know how this happened, either. One minute he was shampooing my hair, and I was standing on my tiptoes, reaching up to shampoo his. He playfully flicked some lather on my nose, and in retaliation, I smacked his butt really hard. He grabbed me, and two seconds later, he was shoving me against the shower’s steamy glass, murmuring words of desire against my hot, rosy skin as he made love to me beneath the scorching stream of shooting water.
I shivered, remembering. Even now, as he held me in the morning light, Edward was looking at me hungrily, and I felt my body respond.
Had he been watching me sleep, waiting for me to wake? I hoped not. I’d been dreaming about him. We’d been having a summer picnic in the garden. The sky was blue, the sun warm, and flowers were in bloom around us. He’d held me close on the blanket, and when I whispered that I loved him, his dark blue eyes had lit up. I love you, Diana, he’d said.
What if I’d been talking in my sleep? He would freak out if he knew. “I hope I didn’t wake you up by snoring or, er...” I blushed. “...talking in my sleep.”
“No,” Edward growled, rolling me beneath him. It seemed he hadn’t woken me to talk. “You slept like the dead. Another two seconds and you would have woken up with me inside you.”
“It doesn’t sound like the worst way to—” He covered my mouth with his own, thrusting smoothly inside me. He was as hard as if we hadn’t made love three times already; I was as wet as if he hadn’t brought me to aching, explosive climax again and again.
If the other times had been passionate or rough, now, as he took me in the golden light of morning, he was tender, even gentle. How could we still be so unsatiated, so hungry for more? I grasped his shoulders tight, digging into his skin with my fingertips, holding my breath as he pushed deeper into me, until six thrusts later we were both sweaty and crying out and clutching each other.
He pulled me close, kissing my temple.
“What you do to me...” he whispered against my sweaty skin, and my soul expanded into every inch of my body. I sighed, closing my eyes and pressing my cheek against his warm, hard-muscled chest. It felt so right to be in his arms. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about the past or the future. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
It was after noon by the time we woke again. “Good afternoon,” he whispered now, smiling as he kissed me.
“Good afternoon.” I sighed, then stretched across the bed. “I hate to get up.”
“So don’t.”
“I’m hungry.” I smiled, then my smile faltered. “And I have a lot to pack.”
“Pack?” He frowned. “For what?”
“For home.”
“You’re leaving?”
He sounded indignant. An unwilling laugh lifted to my lips. “You fired me.”
“Ah.” Relaxing, Edward looked thoughtful. “Fired is such a strong word. Made redundant is more accurate. By your own hard work, I might add.” He tilted his head. “Now, you’re probably asking yourself, what kind of heartless bastard would cut someone out of a job right before Christmas?”
“Um, you?”
He laughed. “You’ve been paid in full. While you were on your walk yesterday, I had my secretary deposit your entire promised salary—the whole year’s worth.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He looked amused. “You really should pay more attention to your bank account.”
“You’re right,” I said. Tell me something I didn’t know. “Well. Um. Thanks. I guess I’ll go pack...”
“Don’t go.” He grabbed my wrist. His voice was low. “I want you to stay with me. Through the New Year, at the very least. Not as my employee, but as my—”
“Yes,” I blurted out.
Snorting, he lifted a dark eyebrow. “I could have said slave.”
I gave him a crooked grin. “Then definitely yes.”
“Thank God,” he said softly, smoothing tendrils of hair off my face. “One last week of holiday,” his lips turned downward, “before I go back to London.”
My stomach growled. Standing up, I walked naked across the room and picked up my silk robe. I tied it around me. “What’s in London?”
“My job.”
“You really have to go?”
“I’ve been gone too long. My cousin Rupert is trying to convince the shareholders he should take my place.”
“Sounds like a jerk.”
“He’s a St. Cyr.”
“Then definitely a jerk,” I said teasingly, but he didn’t smile back. I hesitated. “But why does it matter?”
“What do you mean?”
I motioned around the bedroom. “You seem to have plenty of money. I figured being CEO of the family company was a sort of honorary title, you know....”
“Like a sinecure—getting paid for doing nothing?”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you. But you don’t seem keen to get back there. If you don’t need the money, there’s nothing forcing you to do it, is there?”
He scowled. “St. Cyr Global was started by my great-grandfather. I’m the largest shareholder. I have a responsibility....”
“I get it,” I said, but I didn’t.
Edward looked away. “Come on. Let’s see about breakfast.”
Mrs. MacWhirter was making bread in the kitchen, and it smelled heavenly. The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose almost all the way to her white hair when she saw me still in my robe, with Edward looking tousled in a T-shirt and sweatpants that clung to his chiseled body. There could be no doubt about what we’d been up to. But she recovered quickly when Edward meekly asked if we’d missed any chance of breakfast.
“Missed? I’ll say not! With everything?”
“Black tea for me, if you please, Mrs. MacWhirter. And extra tomatoes.”
“Of course. And Miss Maywood?”
I found it impossible to return her gaze without blushing. “Everything, please. With extra toast and jam. Coffee with cream and sugar. Please, thank you, if you don’t mind, you’re so very kind....”
Edward grabbed my hand, stopping me before I could babble any further.
“We’ll be in the tea room,” he said firmly, and drew me away. A moment later, we were in a bright room with big windows facing the garden and beyond that, the sea. A brisk fire was going. I blinked when I saw the rose-colored carpet, the chintz pattern of the wallpaper.
“Whose room is this? You can’t have designed this.”
His jaw tightened. “It was my mother’s.”
He’d never mentioned her before. “Does she visit often?”
“She died last year,” he said shortly.
“I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t be. As far as I’m concerned, she died long ago. She left when I was a child. Ran off with an Argentinian polo player when I was ten.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
It was a good reminder of the lesson I learned as a child, he’d said. Never depend on anyone.
He shrugged. “Dad worked all the time, and traveled overseas. Even when he was home, he had a mean streak a mile wide.” He gave me a humorless smile. “The St. Cyr trait, as you said.”