Fools Rush In. Gwynne Forster

      Duncan told the last of his guests good night, extinguished the lights, and headed upstairs. The light shining beneath Justine’s door caused him some concern, and he left his bedroom door ajar so he could hear her if she called out to him. He stripped and slid into bed. Justine was across the hall from him, crying for all he knew, since she hadn’t come back downstairs, and he was helpless to do anything about it, because she hadn’t trusted him. Then there was Wayne Roundtree and his kid sister. Kid? She was twenty-seven. He hoped the man had sense enough to realize that she was a tenderfoot, that she hid her innocence behind her sharp tongue. He flipped over on his belly. He’d hate to flatten his boss, but he’d do it in a New York minute and wouldn’t think twice about it.

      Across the hall, Justine struggled with her reaction to Duncan’s almost kiss. She had wanted it. She rolled over to untangle the sheet twisted around her body. Her unloved body. Behind closed eyelids she saw his lips moving toward hers, slowly. Teasing. Tantalizing her. She parted her lips for the taste of his hot velvet tongue and moaned in despair when it failed to penetrate her welcoming mouth. When her breasts began to ache for his stroking fingers, she swung out of bed, took off her gown and showered. She didn’t fool herself. Duncan wasn’t the only source of her discontent, nor could she attribute it to celibacy, for she’d never been fulfilled. The certainty that she’d never been loved, that her failure at lovemaking with her husband wasn’t her fault, had triggered in her a need to explore herself, to fly. Because Kenneth Montgomery hadn’t loved her, his heart hadn’t been in his lovemaking. She knew that now. And sleeping within fifteen feet of her every night was the epitome of temptation in the person of Duncan Banks, a good-looking, mesmerizing, and powerful hunk of a man who wanted her and whose lure beckoned her. Torment was right here on earth.