tried to focus…on anything but his hard, chiseled body. She shifted her gaze to the brass frame. Maybe that’s why he kept a picture of a horse on his desk, to remind him of more carefree days, when he had time to ride in the wind, feel the sun on his face, heat on his skin.
What are you doing? Was she trying to analyze this man? She didn’t care why he kept a picture of a horse on his desk. She didn’t care who he talked to on the phone, who he dated, who he kissed. She couldn’t care less about his faded tan or the way his black hair swirled around his nipples.
But she hated the wisps of heat stirring inside her.
“There a problem?” he asked, his voice as rough as her breath was ragged.
“P-problem?” Her gaze shot back to his face.
“I need a shirt,” he prompted. “Grab me an extra, will you?”
She took the shirt he held in his hands and then gave it back to him. What was she doing?
“A clean shirt. I can’t go to my meeting this afternoon with barbecue sauce all over me.”
“Right.” She blinked as if to turn on the ignition in her mind. “You want me to go buy one?”
“Look in the closet.” He nodded toward a far door.
“Right. Closet. Shirt. A clean one.” Turning on her heel, she moved toward the far door and almost fell over one of the suede chairs.
“Careful,” he cautioned, his voice warm and sexy, with a touch of humor that grated on her raw, exposed nerves.
Without glancing back at him, she walked stiffly toward the closet. She gave herself a mental shake. Get a grip, Jillian! Good God, you’re acting as though you’ve never seen a man half-dressed…er, undressed.
She’d certainly seen Brody’s chest before. But it had been years, ten to be exact. Comparing him now to her memory, she remembered his boyish frame with its slim, wiry lines and buffed, tanned skin. Now his muscles looked cut out of stone. A thick mat of dark hair covered his chest, arrowing down toward the waistband of his slacks. His abdomen had the strength and washboard texture of a swimmer’s. He might not lounge in the sun anymore, but he definitely found time to work out.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to erase his image. Grabbing a shirt covered in a cleaner’s plastic bag, she turned and almost bumped into him. Unbalanced, she blamed the swirling sensations on the baby growing inside her. After all, it had been a couple of hours since she’d nibbled on that blueberry bagel. Brody had made it a habit to leave one on her desk each morning.
Hunger. That’s all these feelings were. Pure and simple deprivation.
But what kind? her mind asked. It was definitely physical. But she sensed it was something unrelated to being pregnant. Something hot, sensual. Something related to Brody.
Refusing to look closer at her traitorous emotions, she took a step forward and stubbed the toe of her shoe on the carpet. Before she could fall, Brody reached forward and caught her against his bare chest. The shirt fluttered to the floor. Her hand flattened squarely over his heart. She could feel it pounding, falling far behind the racing of her own. The mat of hair covering his chest was softer than she’d imagined, a provocative contrast to the strength of his muscles, the heat of his skin.
Her gaze collided with Brody’s. Heat sizzled between them, like lightning skittering across a summer sky. His eyes were dark, compelling, pulling her to him, making her remember the warmth of his kiss, the passion in his arms. Staring up at him, his arms locked around her waist, she could no longer run from the truth. She wanted—needed Brody to kiss her.
Shocked at her thoughts, at the desire boiling inside her, she curled her fingers toward her palm and pushed away from him. “Um—” She stumbled toward the door. “I’ll let you get dressed now. I’ll be at my desk. I’ll let you know when your lunch guest arrives.”
He picked the shirt up off the floor and removed the plastic covering and cardboard from beneath the collar. The play of muscles beneath his taut skin mesmerized her. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Aren’t you?” She glanced at the extra sandwich, chips and soda on his desk.
He shrugged into the heavily starched shirt then fastened each button methodically. “I ordered the extras for you.”
“But I—”
“Did you have other plans?” His brow compressed into fine lines.
“No, it’s just that…well, I…”
“You don’t eat lunch, either?” He winked, giving her heart a lurch.
A smile tugged at her lips but she resisted. Still, his thoughtfulness touched her. Did he notice everything? “Actually, I am starving.”
“Good. Then have a seat.” He indicated the copper-colored suede chair she’d almost run over earlier then looped his tie around his neck. As he stepped into the private bathroom to tuck in his shirt and use the mirror to adjust his tie, he continued through the open doorway, “I thought we could go over some of those figures while we eat.”
Disappointment shot through her, followed by irritation. What did she expect? What exactly had she wanted from Brody? A date? She could have laughed at the absurdity of that thought. This was business. He was her boss. Nothing more.
“Do you like barbecue?” he asked, returning to his desk fully dressed, his tucked-in shirt accenting his trim waist. He unwrapped the paper-covered sandwich and the tangy aroma filled the room.
“Almost as much as chocolate,” she answered.
He grinned, and she realized she hadn’t seen him smile, really smile, since she’d started working for him. The way the elongated brackets surrounding his mouth creased his cheeks made her toes curl.
“You’re a real Texan, then.”
“Nothing but.” She opened her sandwich and poured an extra amount of sauce over the chopped beef.
“You didn’t grow up in San Antonio,” he said, taking a bite out of his sandwich.
“That’s right. Amarillo.” Sensing his unanswered question, she added, “It’s in the Panhandle. A good ways from here.”
“Were you homesick for Texas?” His pensive gaze made her feel restless inside her own skin. “Is that why you left Winslow so suddenly?”
She almost choked on a bite but washed it down with a deep pull on her soda. Her mind spun. She’d never told Brody why she’d left. Now it seemed too late, too petty, too painful to bring up what should have been forgotten. Even if she’d never gotten over Brody, never forgotten him, never forgiven herself for giving her heart so completely. But she didn’t want him to know how he’d hurt her. Not now. Not when it didn’t matter.
Reverting to the excuse and truth that she’d given the scholarship board for why she’d returned to the States early from her studies in Australia, she answered carefully, “My mother was sick.”
He gave a thoughtful nod. “Your letter said she passed away not long after you returned
