A Cinderella Story. Maureen Child

that he wanted her in spite of the tempers spiking between them. Hell, maybe because of it. He hated knowing that maybe she had a point. He really hated realizing that whatever secrets he thought he’d been keeping were no more private than the closest computer with an internet connection.

      And man, it bugged him that she could go from anger to smiles in a blink.

      “This isn’t analysis, Sam.” She met his gaze coolly, steadily, firelight dancing in her eyes. “It’s called conversation.”

      “It’s called my family,” he said tightly, watching the reflection of flame and shadow in the blue of her eyes.

      “I know. And—”

      “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

      “I have to,” she said simply. “And I am.”

      “Great. Thanks.” God he wanted to get out of there. She was too close to him. He could smell her shampoo and the scent of flowers—Jasmine? Lilies?—fired a bolt of desire through him.

      “But that’s not all I am,” she continued. “I’m also a little furious at you.”

      “Yeah? Right back at you.”

      “Good,” she said, surprising him. “If you’re angry at least you’re feeling something.” She moved in closer, kept her gaze locked with his and said, “If you love making furniture and working with wood, great. You’re really good at it.”

      He nodded, hardly listening, his gaze shifting to the open doorway across the room. It—and the chance of escape—seemed miles away.

      “But you shouldn’t stop painting,” she added fiercely. “The worlds you created were beautiful. Magical.”

      That magic was gone now, and it was better that way, he assured himself. But Sam couldn’t remember a time when anyone had talked to him like this. Forcing him to remember. To face the darkness. To face himself. One reason he’d moved so far from his parents, his sister, was that they had been so careful. So cautious in everything they’d said as if they were all walking a tightrope, afraid to make the wrong move, say the wrong thing.

      Their...caution had been like knives, jabbing at him constantly. Creating tiny nicks that festered and ached with every passing minute. So he’d moved here, where no one knew him. Where no one would offer sympathy he didn’t want or advice he wouldn’t take. He’d never counted on Joy.

      “Why?” she asked. “Why would you give that up?”

      It had been personal. So deeply personal he’d never talked about it with anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now. Chest tight, mouth dry, he looked at her and said, “I’m not talking about this with you.”

      With anyone.

      He took a step or two away from her, then spun back and around to glare down at her. In spite of the quick burst of fury inside him, sizzling around and between them, she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Another thing to admire about her, damn it. She was sure of herself even when she was wrong.

      “I already told you, Sam. You don’t scare me.”

      “That’s a damn shame,” he muttered, trying not to remember that his mother had warned him about lonely old recluses muttering to themselves. He turned from her again, and this time she reached out and grabbed his arm as he moved away from her.

      “Just stop,” she demanded. “Stop and talk to me.”

      He glanced down at her hand on his arm and tried not to relish the heat sliding from her body into his. Tried not to notice that every cell inside him was waking up with a jolt. “Already told you I’m not talking about this.”

      “Then don’t. Just stay. Talk to me.” She took a deep breath, gave his arm a squeeze, then let him go. “Look, I didn’t mean to bring any of this up tonight.”

      “Then why the hell did you?” He felt the loss of her touch and wanted it back.

      “I don’t like lying.”

      Scowling now, he asked, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

      Joy folded both arms in front of her and unconsciously lifted them until his gaze couldn’t keep from admiring the pull of her shirt and the curve of those breasts. He shook his head and attempted to focus when she started talking again.

      “I found out today about your family and not saying something would have felt like I was lying to you.”

      Convoluted, but in a weird way, she made sense. He wasn’t much for lies, either, except for the ones he told his mother every time he assured her that he was fine. And truth be told, he would have been fine with Joy pretending she knew nothing about his past. But it was too late now for pretense.

      “Okay, great. Conscience clear. Now let’s move on.” He started walking again and this time, when Joy tugged on his arm to get him to stop, he whirled around to face her.

      Her blue eyes went wide, her mouth opened and he pulled her into him. It was instinct, pure, raw instinct, that had him grabbing her close. He speared his fingers through those blond curls, pulled her head back and kissed her with all the pent-up frustration, desire and, yeah, even temper that was clawing at him.

      Surprised, it took her only a second or two to react. Joy wrapped her arms around his waist and moved in even closer. Sam’s head exploded at the first, incredible taste of her. And then he wanted more. A groan slid from her throat, and that sound fed the flames enveloping him. God, he’d had no idea what kissing her would do to him. He’d been thinking about this for days, and having her in his arms made him want the feel of her skin beneath his hands. The heat of her body surrounding his.

      All he could think was to get her clothes off her. To cup her breasts, to take each of her nipples into his mouth and listen to the whimpering sounds of pleasure she would make as he took her. He wanted to look down into blue eyes and watch them go blind with passion. He wanted to feel her hands sliding across his skin, holding him tightly to her.

      His kiss deepened farther, his tongue tangling with hers in a frenzied dance of desire that pumped through him with the force and rush of a wildfire screaming across the hillsides.

      Joy clung to him, letting him know in the most primal way that she felt the same. That her own needs and desires were pushing at her. He took her deeper, held her tighter and spun her around toward the closest couch. Heart pounding, breath slamming in and out of his lungs, he kept his mouth fused to hers as he laid her down on the wide, soft cushions and followed after, keeping her close to his side. She arched up, back bowing as he ran one hand up and down the length of her. All he could think about was touching her skin, feeling the heat of her. He flipped the button of her jeans open, pulled down the zipper, then slid his hand down, across her abdomen, feeling her shiver with every inch of flesh he claimed. His fingers slipped beneath the band of her panties and she lifted her hips as he moved to cup her heat.

      She gasped, tore her mouth from his and clutched at his shoulders when he stroked her for the first time. He loved the feel of her—slick, wet, hot. His body tightened painfully as he stared into her eyes. His mind fuzzed out and his body ached. He touched her, again and again, stroking, pushing into her heat, caressing her inside and out, driving them both to the edge of insanity.

      “Sam—” She breathed his name and that soft, whispered sound rattled him.

      When had she become so important? When had touching her become imperative? He took her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers, taking the taste of her deep inside him as he felt her body coil tighter with the need swamping her. She rocked into his hand, her hips pumping as he pushed her higher, faster. He pulled his head back, wanting, needing to see her eyes glaze with passion when the orgasm hit her.

      He wasn’t disappointed. She jolted in his arms when his thumb stroked across that one small nub of sensation at the heart of her. Everything she was feeling flashed through her eyes, across her features. He was caught up, unable to tear his gaze from hers. Joy Curran was