He looked amused. “How’s that?”
“I need to see if I can resist this pull between us.”
“Why would you want to?” Lines creased his forehead in confusion. She resisted the urge to reassure him by smoothing them with her fingertips.
“Do you think there’s such a thing as too much passion?” she asked instead, ignoring his question. “Feeling things too deeply?” She nibbled on her lower lip and watched him.
His face grew serious as he pondered her question. “Not unless the passion controls you,” he said at last.
She clutched his hand tighter. “Explain that.” She desperately needed to understand.
He was right. They were good for each other in many ways. But it was that sexual pull she couldn’t understand. Her views in life were skewed by what she’d seen growing up. So much that she wondered if she’d ever get past it.
He lifted his free hand to twirl a stray lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “In a healthy situation, passion may overwhelm you, but you know when and how to hold it in check.” He treated her to a sexy grin. “And when to let go.”
“And in an unhealthy situation?”
“It takes over areas of your life where it doesn’t belong. Passion becomes a destructive force.” He wiggled her fingers until she’d released her death grip on his hand.
She glanced down at the deep grooves her fingernails had etched in his skin. “Sorry,” she murmured, running her hands over his bruised flesh.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
She shrugged, unable and unwilling to answer.
“Okay. But I’ve got a question of my own.”
“What?” she asked.
“Did you get engaged to Peter because there was no passion or in spite of it?”
Without looking at him, she answered, “I think you know.”
“Carly.” He lifted her chin. His hazel eyes glittered with gold flecks and banked desire. When he spoke, he never took his gaze from hers. “Passion and love are healthy human emotions.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip.
The pull reached down to her inner core, the words passion and love colliding in her brain.
“Whoever taught you differently?” he asked.
Two tears ran down her cheeks. “When you’re ready to talk about it, I hope you’ll come to me.” Leaning toward her, he kissed the teardrops away.
* * *
Mike walked the stretch of private beach behind the Cape house. Barefoot, the sand felt cool beneath his feet. With the sun barely up over the horizon, the ground hadn’t yet warmed and was still brisk from the evening chill.
He asked himself again what he was doing here. The question had haunted him for the past three days. Three days in which Carly had treated him like a guest she either ran into or didn’t. He’d allowed her the privacy, ignoring the closeness of the small house even as he’d listened to her toss and turn in the next room at night. During the day he used the time to roam the public beaches and capture tourist shots for the newspaper. At night he paced the floors, wondering how much longer the reprieve would last.
He owed his colleagues more than a wave goodbye and a simple “see you later,” and his boss wouldn’t put up with much more of Mike’s silent routine. Beyond calling with a phone number, Mike had deliberately stayed out of touch. Because once he had to return abroad, he would hurt Carly as badly if not worse than his brother had. Not that she’d asked a damn thing from him. She didn’t have to. One glance at those bottomless eyes accomplished the same thing. He’d do anything for her.
Except leave her alone. If he left without testing those powerful feelings, he’d lose something precious. A less selfish man would walk away before she got hurt
“Hi.”
Startled, he turned. “I didn’t hear you.” But he was glad she’d sought him out on her own.
“Not too tough to sneak up on someone on the beach.” She held her sandals over one shoulder. “Bare feet.” She wiggled her toes for emphasis. Her pink nails stood out in sharp contrast to the beige sand.
“Someone’s in a good mood this morning,” he noted and wondered why. “Have you changed your mind about letting me hang around?”