Always On Her Mind. Emily McKay

that he hadn’t fully appreciated how much she’d been hurt.

      And damn it all, that touched him deep in his gut in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Right now, he had less of a clue about what to do with this woman than he had eighteen years ago.

      The next night, after Malcolm’s concert in the Netherlands, Celia put together a late-night snack in their suite. Foraging through the mini-fridge, she found bottles of juice, water and soda, along with four kinds of cheese. She snagged the Gouda and Frisian clove to go with the crackers and grapes on the counter.

      Yes, she was full of nervous energy since Malcolm’s friends had all gone home. Now she was finally alone with him. How strange that she’d resented their presence at first and now she felt antsy without the buffer they’d provided. Malcolm’s manager had stood backstage with her at the concert tonight in Amsterdam. But Logan had his own room here on another floor.

      Not that Malcolm had pressured her since they’d checked into the posh hotel. In fact, since her panic attack during the Seine River tour, he’d backed off. On the one hand, she’d wanted him to quit tempting her, but on the other it hurt to think he was turned off by her anxiety.

      They had a two-bedroom suite with a connecting sitting room. He was showering, the lights having been particularly powerful—and hot—tonight at yet another sold-out show.

      As she heard the shower in the next room stop, she arranged the food on a glazed pottery tray to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied with something other than wondering how different the adult, naked Malcolm looked. And what he thought of the “adult” her. She smoothed her hands down her little black dress, lacy, with a scalloped hem that ended just above the knee. Should she rush and change?

      She shook off vanity as quickly as she kicked off her heels and loosened her topknot. Lifting the tray with food and a pot of tea, she angled around the bar, past the baby grand piano and into the living area.

      Overall the room was brighter, lighter than the other places they’d stayed, the Dutch decor closer to her personal style. On her way past, she dipped her head to sniff the blue floral pitcher full of tulips. She placed the tray on top of the coffee table and curled up on the sofa with her tea. She’d made a pot with lemon and honey to soothe Malcolm’s throat after three straight nights of concerts. He had to be feeling the effects.

      The door to his bedroom opened, and her eyes were drawn directly to him. So drawn. Held. He stood barefoot, wearing a pair of jeans and T-shirt that clung to his damp skin. His hair was wet and slicked back. And God, did her hands ache to smooth over those damp strands.

      What else did she want?

      Silly question. She wanted to sleep with Malcolm again, to experience how it would feel to be with him as a woman. All the tantalizing snippets his friends had shared of his past and present drew her in, seducing her with both the Malcolm he’d been and the Malcolm he’d become. She burned to sleep with him, and she couldn’t come up with one good reason why she shouldn’t.

      Would she have the courage to throw caution to the wind and act on what she wanted? “I made us something to eat—as well as tea with lemon and honey to soothe your throat.”

      “Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me,” he answered, his voice more gravelly than usual, punctuating her point about the need for tea. He walked deeper into the room, his hand grazing a miniature wooden windmill, tapping the blades until they spun in a lazy circle.

      “Direct orders from your manager,” Celia said. “You’re to have something to eat and drink, protect your health for the tour.”

      “What about you? Any more dizzy spells today?” He sliced off a sliver of Gouda. “Here … have some cheese.”

      She rested her fingers on his wrist, a small move, just a test run to see how he would react. “I’m good. I promise. Your pal the doctor gave me two thumbs up.”

      Malcolm eyes narrowed before he tossed the cheese into his mouth and paced restlessly around the room, past the baby grand piano, a guitar propped against the side. “You two seemed to hit it off.”

      Wondering where he was going with the discussion of Rowan, she poured another cup of steaming-hot tea. “What exactly did he invent?”

      Malcolm dropped onto the other end of the sofa and reluctantly took the tea. “He devised a new computerized diagnostic model with Troy. They patented it, and they both made a bundle. Essentially, Rowan can afford to retire if he wishes.”

      Interesting, but not surprising given what she’d gleaned about Malcolm and all his friends. “And he chose to work in a West African clinic instead. That’s very altruistic of him.”

      “You can join the Rowan Boothe fan club. It’s large.”

      She lifted an eyebrow in shock. “You don’t like him?”

      “Of course I do. He’s one of my best friends. I would do anything for him. I’m acting like a jealous idiot because you two seemed to hit it off.” He tossed back the tea, then cursed over the heat. He set the cup down fast and charged over to the mini-fridge for bottled water.

      He was jealous? Of her and Rowan? Hope fluttered.

      She set her cup down carefully. “Your charitable donations have been widely reported. Every time I saw you at an orphanage or children’s hospital … I admire what you’ve done with your success, Malcolm, and yes, I have kept up with you the way you’ve kept up with me.”

      Malcolm downed the bottle of water before turning back to her. “Rowan’s the stable, settle-down sort you keep swearing you want now. But damn it all, I still want you. So if you want him or someone like him, you’d better speak up now, because I’m about five seconds away from kissing you senseless.”

      “You silly, silly man.” She pushed to her feet and walked toward him. “You have nothing to be jealous of. I was asking for his medical help.”

      “What did you say?” He pinned her with a laser stare. “Are you ill? God, and I’ve been hauling you from country to country.”

      “Malcolm, stop. Listen. I have something I need to tell you.” She drew in a bracing breath and willed her fluttering pulse to steady. Before they got to the kissing-senseless part, she needed to be sure he was okay with what had happened during the boat ride. Trusting him—anyone—with this subject was tough. But she hoped she could have faith in the genuine, good man she’d seen earlier with his friends. “I was having a regular, old-fashioned panic attack.”

      He blinked uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before clasping her shoulders. “Damn it, Celia, why didn’t you tell me, instead of—”

      She rested a hip against the baby grand piano. “Because you would have acted just like this, freaking out, making a huge deal out of it, and believe me, that’s the last thing I could have handled yesterday.”

      Comprehension slid across his leanly handsome face. “Rowan helped you. As a doctor.” He plowed his fingers through his hair. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

      “Not an idiot. Just a man.” She sighed with relief to finally have crossed this hurdle without a drawn-out ordeal. “I left my medicine at home. He helped connect with my doctor and get my prescription refilled.”

      “You’ve had panic attacks before?”

      “Not as often as I used to, but yes, every now and again.”

      His shoulders rolled forward as he rubbed his forehead. “The concert tour was probably a bad idea. What was I thinking?”

      “You had no way of knowing because I didn’t tell you.” She couldn’t let him blame himself. She stroked his forehead for him, nudging aside his hand. Just a brief touch, but one that sent tingles down her arm. “Staying home with some criminal leaving dead roses in my car wasn’t particularly pleasant, either. For all we know, I would have had more anxiety back home. You’ve taken on a major upheaval in your life to help me.”

      “Are