Gladys would never fall for a rakehell such as Medford. Not again. He’d destroyed that hopeful, romantic part of her years ago. Now he would learn what that sensation felt like.
It was her turn to lift his hopes, then break his heart.
Medford wouldn’t be socially ruined, as Gladys had been. Or have his entire life incontrovertibly shattered, as he’d done to Gladys. But by God, for once there would be consequences to his thoughtless dalliances.
Enough pain so that next time, maybe he’d think about the human being he was playing with.
“Now.” His soft voice fluttered behind her ear. “We’re not going to toss the stone up into the air, as you were doing before. The trick is to cast it straight and true.”
She tensed, certain that he was going to close his hand about hers once more. Dreading it. Dying for it. Yearning to feel her fist swallowed up in the strength of his hand.
“Ready?” His hand closed about hers. She shivered. He drew her fist back slightly. “Loosen your grip.”
Loosen? She was so weak, she was practically boneless. She was lucky she was holding herself upright, and not nestling backwards into his warm chest. If that made it difficult to release her death grip on this rock, well, that was because she’d learnt the importance of self-preservation the hard way. He was a much better teacher than he realized. He’d taught her not to trust him. No matter what love words he might utter or how pleasurable his rakish touch might feel.
“Now I throw?” she managed, her voice unaccountably strained and breathy.
“Now you throw.”
She chucked the stone into the water and spun out of his grasp before he could muddle her thoughts any more.
“Not like that,” he said, as though she really had invited him out here to give her lessons on skipping rocks. “Watch me do it.”
She crossed her arms from a safe distance.
He scanned the earth for appropriate stones, selecting three before straightening. He showed her each one, then assumed a sturdy position, his wide shoulders facing the stream. “Are you watching?”
“Riveted,” she said dryly.
He tossed the stone several inches into the air, catching it lightly, then drew his arm back and sent the stone spinning forward, to skip twice across the stream before sinking into the water.
“I am agog at your prowess,” she told him. “This must be how it felt to watch Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel.”
“I can do better,” he assured her. “Watch this.”
This time, the stone skipped four times before disappearing into the water.
Grinning, he turned to her and made a come-hither motion with his hands, whilst wiggling his eyebrows provocatively. “Return to my embrace, sweet protégée. I shall not rest until I’ve taught you the right moves.”
“You intend to manhandle me until I can skip a rock across a river?”
“I shan’t leave your side until you have the knack of it.”
She held out her hand. “Rock.”
He placed the third and final stone in her palm.
She turned toward the spring and let fly with a practiced motion.
The stone skipped nine times before sinking.
Gladys wiggled her fingers at the astonished rake. “Au revoir, Mr. Medford. Do have a lovely day.”
“But,” he sputtered. “You… How did you do that?”
“It’s all in the wrist. I’m sure you can find someone to teach you.”
“But how did… When I came around the corner, you were…”
