Unfortunately, subtlety wasn’t exactly her strong point.
“What was that?” she asked when he mumbled something unintelligible.
“Stubborn,” he enunciated clearly. “I said you’re stubborn, Miss Thorncroft.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
Kincaid glowered. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“No, oddly enough it never seems to be. Oh, there’s your shirt.” Spying the garment crumpled underneath the bed, she knelt down and picked it up. The shirt smelled of him. Were he not staring at her with daggers in his eyes, she might have been tempted to bury her face in the folds of the soft fabric and inhale his scent.
“I’ll take that,” he said stiffly. With great reluctance, she handed it over and watched, nails digging into her hips, as he quickly dressed himself, his fingers working nimbly to push the buttons into place. But try as he might, he couldn’t secure his right sleeve cuff. After observing him struggle for nearly a minute, she rolled her eyes and stepped forward.
“Let me.” Bending her head in concentration, Joanna easily slid the pewter button through the tiny hole. “There you are, all done.” But she didn’t move away, and neither did Kincaid. Her attention drawn to a long, narrow scar on his wrist that had silvered with age, she gently ran her thumb across the mark.
“What happened?” she asked, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. He stood impossibly still, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only indication he was still breathing.
“I needed to break a window,” he said.
“With yourhand?”
“There wasn’t a hammer available.”
“It must have been very painful.” Acting on impulse, she lowered her head and ever-so-gently pressed her lips to the small scar. “There,” she murmured. “All better.”
Above her Kincaid let out a hiss. “Miss Thorncroft.”
“Yes?” she said softly, tilting her chin up. The piercing intensity she saw in the depths of his eyes sent her pulse skittering. Sitting behind his desk with his spectacles and his journal, Kincaid could have easily passed for a mild-mannered professor. But when they were face to face, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, there wasn’t anything the least bitmildabout him.
“We swore we wouldn’t do this again,” he said roughly, even as he reached out and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, the back of his fingers brushing along the curved edge.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Her belly quivered in anticipation.
“Maybeyouswore,” she said. “But I never make promises I have no intention of keeping.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Joanna…”
It was the first time he’d spoken her first name, and it felt exhilarating to hear it spill from his lips. It felt good. It felt…it feltnatural. She wanted to hear him say her name again. And again. She wanted to hear him say it in a shout. She wanted to hear him say it in a whisper. She wanted to hear him say it as his mouth glided along her skin and she came alive beneath his touch.
His eyes still closed, he rested his temple against hers in a gesture that was achingly vulnerable. “We cannot.”
She was filled with the urge to wrap her arms around him and draw him to her breast. To soothe him as one might a child. Because while his reasons for always yanking away at the last possible moment were still unknown to her, something was clear: Kincaid was in pain. The deep, wrenching pain that only came after a great loss.
Joanna had learned what that pain felt like after her father died. And again, when she’d learned the secrets her parents had kept hidden from her. It was not a burden she wished on anyone. Least of all Kincaid, who may have been gruff and surly on the outside, but whose heart was pure and true. If she could have carried some of the weight, she would have. But to do that, she needed to know what demons haunted him.
“Why?” she asked gently, splaying her hands across his chest. “Why can’t we?”
On ragged breath, he lifted his head. “Because it wouldn’t be right.”
“With everything that’s happened, it is the only thing thatdoesseem right.” She went to cup the side of his face, but he caught her wrist.
“No,” he said hoarsely, dragging her arm away. “I won’t repeat past mistakes.”
“What kind of mistakes?”
His eyes met hers, and the bleakness she saw in his gaze tugged straight at her heart. “The kind I cannot afford to make again.” He released her arm, stepped away, and raked his hands through his hair, fingers disappearing in the tangled locks of brown. “Miss Thorncroft, I’d like you to leave. We can reconvene on the morrow.”
