the moment he moved out of his father’s house, Ben had set the standard for his self-worth and, while he missed his dad, being around him was a painful reminder of a past he could no longer be proud of. It was simply easier to avoid him. He didn’t have to worry about avoiding his mother. She’d cut and run shortly after he’d asked her if Morgana’s accusations were true. He hadn’t heard from her since. God, he hated this, hated thinking about any of it.
“So,” Ben said expectantly, both equally eager and reluctant to get this over with. “What can I do for you?”
IT’S NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO for me, but what you can do to me, April thought, silently agonizing over making the decision to come here.
What the hell had she been thinking? Why in God’s name had she let Frankie talk her into this ridiculous plan? Yes, she desperately needed an orgasm, and yes, if there was any man capable of doing it for her on the planet, then it was the one sitting in front of her. Sweet mercy, but he was gorgeous. Every bit as perfect—and then some—as what she remembered. If Ben Hayes was sexy in the smoky low light of a semicrowded pub, it was nothing compared to the hot-factor he emitted in the natural morning luminance of his own element.
Creamy plaster walls, detailed oak molding and hardwood floors, heavy antiques dressed in rich fabrics and silky fringe, and beautiful framed artwork—his own, of course—rounded out a room that bespoke moneyed New Orleans style, mysterious, seductive and alluring. Seated behind a beautiful inlaid mahogany twin-pedestal desk, Ben looked every bit as mysterious, seductive and alluring as the city he called home. Even the sensual curve of his wicked mouth echoed the Big Easy’s dark charm.
His almost-black hair was tousled, pushed carelessly away from his face and guarded golden eyes studied her with a calmness that was as arousing as it was unsettling. April let go of a shaky breath.
Quite honestly, she hadn’t thought past coming here. If she had, she knew she would have never made the journey to his office, would have never found the nerve to cross his threshold. The question was, where the hell was she going to find the nerve to ask for his help? Or should she even ask for that matter? As Frankie had so keenly pointed out last week, he’d been staring a hole through her for months, silently seducing her with those mesmerizing heavy-lidded eyes. She smothered a snort. Short of marking his territory by peeing on her bar stool, he couldn’t have possibly made his interest any more plain. And yet, here he sat, seemingly bemused by her presence.
Irritation surfaced and galvanized her. He wanted her, too, dammit. She needed to remember that. Rather than diving right into the heart of the matter, though, she decided to try a few pleasantries first. “Before we get to what you can do for me, tell me how you’ve been. I’ve seen you at the pub, but we haven’t had a chance to talk.”
A tactful lie. They could have talked at any time, if either one of them had made the move and, given the way they’d parted, she firmly believed he was the one who should have taken that step. It was a courtesy he owed her. After all, he’d broken her heart.
The small rebuke hit home, evidenced by the knowing twinkle in that too-perceptive gaze. Something about that familiar hint of humor made April marginally relax. She recognized this Ben. She’d known him. And she’d loved him with all the innocence held in her tender, teenage heart.
“You’re always with your posse,” he said, shrugging lazily. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
She chuckled. “My posse?”
“Yeah.” He lifted a pen from his desk and tapped it thoughtfully upon the leather surface. “You know. Your Chicks In Charge friends.”
So he’d kept up with her then, April thought, ridiculously heartened by that insightful little tidbit. “They wouldn’t have minded.”
His gaze caught and held hers. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
April nodded and moved on to another topic. “So…how’s your dad doing?”
A shadow moved across his face and for a split second, he became unnaturally still. On guard, she realized, intrigued. He tossed the pen aside. “Fine, I suppose,” he said, watching her closely. “I haven’t spoken with him recently. How’s yours?”
“The same.” She shifted and looked away. “I, uh…I haven’t spoken to my father recently, either.”
But not for lack of trying, she didn’t add. Most of her calls were avoided and rarely returned. A part of her longed to confide in Ben, to tell him about accidentally outing her father, but the time for that had passed. They hadn’t shared a secret in years. Odd that sharing her body with him would come easier, but…c’est la vie.
Ben let go a pent-up breath. “Look, April, is that what you came here for? To talk about our fathers? Because if it is, I can tell you that I don’t—”
Impatient with herself, April squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head. “It’s not. I—”
He blinked, seemingly surprised. “It’s not?”
“No,” she said.
He bit the corner of his lip, looking curiously relieved. “Then why did you come? Why are you here?”
Here it was, she thought. Truth or consequences time. She’d never been one to mince words, yet summoning the wherewithal to have this conversation with Ben was proving exceedingly difficult. She’d known it would be, but…Aw, hell. The fact was, she wasn’t accustomed to asking men to sleep with her. Ordinarily, it was the other way around. They came to her. Furthermore, if she wanted someone, she’d never had to tell them. A loaded glance, a secret smile, an innocent yet promising touch.
Body language. Not the English language.
She hesitated, looked up and saw him waiting expectantly. Her heart began to pound. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this, that she was actually going to ask him to have sex with her.
But she was.
Desperation had prodded other women to do worse, she told herself. And she was desperate.
Eighteen months.
Eighteen miserable, horribly unsatisfied months of unrelenting sexual agony. Frankie was right. If Ben couldn’t pull an orgasm from her apparently comatose libido, then nobody could. She’d simply have to resign herself to a lifetime of sexual dysfunction. The idea was so abhorrent she had to smother a maniacal laugh. Hell, she’d probably go crazy. Turn into a cat-loving, batty old shrew who screamed at little children and collected empty butter tubs and bottle caps. She glanced nervously at him again.
“April?” he prodded. Concern had replaced expectation, pricking her conscience. “Is something wrong?”
She smothered a snort. “You could say that,” she said, determined to go through with this. She pulled in a bracing breath, then let it go with a door-die whoosh. “I’ve got a personal problem…and I think you can help.”
“A personal problem,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she managed to whisper over the litany of Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! screaming in her head.
He hesitated for a moment. “Er, what sort of personal problem?”
“An intimate sort of problem,” she
