Man With A Message. Muriel Jensen

shoulders last night, the odd gold color of his eyes. His good looks weren’t a feature-by-feature thing but rather a whole impression made by confidence and humor playing in the rough angles.

      She frowned and folded her arms. “Did I yell at you?”

      He pretended hurt feelings in a theatrically dramatic sniff. “Yes, you yelled at me. You blamed me for what you called your ‘embarrassment,’ and here I was the one wearing nothing but my skivvies when you burst in. And in danger of being puppy chow, if you’ll recall.”

      She wanted to laugh. Nothing made her laugh these days—except children and dogs. “You assured me you were in no danger.”

      He folded his arms over that formidable chest and looked away in a gesture of emotional delicacy. “Because I didn’t want you to risk yourself further on my behalf.”

      She still managed to keep a straight face. “Well, I appreciate that. I have to go.”

      She headed for the door again, but he caught her halfway across the living room and turned her around. His hand was warm and strong and stopped her cold though he applied no pressure.

      “What was the thoughtful reason you came?” he asked. There was something urgent in his eyes.

      “Oh.” She sighed, realizing she’d never offered her apology. “I forgot.” She angled her chin, hoping to put him off by appearing haughty. Men usually hated that. And she did not want to be attracted to this one. “I came to apologize for slapping you last night. I was…” What was it she had rehearsed? He was gazing into her eyes and she couldn’t remember. “I was sort of dreaming and you…and I…” She stopped, hating that she was stammering like a twit. She squared her shoulders and tried to go on. “When I woke up, I thought you were…” She did everything humanly possible to avoid completing that sentence, avoid uttering the word that dangled unspoken.

      “You thought I was kissing you?” he prompted, apparently having no such compunction.

      He didn’t really appear self-satisfied, but there was an artlessness to him she didn’t trust at all.

      “Yes,” she admitted, making herself look into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

      She tried to leave again, but he still had her arm. She felt a sudden and desperate need to get out of there.

      “What?” she demanded impatiently.

      “I haven’t accepted your apology,” he reminded her.

      She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

      “Well, how I react to this,” he explained in an amiable tone, “will be determined by why you hit me.”

      “I just told you! I was dreaming and I…”

      “I know, but if you were angry at me because you were disappointed that I wasn’t kissing you, that requires a different response altogether.”

      She knew where this was going and she didn’t want any part of it. Well, she did, but only for purely selfish reasons. She missed the intimacy of marriage. Not the sex, necessarily, but the touches, the pats, the…the kisses. And though she’d sworn there would never be another man in her life, she was still allowed to miss what a man brought to a relationship. Wasn’t she?

      “I thought you were…” She even hated to say his name aloud. It brought back memories of those last awful few months of her marriage when she’d shouted it pleadingly, begging Ben to understand how she felt.

      Cam waited.

      “My…husband,” she said finally.

      His eyes closed a moment. “You have a husband?”

      That was her out. She had simply to say yes, and he’d lose interest in this unsettling morning exercise. Freedom was one small word away.

      She opened her mouth to speak it but heard herself say, instead, “My ex-husband.”

      He looked cautious. “You want him back?” he asked gently.

      For the first time in a year she faced that question directly. Did she want him back?

      “No,” she whispered. “But I miss…” It was hard to say.

      “You can tell me,” he encouraged her softly.

      The words clogged her throat. What had begun in amusement and sexual challenge was all of a sudden filled with real emotion.

      “I miss trust,” she finally admitted, her voice barely audible, even to herself. He tipped her face up as if to help himself hear. “I miss holding hands, telling stories, and I miss…” She had to say it. “Kisses.”

      And that seemed to be all he had to know. This was no longer about what she’d felt last night when she slapped him, but what was suddenly between them now as she admitted need and he responded.

      His mouth came down on hers with tender authority. The sureness in the hands that framed her face told her to leave it to him; he knew what he was doing. And he did.

      The touch of his lips was familiar from last night, and she experienced none of the awkward newness of first kisses. He was confident, she was willing, and the chemistry was its own catalyst.

      His mouth was dry and warm and clever, his hands sure as they moved over her back, down her spine, stopping at the hollow just below her waist, then moving up again.

      She met his lips avidly, basking in the almost-forgotten comfort of the shelter of a man’s arms.

      HER RESPONSE WAS FAR MORE enthusiastic than Cam had expected. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening here, except that it wasn’t what he’d originally intended. He’d been teasing her, playing with their previous connection, trying to taunt the stiffness out of her because…he wasn’t sure why. Stiff, tight women weren’t his type. And neither were small ones. They made him feel huge and inept and afraid to move.

      But she wrapped her arms around him gamely, dipped the tip of her tongue into his mouth with tantalizing eagerness, combed her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and somehow touched something inside him that seemed to rip in two everything he thought he’d decided about women since his first wife, Allison.

      Then without warning she sagged against him, dropping her forehead to his chest and remaining absolutely still for several seconds. When she raised her head, her eyes were stormy with something he couldn’t quite define.

      She punched his shoulder as if to release some pent-up emotion. But it didn’t seem to be anger.

      “Now you’re going to have to come back tomorrow,” he said, trying to lighten the abrupt sadness in the room, “and apologize for hitting me again.”

      “So this is what’s taking so long,” a female voice said from the doorway.

      Cam looked up and Mariah started guiltily out of his arms.

      “Parker!” she said, her voice sounding strangled. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I thought the dog was devouring him and came in to…”

      Parker glanced at Cam, still partially wrapped in a blanket, then listened interestedly as Mariah tried to explain, then gave up. It did sound ridiculous.

      “Oh, never mind.” Mariah looked up at Cam, opened her mouth to speak, then apparently decided against it. “Goodbye,” she said, instead. She walked past Parker and out the door. Fred whined.

      “Good morning, Parker,” Cam said politely, feigning a normalcy the situation denied.

      Parker, who’d always been warm and kind to him the few times they’d met in city hall, now studied him with a measure of doubt. “Mariah’s my sister,” she said.

      He nodded. “Hank told me.” He explained briefly about Fred and his growling game. “It was 4:00 a.m. when I got home. I pulled my shoes and socks off on the porch because I was drenched, came in with an armload of stuff