The Best Is Yet to Come. Diana Palmer

and on. He didn’t speak to her until the bidding was over and they were walking back to the truck.

      “You’ve gone quiet,” he remarked, his hands toying with his coffee cup.

      She stared down at her own feet while she waited. “It hurts to think back,” she confessed. “I’d pushed it to the back of my mind for so long....”

      “So had I,” he said shortly. He took a long drink from the cup. “I misread the whole damned situation. I should have known what an innocent you were.”

      “Considering the way I gave in, I couldn’t blame you for thinking what you did,” she said miserably.

      “Couldn’t you?” he asked angrily.

      Her eyes dropped and embarrassment washed over her in waves. “I didn’t even try to stop you at first,” she said in a subdued tone, because it would do no good to lie anymore. “I felt like a streetwalker.”

      “I’m sorry about that.” He glanced toward her with bitter regret in his eyes. “You had no reason to feel ashamed.”

      “You avoided me afterward,” she said, her face showing traces of remembered pain.

      “I felt that I had to,” he replied, his voice quiet. “I handled it badly. But that taste of you gave me some problems,” he murmured, laughing bitterly.

      “I learned my lesson,” she mused, staring straight ahead as other people milled around in the darkness. “It cured me of any wanton tendencies.”

      He stiffened. “You weren’t wanton,” he said curtly. “You were young and curious, that’s all.”

      “Do you think that makes it any less embarrassing?” she asked wearily.

      He stopped and looked down at her, his eyes hidden under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “We should have talked about it years ago,” he said. “I could have told you that I wanted you badly enough to forget your age, that I stayed away because you were a temptation I couldn’t have resisted. Does that make it less painful?”

      She hesitated. “You...wanted me?” she whispered.

      “Oh, yes,” he replied grimly. “I wanted you. But you were eighteen, Ivy, and I was twenty-eight.”

      She searched his eyes, her body still, waiting. “I wanted you, too,” she confessed softly.

      His jaw tautened. “Do you still?” he asked bluntly.

      She averted her face, tightening her arms across her chest. “I can’t feel anything right now,” she said evasively. “Not with Ben lying dead because of me.”

      “What do you mean, because of you?”

      She closed her eyes. “I failed him,” she whispered huskily. “I could never...” Her shoulders rose and fell jerkily, and she stared in anguish toward the horizon. “I wasn’t a good wife.”

      He let out his breath in a long, slow rush. He’d never considered that she might feel guilt. He scowled as he looked down at her, wishing he knew more about her marriage, about her feelings for her husband.

      She uncrossed her arms and shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her skirt. “It’s all over now, anyway,” she said. “As you said, I have to start living again.”

      “Yes.” He had to drag his eyes away from her face. Looking at her was a taste of heaven. He lit a cigarette. Ivy strung out his nerves; just being near her made him vibrate like a taut cord. “Why don’t you get a job?”

      She laughed. “Here we go again.”

      “That’s right. Sitting around brooding is not good for you.” He stopped and turned toward her. “Come to work for me. My personal assistant quit last month and I haven’t found anyone yet to replace her. I have to have someone who can travel with me, and most especially, someone I can trust not to gossip about company business. You and I have known each other for a long time. I think we could get along.”

      The thought tempted her. But the anguish of being that near him made her hesitate. She loved him. How would it be to work for him, knowing that all he felt was a casual affection with lingering traces of a long-buried desire?