A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

There was no awkwardness––and no hesitation. There was also an odd sense of familiarity present between us that I couldn’t explain. My hands, moving of their own volition, stroked his shoulders and traveled up his neck. As I raked my short nails through his hair, he breathed out a relaxed sigh and pulled me tighter. The hand on my lower back pushed me up against the erection straining against his soft, worn jeans. My hips, having plans of their own, hitched up and pressed against him, striking me in just the right spot. I shivered as a bolt of lightning raced through my attention-starved body and a low moan rose up my throat. God, how embarrassing.

He broke the kiss and my eyes fluttered open. A wicked half-smile curved his perfect lips. That smug smile jolted me right out of the alcohol and sex induced spell, fury exploding within me. I pushed away and slapped him––hard. The loud crack echoed in the kitchen.

I had never struck anyone in my life. One, it’s not in my nature. And two, I’m a physician––the Hippocratic oath and all that. However, the satisfaction I felt seeing his startled expression was obscene. The bewilderment on his face though quickly transformed to cool mockery.

“Is this how you get your kicks? Screwing around with the help?”

“Not usually.” He sounded bored, as if he didn’t particularly care one way or the other for what he had just sampled. That ratcheted up my sense of outrage.

“I was hoping for some civility,” I bit out, right before I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve. “I see now that’s asking too much of you. I haven’t got a clue what you’re about, or what game you’re playing, but don’t ever touch me again!”

And then he smiled.

The first genuine smile I had ever seen on him. It was a ridiculous, blinding thing, all American white teeth and scorching sensuality…and thank heavens he never used it because it reduced my brain into a useless pile of grey matter within seconds.

He barked out a laugh when my scowl slipped. He actually laughed at me. So I did the only thing I could, I gathered up the tattered remains of my dignity, turned on my heels, and stalked out of the room.

By the time I reached my bedroom, the happy buoyancy I had felt earlier in the evening had long vanished. In its place there was an anchor sinking me to a level of self-loathing I had never quite experienced before.

I felt like the biggest fool, cringing as I thought of how easily I had succumbed to his seduction. For a horrified moment I contemplated what could have happened if he hadn’t broken the kiss and smiled at me. I had to stay as far away from him as possible, because I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, least of all, my own judgment.

* * *

I didn’t see him for days after the incident. Mrs. Arnaud mentioned in passing that he had stayed at the apartment. I assumed he was choosing to avoid me. He never stayed in town anymore, to my everlasting regret, or maybe it was about work. Regardless, I wasn’t prepared to face him. I was living in a state of high anxiety. I didn’t know if I should say something, or let time smooth things over. I just hoped we could both pretend it never happened and things could go back to normal. His constant taunting and insults paled in comparison to how his kisses messed with my head. I almost longed for those days.

Thoughts of him consumed my every waking moment, distracting me to the point that it was interfering with my work. I misplaced things, burned the coffee twice, and put fabric softener into the washing machine instead of detergent.

Every time I thought about that night, I turned hot and restless. My entire body flushed and a heavy ache took up residence south of my waist. I was sure I wasn’t the first woman to swoon at his feet, but I had no desire to be part of that overcrowded club.

I had just finished organizing the linens and towels for the guests arriving for the weekend when Mrs. Arnaud sent me on one last errand. She handed me five wooden hangers draped with his beautifully tailored shirts. They were all creamy white, except for the simple, tiny monogram sewn in a midnight thread on the cuff…SCH.

“Vera, bring these up to Mr. Horn’s closet, make sure they face the same direction as the others, and organize them by color. It upsets him when it’s not done properly so please be careful. And then you’re done for the day. You worked way too late yesterday, you can’t keep pushing yourself like that.”

“Yes, madame.”

I didn’t bother explaining that I had to push myself to stop from remembering the feel of his hands on me, the taste of him. Fuzzy, lust-filled images would flash through my mind at the worst possible moments. Earlier that day, while eating lunch, François was speaking about his daughter––I think, I was barely paying attention––when suddenly I could feel the curved planes of his chest against my breasts, his hands kneading my rear end…the feel of the hard column of his sex. When my eyes met François’, my face burst into flames. His curious expression turned heated, then a slow smile stretched across his face. That’s all I needed, more complications with men I had no business getting involved with. I turned away abruptly while he was in the middle of a sentence and probably left him wondering whether I had lost my mind.