A Daughter's Story

He probably even believed them. There just wasn’t a damn thing he could—or wanted to—do about them.

“I have a dry white or merlot,” he said as he peered into the stocked refrigerator in the living-room section of his hotel room.

The king-size bed was there, too, in plain view, about ten feet of plush beige carpet away.

Emma sat—still fully dressed down to the low-heeled shoes she wore—on the couch, but based on the stiffness of her posture and the way her gaze kept darting to the oversize armchair next to the couch he had the distinct impression that she’d have been more comfortable in the seat made for one.

He quirked his brow at her. “You ready to say stop?”

“Dry white, please.” Her brown gaze swung to him, and stayed there. Steady and strong.

“I’m glad.” Really glad. Abnormally glad—Chris had never been hard up for women.

He opened the small bottle, emptied it into one of two wineglasses on the bar, opened a miniature bottle of Crown for himself and poured it into a highball.

Handing her the glass of wine, he took a sip of his whiskey and sat down beside her.

The night might be late, but he felt like they had all the time in the world. And if they didn’t, he was going to take it, anyway. This woman, this experience, was not to be rushed.

“You want to know anything more about me?” he asked.

“Yes, but not right now.”

Fair enough.

She didn’t offer him the same privilege. She pushed her hair back away from her face and he saw that white band on her finger again. She’d said she’d never done anything like this before.

“I’m okay if tonight is a rebound for you. But I need to know that you aren’t married. I don’t take what belongs to someone else.”

“I’m not married.”

He felt like grinning. And it wasn’t supposed to happen that way, either.

“Have you ever been married?”

“No.” She glanced away, as though ashamed.

Chris lifted her hand that held the wineglass and brought it to her lips. “Sip,” he said softly. “I haven’t ever been married, either.” Almost didn’t count.

His words brought her gaze back to him. “How old are you?” he asked.

She was of age; he knew that. But he was curious.

“Twenty-nine.”

Younger than he’d expected. Younger than Sara by eleven years.

“I’m forty.”

She had a right to know.

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“That you’re eleven years older than me?”

His age had never been an issue for him before. He simply hadn’t cared to measure life in terms of time. He sipped his drink.

“It doesn’t bother me in the least,” she said, a small smile forming on the lips that had been calling to him all night long. “As a matter of fact, I find forty kind of sexy. You aren’t a kid all filled up with his own sense of importance.”

“I could be an older guy all filled up with my own sense of importance.”

“You could be.” She took a sip of her wine, still smiling. “But I know that you aren’t.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve asked for my permission every step of the way,” she said simply. “If you thought you were life’s greatest gift, you’d be sure you knew what I wanted—which, by the way would be only what you wanted—and you’d have charged forward with the strength of a bull to get it.”

“Apparently you know someone who’s filled with his own sense of importance.”

“I don’t think a girl can escape puberty without meeting one or two or a dozen of those.”

“I wish I could believe you were wrong about that.”

She shrugged. “It’s not all bad,” she said, her gaze dropping to his shoulders—his chest—and lingering there. “Gives you the chance to discern between the good and the bad.”

Which didn’t mean a woman always was able to discern, he guessed, glancing again at that ring finger.

The guy, whoever he’d been, was a first-class fool. To lose a woman like this?

Chris drew himself up with a gulp of whiskey. Whoa. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The words came again.

He was not one who entertained thoughts of having a relationship with a woman. His associations with women were just that—associations.

She reached for the top button on his shirt. “Do you mind if I undo this?” she asked, her other hand still holding the glass of wine he’d poured for her.

“No. Not at all.” Chris’s penis forced the words out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to react.

Her hand shook and her fingers caught and pulled a couple of strands of his chest hair as she struggled to open the button. The stiffness in his groin intensified. If she’d been experienced, assured, he might have had a hope.

He could have helped. Could have disrobed completely without a care. The sweet torment of Emma’s soft skin scraping against his chest as she continued to try, one-handed, to get the button free from the hole had control of him.

Her attentions turned him on too much to deny himself. If the exquisite torture felt this good at the top buttons, he could hardly wait for her to tackle the buttons that were currently tucked into the fly of his dress slacks.

The wine sloshed a bit in the glass and she took a sip. The button was almost free and then she fumbled it and lost the ground she’d gained. She didn’t giggle. Or sigh. Slowly, patiently, she tried again. Then finding success, she moved on to the next button.

He felt his underwear getting moist. He was going to have to stop her. Or help her. Or explode before he ever got a chance to show her any pleasure at all.