“Feet hurt?” he asked.
“A little.”
“May I ask why you wear high heels?”
“Because I adore them. I’ll be wearing high heels in my coffin.”
His eyes crinkled. He curled his fingers inward a couple of times. “Give your feet here. I’ll massage them.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She was wearing a wide, camel-colored skirt, which she tucked around her in a ladylike way. Propping her back on a stack of throw pillows, she rested her feet in his lap.
“What about these pantyhose?” he asked. “Do you adore them also?”
“Yes. My sheer nylons are another fashion accessory I’ll be taking with me to the coffin.”
Supporting one foot in his hands, he ran the pad of his thumb firmly up her arch.
“Heaven,” she moaned.
His beard creased around his grin. She liked the contrast between his silvery hair and lightly tanned skin. His brown eyes communicated steadiness. In the way of men, his wrinkles didn’t make him look old and tired but instead lent him character.
Fiona let her eyelids drift closed to better focus on the sensations. She heard the fire devouring dry logs and a bird’s distant caw.
Burke Ainsley was more comforting than wine. He accepted all her sharp angles and so with him she felt . . . at home. For the first time since she’d received the returned letter, the shakiness inside began to diminish.
After a time, he switched feet. She said nothing, unwilling to break the spell. When she could tell he was finishing up, she cracked an eye and murmured, “Rubbing my feet goes above and beyond the call of friendship.”
He wiggled the tip of each toe. “I’d like to go above and beyond friendship with you.”
Both her eyes opened. So there it was. He’d finally given voice to the magnetism he felt toward her.
He regarded her with a mild expression. He didn’t look anxious, he simply looked honest.
“That’s very flattering,” she said, “and if there’s one thing I like—”
“It’s flattery.”
“Precisely.” She brought her feet to the carpet. Sitting upright, she crossed her legs. “However, I won’t suit as anything more than your friend.”
“Because?”
“Because I only allow myself fun, harmless flings.”
“Because?”
“Because my ex-husband sired a child with my closest friend, then kept that secret for fourteen years. I’m not inclined to dally with marriage again. Which only leaves fun, harmless flings.”
“And you’re not interested in having a fling with me?”
“Oh, I’m interested. But I only go for men that A) I can’t take seriously and B) won’t be heartbroken when I end things. My lightweight romances have all been with men who understood the deal. You, Burke, are not made for lightweight romance.”
“No. But I don’t think you are, either.”
“Yes, I am. I’m the high-maintenance one with a wicked reputation. You’re hunky Nice Dad.”
