Tempest in Eden

Not yet. She didn't want to open her eyes yet. For a self-indulgent moment she wanted to be coddled, held against the solid wall of this magnificent chest. She loved feeling his chin moving over her head. Her cheek and nose were being pressed into his damp, warm neck. He smelled of male perspiration mingling with a brisk cologne. That scent, the heat emanating from him, the hand that stroked her hair, and the lulling voice induced her not to awaken from her faint. It was far more pleasant to remain helpless and protected.

"I'm sorry, so sorry."

They were on the grass. She could feel it beneath her bare legs. Ian must have carried her off the court and cradled her in his arms as he sat down on the early summer grass, soft and green. How marvelous it was to be held securely in strong arms. Had she been given the choice, she might have chosen to stay there forever with his deep voice vibrating through her body with each heartfelt word and his hand—

She became aware of his hand. Not the one stroking her hair comfortingly. The other one. It was gently rubbing the area of her injury. Under her short skirt, with only the red tennis trunks between them, he was massaging her derrière. Gently he squeezed her, then his hand flattened, and he rubbed her with a slow, circular motion of his palm. And all the while he murmured his regret for having bruised and hurt her with his deadly serve.

She allowed her hand to wander up his ribs to clutch at the breast pocket of his knit shirt. The contoured muscles flexed and hardened beneath her hand. Then she lifted the screen of dark lashes from her eyes, and she was looking directly into his eyes. Their faces were inches apart as he bent over her.

He sighed his relief and closed his eyes for a brief instant before asking in a hushed voic

e, "Are you all right?"

She nodded, captivated by his nearness and the fragrant ghost of his breath which drifted across her face. "Yes."

"Shay, please forgive me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know." Why was she willing to absolve him so readily? She should be as mad as hell. Instead she was lying here, a victim of delicious lassitude, forgiving him with the benevolent generosity of a saint. To rail at him for his brutal game, which had finally resulted in her getting hurt, would require that she move away from him. Then he wouldn't be looking at her with unspeakable tenderness. His fingertips wouldn't be gliding over the features of her face as though he adored them. His other hand wouldn't be caressing—for there was no other word to describe the rhythmic stroking—the round fullness of her hip that even now throbbed with the impact of the rocketing tennis ball.

He couldn't forgive himself so easily. "I was well into the serve, watching the ball. I didn't see that you'd turned around until it was too late." He touched her cheek. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have hurt you for anything in the world."

"But you were showing off," she said softly with a teasing smile.

"I was showing off," he admitted self-deprecatingly.

He grinned, and her heart expanded behind her breasts, causing them to swell and tingle. They were suddenly bursting with sensations she'd thought long dead. She'd buried those feelings after her marriage had ended in failure. Was that glorious breathlessness really there? Was it due to the accident or caused by something else much more significant?

He was gorgeous, if that adjective could be used on such a masculine face. Against the azure summer sky, which accented the color of his eyes, his hair shone raven black. Drawn into jagged furrows, his dark brows expressed his concern for her. A beautifully shaped nose, which was straight and slender only to flare slightly at the nostrils, formed a perfect bridge between his compelling eyes and sensuous lips. Shay wondered if the women in his congregation found it difficult to concentrate on the spirituality of his sermons as they watched that mobile mouth form the words.

The hip that wasn't being soothed by his hand rested in his lap. Beneath her bare thigh, she could feel his. It was hard and warm. The springy hairs that bristled from it tickled her skin. He had raised one knee to support her back. Her lightheadedness returned when she realized that her naked back was lying along his thigh.

Her eyes roamed avariciously over his face. She wanted to take as much advantage of the moment as she could. "You play tennis very well," she said, barely recognizing her own voice. It came through her lips like a seductive shadow.

He didn't answer for a long time. His eyes were doing their fair share of greedy touring. He catalogued each of her features: brow, eyes, and nose came under his avid gaze. Then his eyes rested on her mouth and stayed. And stayed. They were still there when he said throatily, "Championship tennis team in college."

For long, portentous moments they didn't say anything, only looked, as though before now they had been starved for the sight of the other. The only movement was his hand, which still idly massaged the bruised spot. Almost imperceptibly his head moved closer. Her lips parted. His did the same. Her heart thudded in her chest—or was she feeling the pounding of his as she was pressed tighter against him?

Her hand crept up the collar of his shirt and slipped inside. "Ian?"

"Shay."

His face ducked lower. Even closer, closer. Her eyes focused on his mouth. She could almost taste its moist softness melding with hers.

She felt his body tense and go rigid at the same moment that he inhaled sharply. Reflexively the fingers on her bottom squeezed, then released her. His hand was yanked away as though it had been tugged upon by a malicious puppeteer. His head jerked upward, and she was dumped from his lap onto the grass as he jumped to his feet.

He stalked away from her to a nearby tree, where he leaned his forehead on the rough trunk. His whole body was trembling as his shoulders heaved with gasping breaths. Restless fists thumped against his thighs. His whole aspect was that of a man trying desperately to get a grip on control that was rapidly disintegrating.

Offended and hurt beyond measure, Shay stood up. She barely kept herself from falling when the injured hip almost failed to support her. The pain had diminished only to the level of a dull throb. Damn him!

"What's the matter, Reverend Douglas?" she taunted acerbically. "Did the scarlet woman almost tempt you to fall from grace? Heaven forbid that you kiss such a vile person as me."

He spun around, his physical agitation fueling his temper. His blue eyes were stormy. She could see it was an effort for him to speak in calm, level tones. "You'd better sit down and rest until our parents get back. You've just come out of a faint."

"And whose fault is that? You of all people should have heard about the meek inheriting the earth. You're nothing but a big bully. I'll have a horrible bruise for a month."

"No one would see it if you didn't—" He seemed about to say something, possibly something ribald, but he amended it. "If you didn't do what you do."

"How perceptive of you to realize that thanks to you I might not be able to work for several weeks."