“You just confirmed it for her.”

  “I—I d-didn’t mean to. It j-just…slipped out.”

  Far in the back of her throat she tasted bile and wondered if a person could actually throw up from being exposed to too much crap. He didn’t really expect her to believe this nonsense, did he? And why was he bothering?

  Men can’t be trusted.

  Betrayed, humiliated, she latched on to the most hurtful thing she could think of to say. “Poor Alex. You’re not the best talker in the world, are you?”

  He flinched, and she knew she’d hit her mark. “Is this what we’re d-doing now? Being cruel to each other? Why won’t you b-believe me?”

  “It would be easier to believe you,” she said, her voice rising with hysteria, “if you hadn’t come into our little relationship—such as it is—with agendas. And it would be much easier to believe you if you hadn’t blown me off this afternoon.”

  “I knew it.” He stared off across the room as if he couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been. Shaking his head, he let out a halfhearted snort of laughter. “Simone, I wasn’t blowing you off. I just n-needed a little time to think about what happened, and what you s-said…” He trailed off.

  Flames of mortification burned her cheeks, and she wished she would just die right now rather than endure some speech about how sorry he was to have given her the wrong impression, and blah, blah, blah. No man had ever felt sorry for her, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “Oh, don’t worry.” She managed a tight smile and flippant laugh. “You don’t have any special duties just because you were the first man I slept with.”

  His eyes rounded with obvious horror. “The…f-first man?”

  “Of course.” She widened her smile and added a careless little shrug for emphasis. “You didn’t think you’d be the last, did you?”

  Alex roared with rage and she knew she’d gone too far. She backed up several steps, but wasn’t fast enough to escape him. Eyes flashing and nostrils flaring, he lunged and caught her by the shoulders with hard, digging fingers. She cried out, but he tightened his hold, raising her until she was eye level with him and only the tips of her shoes touched the floor.

  “You l-love me,” he said, his voice deathly quiet. “You’d never have s-s-slept with me if you didn’t l-love me.”

  Don’t ever trust or love them.

  Mama had been right of course. Why hadn’t she listened? Why had she confessed her real feelings to Alex? Look how quickly her foolish declaration had come back to haunt her.

  She should’ve known he’d rub her face in it: he didn’t love her but he sure wanted every woman he slept with—including all those poor women he’d audited—to die of love for him. Well, not her. Never her.

  She manufactured another smile, but it felt hideous and feral. “You didn’t believe me, did you? You should know by now you make women crazy in bed, Alex. We’ll say anything in the heat of the moment.”

  With a sharp hiss of breath, he froze. She felt a brief, powerful surge of satisfaction. But then his eyes, jaw and chin hardened, as if someone had taken his head and dipped it, bit by bit, into wet concrete and let it dry. In his eyes she saw only revulsion.

  Her heart twisted and withered.

  Very carefully he lowered her to her feet, removed his hands and backed away from her. “W-well,” he said, his unblinking gaze riveted to her face, “like mother, like d-daughter, eh?”

  Her heart died.

  Backing up another step, he turned, walked down the steps and slipped out the front door. He didn’t look back.

  Alex heard, and ignored, the insistent ringing of his front doorbell, which was closely followed by enough pounding on the door to register six-point-five on the Richter scale. Instead of answering, or even bothering to look and see who was there, he rolled his brush in the paint tray, skimmed off the excess, and turned to his half-painted dining room wall.

  Sage, the woman at Home Depot had called the color. Whatever. It looked green to him, and he didn’t really care anyway. He’d only decided to paint the walls to give himself something to do to keep from going insane.

  It wasn’t working.

  Angry footsteps drummed on the porch right outside the window where he stood, and Laurel’s scowling face appeared on the other side of the glass. Squinting against the sunlight, she shrugged, palms up, in a what-the-heck gesture.

  Sighing harshly, Alex dropped the roller back in the pan, shuffled past his white-sheeted furniture, and opened the door for her.

  She stormed in and he braced for a lecture. But when she got a close look at him, her jaw dropped and he knew why. He looked like day-old trash and probably smelled the same.

  It’d been at least twenty-four hours since he showered, and his white T-shirt and jeans were starting to show the strain. Since he hadn’t bothered to shave, either, he suspected he looked like Grizzly Adams.

  After three nights of tossing and turning in bed, he’d given up trying to sleep at all for the last couple of days. So most likely he had a hollowed-out, raccoon look about the eyes.

  “What happened to you?” she cried, aghast.

  “Nothing.” He went back to the dining room and picked up his roller.

  “Something’s happened,” she said, following right on his heels. “You haven’t been to work in two days.”

  Something in her inflection made it sound as if he called in sick last year and never went back. “I took a couple days off, Laurel. It’s not a crime. I have about a thousand days coming to me.”

  “You never take time off.”

  Alex snorted but didn’t answer. Lately he seemed to be doing lots of things he’d never done before. Slacking off at work. Sleeping with virgins. Getting his heart smashed.

  The perma-lump in his throat tightened, refusing to be swallowed. Raising the roller, he picked up where he’d left off, making rhythmic green zigzags against the existing off-white paint.

  Laurel cleared her throat. “How’s Simone? She must be pretty upset about that Inquisitor article.”

  The name jarred his fragile concentration and the brush skittered, making unsightly splotches. Tightening his grip on the roller, he covered over his mistake. “How should I know?”

  Laurel, always tenacious, tried again. “I guess I was thinking there was something special between you and—”

  “Yeah, well, whatever it was is over, and I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

  Spinning on his heel, he went back to the table and rolled the brush in the paint again. From the corner of his eye he saw Laurel standing motionless, watching him with shocked wide eyes.

  He prayed she’d drop it because his hold on his temper was weak at best, which was one of the reasons he’d taken time off to quarantine himself here in the house, where he couldn’t hurt anyone.

  “I…thought you really liked her, Alex.”

  “I never said that.” He rolled the brush a little too hard and paint oozed over the sides of the aluminum pan and onto the white drop cloth. Cursing, he tried to sop up the mess.

  “But you did like her.”

  And with that simple statement, Alex lost it.

  The rage that had simmered below the surface all week finally erupted. Without thinking, he snatched up the wet roller and hurled it at the far wall over the sideboard, which it hit with a squelch before clattering to the floor. Paint made a roughly rectangular mess on the wall and splattered all over the white drop cloth. A couple of drops ricocheted and hit him on the lip and cheek.

  Laurel froze with astonishment.

  “Like her?” Alex roared, waving his paint-covered hands at his sister. “I was crazy about her! I would have done

  anything for her!”

  “Then what happened?” Laurel hustled around the table to him and, ignoring the mess on his hands, grabbed and squeezed them. “What could be so bad? Didn’t you apologize?”

  “I blew it, okay?” He snatched his hands away. “She doesn’t trust me, and I’m not sure I blame her. We said things. Terrible things.” Suddenly his strength gave out and he collapsed onto the step stool. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head. “And I’m not sure how she felt about me anyway.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Alex heard the unmistakable taunt in her voice and looked up.

  “You’re just giving up. Is that it? Mr. Tenacious is throwing in the towel?”

  “Well, what else do you suggest I do?” he shouted.

  “Do what you always do. Think of a plan. Fight. Win.”

  Deep in his belly, beneath the tiny blossom of hope, pulsed a knot of fear. What if Simone never spoke to him again? What if he never saw her again?

  What if he did?

  “The thing is,” he began slowly, “she’s not really a quick affair type of woman.”

  A wry smile turned up one side of Laurel’s mouth. “Of course not,” she said. “She’s going to be your wife. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  He had, but saying it aloud gave it a whole new terrifying dimension. How did this happen—to him of all people? Getting married had been the last thing on his mind. Why get married when there were so many sexy women in the world to sample? When he could have all of the pleasure and none of the entanglements?

  And yet…had anything in his life ever been more fun than the time he’d spent with Simone? Could any other woman possibly be as sexy and thrilling? Was anything more exciting than the thought of Simone living here, with him and, eventually, with their children?

  Staring at his green fingers, he told Laurel his worst fears. “I’m not sure she loves me.”

  “She loves you.”

  “She doesn’t trust me.”

  “She will.”

  And the worst fear of all. Not really a fear—more like an absolute certainty. “I don’t deserve her.”

  With the rustle of her fluttery flowered skirt, Laurel’s legs and feet came into his field of vision. Raising his head, he watched while she turned a chair away from the table and sat in it. She rested her hands on the outsides of his thighs and patted them, a gesture he found oddly comforting.

  “How’d your audit go, Alex?”

  “Not good. Turns out I’m a cold, selfish jerk.”

  “Hmmm. You never asked me what I thought of you.”

  He laughed. “Well, since we’ve never slept together, I didn’t put you on the list.”

  “Good point. But I know you pretty well and I want to give you my two cents anyway. If you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, shrugging.

  “You’re not ten years old anymore, Alex, and—”

  “I know that.”

  “—you’re not the gifted freak that none of the other kids wanted to be friends with. People don’t automatically reject you anymore, so maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to reject them first.”

  He froze.

  “You need to let them in. You need to let Simone in.”

  Jumping to his feet, he paced away from her. “I don’t do that,” he said, even as he felt the thrill of recognition and understanding.

  “If you say so.”

  Could Laurel be right?

  Alex frowned over his shoulder at her. “You need to get out of here. I’ve got some thinking to do.” He jerked his head toward the splotchy green mess on the far wall. “And some cleaning.”

  Laurel laughed again and stood. “You’re welcome for the pep talk.”

  Alex grumbled under his breath but couldn’t stop a smile. He found a rag and wiped his hands. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  He followed her to the door and opened it for her. She turned back. “Simone’s a lucky woman, Alex.”

  Embarrassed and disbelieving, he looked away. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Laurel grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her unwavering gaze. “A lucky woman,” she repeated.

  A flush of heat crept up his throat and over his cheeks. Too choked up suddenly to trust his voice, he leaned in and kissed his sister on the temple. And, being careful not to get paint on her purple shawl, he pulled her in for a hug.

  Simone sat in the leather armchair across from Gerald and Krystal Jackson, who’d held hands, giggled and simpered throughout their session, much to Simone’s annoyance. Happy couples really pissed her off these days, especially the Jacksons, who always reminded her of the day Alex stormed into her life. More than once she’d had to stifle the urge to tell them either to act their age or to get a room.

  Still, Simone was proud to have helped them through Gerald’s impotence, and glad to see them so happy. Thank goodness Alex had left this one small area of her life intact when he’d blown the rest of it to smithereens.

  She closed her notebook and capped her pen. “You two don’t need me any more,” she announced.

  Gerald shot his gray-haired wife a smoldering look, and she flushed to her roots. “Not any more,” he said. Krystal giggled again.

  Enough was enough. Simone jumped to her feet. “Well…keep in touch. And call me if you need me.”

  They both pulled her into exuberant, rib-splitting hugs before they wandered off down the hall, giggling and whispering. Rolling her eyes, Simone sat at her desk and checked the e-mail for her site. She had one new message, from “A.G.” in Cincinnati. Her pulse rate went through the roof.

  The onslaught continued.

  After the ugly confrontation at her apartment, she’d heard nothing from Alex for a week. Then suddenly, as if someone somewhere had flipped a switch, he’d started calling and writing—at least one of each, usually more—every day.

  For the past several days she’d had constant, heartfelt, wrenching e-mails, and his voice on her machine. He hadn’t shown up at her door, and for that she was grateful. Apparently he was willing to give her a little bit of space.

  He wanted her back.

  She’d never answered, and didn’t plan to. What good would that do? He’d been perfectly clear from the beginning that he wasn’t good at relationships and didn’t want one. Neither did she. Not really. She had to rebuild her career and credibility.

  Besides. She could never trust him again. No matter how beautifully he apologized. No matter how much she wanted to.

  So she’d delete the message. After she read it.

  Dear Dr. Simone:

  I’m desperate. I really screwed up with the woman I’ve been dating and I’m not sure how to fix things. She won’t have anything to do with me, and I feel like I’ve died. At this point I’d do anything to make it up to her. I can’t give up—I’ll never give up—and I don’t believe that some hurts can’t be forgiven. What should I do? Signed,

  “A.G.” in Cincinnati

  Chapter 25

  Simone’s battered and broken heart throbbed painfully. How was she supposed to get over him when he wouldn’t let her put him out of her mind for thirty seconds? When she missed him as much as she’d miss her right arm if someone cut it off?

  She switched to the deleted messages box for her personal e-mail, and skimmed through a couple of those.

  Since we both know I’m not so good at speaking, maybe I’ll try writing for a while.

  At lunch today I passed a woman on the street that smelled like you, and my heart stopped. I wasted the afternoon at work because I couldn’t think about anything else but you and when I would ever smell your sweet skin again.

  That message had been bad enough, but others were worse.

  My nephew asked about you at dinner and I didn’t know what to say. In the end I lied and told him you were doing great because I couldn’t bear to say the truth out loud: I haven’t seen you and don’t know when I ever will see you.

  One had made her cry:

  Do you think about me at all? Ever? Or have you forgotten me already? I don’t forget anything. Not your smile, your laugh, your jokes, your touch—I remember every wonderful second I ever spent with you. Everything. I can’t forget, even though I try.

  Most of all I remember you telling me you loved me. Did you mean it? I can’t believe you did—because why would you give such a precious gift to an undeserving guy like me? And yet…in the dead of night I hope—and pray—that you did mean it. And that one day I will deserve you.

  Another made her feverish with lust and sick with longing:

  Will you ever let me touch you again? Smell you? Taste you? Did you know I dread nighttime now because I get so hard with wanting you I can’t sleep? Did you know I came alive when I touched your silky bare skin for the first time? That I was born again when I slid inside your body? That I could die a happy man if only I could see you come and hear you sob my name again?

  Did you think this was just about sex for me? It was, at first. For about thirty seconds. But now I know having your body—as much as I need it—is not enough. I need your heart. Your soul. Please give them to me.

  Worst of all, the one that had made her cry into her pillow until her dry, cracked, raw throat throbbed with pain, the one that said, simply:

  I love you.

  She heard Freddie’s footsteps in the hall and quickly minimized the e-mail window before he burst into her office carrying a large flat box. Wrapped in beautiful silvery gray paper, it had a gleaming white satin ribbon tied in a bow. When she saw it, her gut filled with dread.

  Freddie plopped it on her desk with obvious satisfaction. “Alex Greene just left this for you,” he sang.

  Startled, Simone shrank away from the thing that had so recently been so close to Alex. Words formed in her brain, but died in her throat.

  Freddie reached for the package again. “Want me to open it for you?”

  “No!”

  Chuckling, Freddie wheeled around and walked out. “I didn’t think so.”

  Simone’s trembling fingers fumbled with the ribbon and untied it on the third attempt. That difficult task accomplished, she needed several moments to catch her breath and brace for the actual opening of the box.

  Finally she slid the lid off. On top was a note scrawled in spiky blue writing on Alex’s heavy ivory stationery: