such clarity that it could have been last night rather than two years ago.
They’d feasted on Christmas dinner and retired to the parlor so Dad could watch The History Channel. Sam, Helene and Giselle had headed over to the love seat to finish off a leftover bottle of zinfandel. Giselle was glad, really she was, when Helene had settled herself on Sam’s lap. They were newlyweds and Giselle was thrilled to see her sister so happy. They’d only polished off half a glass of wine when their mother had called Helene over to look at kitchen remodeling magazines. Mom’s kitchen was definitely long overdue. Giselle did not, however, possess Helene’s knack for interior design, which left her sharing the love seat with her new brother-in-law.
The Christmas tree lights were winking and blinking, a dying fire glowed in the fireplace, and Giselle, who’d been on guard all day against any more errant moments such as the one on the stairs when she’d been showing Sam to Helene’s room, foolishly relaxed. She and Sam talked writing and photography and argued whether the Cubs or Braves had a better pennant chance in the upcoming year.
Sam had laughed at something she said and in that instant everything shifted, tangled, clarified. The most intense surge of sexual longing had ripped through her, shaken her to her core. She’d wanted to use her hands and mouth to map the angles of his face, the rugged line of his jaw, the broad expanse of his chest, his slightly splayed thighs and all the areas in between.
It didn’t matter that her family sat a stone’s throw away in the same room. She’d ached for the press of his body, the slide of his hands beneath her clothes, on her bare flesh. She’d wanted to taste him, feel him, every intimate inch. Like a flash flood roaring through a dry canyon, desire had deluged her. The intensity was a hundred times what it had been earlier on the stairs.
He was her sister’s husband. She’d excused herself posthaste and all but run to her room. She’d felt ridiculous, guilty and horrified that Sam or any of her family might’ve had any inkling of the direction of her thoughts. And while she’d hid in her room, she couldn’t escape the unquenched fire that followed her.
She’d made sure she was out the door and on a long walk bright and early the next morning when Helene and Sam were leaving. She’d vowed to keep away from him. She’d be pleasant but distant. And still her feelings plagued her for days, weeks, months. Sam became her forbidden fantasy.
She’d never felt so damn guilty in her life because not only was Sam her sister’s husband, but she’d known, for that moment in time, that Sam wanted her in return. She’d felt the impact of his gaze lingering on her lips and knew he wanted her, and she was so ashamed that she’d known not only the sweet, hot ache of physical desire but a flare of triumph that he wanted her, Giselle. Wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels. It wasn’t Helene’s fault that men had always been attracted to her, rather than Giselle, the sister with the good personality. Nor was it Helene’s fault that the boy Giselle had such a horrible crush on in high school had asked to walk Giselle home…just to wangle an introduction to her sister.
And there’d been something so noble in the fact that Sam had looked away first. If she had to feel this betraying lust, this forbidden desire for her sister’s husband, at least he was worthy of the guilt Giselle felt for coveting him. And of course, she’d never actually betray Helene by doing anything, and neither would Sam. That had been apparent. And somewhere in there the illicit attraction she felt for him was compounded by a sense of sacrifice. She might want him, and he might have wanted her, but they’d both looked away because it was the right thing to do.
And then she’d found out he’d betrayed Helene and it had been doubly painful. Not only was he not the noble man she’d thought him, but his affair with some nameless woman meant he’d looked at someone else the way he’d looked at Giselle, with that same yearning, and it had rendered that night meaningless, robbed it of its magic.
She should’ve thanked him for that. For turning her something-beyond-infatuation into loathing. But then that loathing became self-loathing because even though he wasn’t worthy, even though he was a cheat, she couldn’t seem to scour him from her mind.
And now, mind aside, he was seated next to her on her pilgrimage to get over him once and for all. And the truly wretched part was that if he stood up right now and announced he wasn’t going and walked off the plane, she was fairly certain she’d be more mournful than celebratory. Oh, what a tangled web…
She felt him look at her, but she steadfastly pretended to read her magazine, turning a page for good measure. She felt too raw, too vulnerable to risk glancing at him.
To Sam’s right, the blonde all but leaned into his lap, or maybe she was just carried by the momentum of her oversized boobs.
“Hi, I’m Felicity,” she said, introducing herself to Sam. “Are you two together?” Felicity’s voice grated, painfully perky after Giselle’s near-sleepless night.
Giselle kept her eyes trained on the magazine page in front of her, but she felt Sam’s quick glance in her direction. “We’re coworkers. This is a business trip.”
“What kind of business are you in?”
Giselle retrieved her iPod from where she’d stored it in the seat back ahead of her.
“I’m a photographer and Giselle’s a journalist. We’re working on a magazine article.”
“Ohh,” Felicity squealed. “A photographer. How fascinating.”
Giselle shoved in her earphones and turned the unit on. She’d flown often enough to zone out the flight attendants upcoming safety spiel. She’d rather be nibbled to death by vampire ducks than listen to Felicity flirt with Sam the entire trip. Thanks, however, to her foresight in charging her iPod, vampire ducks were totally unnecessary.
The opening chords of Ravel’s “Bolero” swelled in her ears, muting Sam’s low rumble and Felicity’s enthusiastic response. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the music’s passion and sensuality.
She still sensed his body heat, the proximity of his leg, arm and shoulder. There was no escaping the subtle combination of soap and maleness that was Sam, but at least without seeing him and hearing him she hoped to maintain a little distance…and sanity.
Sam McKendrick was a sickness…and she desperately needed a cure.
SAM EMBRACED the silence filling the car as they left the remnants of suburban Phoenix behind and headed north on Route 17 to Sedona.
Giselle drove the rental SUV. It was her story, her project, and she wasn’t a woman who would put him behind the wheel of the car simply because he was a man. That was fine with him. He studied her profile as she navigated a lane change.
His ex-wife and her mother boasted classically beautiful features of high, sculpted cheekbones, flawless complexions, straight noses, thick curling lashes surrounding slightly exotic eyes, and lush full mouths. Giselle, however, had inherited the Randolph features. Her small, slightly snub nose bore a liberal sprinkling of freckles; her cheeks were more round than angular; wispy lashes framed her hazel eyes; and although wellshaped, her mouth lacked the pouting fullness of her mother’s and sister’s. However, Giselle exuded an innate sensuality.
It was as if Helene was so used to her looks commanding attention that she’d never bothered to develop any other attributes, whereas Giselle immersed herself in the world around her and it filtered back through her, lending her a depth and earthy sexiness his ex-wife didn’t possess.
“What?” She slanted
