crass but looking at you I’m sure you don’t need to resort to old ladies to fill your time.”

“You’re right.” He had inched even closer. “I don’t have to resort to anything. When I see a beautiful, sexy woman, I don’t ask for her birth certificate. Age isn’t what counts. Do you know the minute I saw you, my cock got so hard I wasn’t sure I could walk?”

Molly felt her face heat. She was sure she was blushing. Craig had never spoken so blatantly to her. Maybe that was the problem.

“I’m forty-five years old, Nick. I’m a refugee from a bad marriage and I think any high school teen knows more about sex than I do.”

“Is that so?” He was close enough now to take her glass from nerveless fingers and set it on the table next to his. “What a blessing. That just means I don’t have to worry about measuring up to anyone else’s performance.”