This tingling inside of her wasn’t a simple descent of gravity.
It was a spinning. A twirling. Adancing.
She was waltzing with Kincaid. And for once, they were moving in unison.
Until he exhaled, and abruptly hauled her to her feet.
“You little fool,” he growled as any traces of softness vanished in apoofof proverbial smoke. “You could have been killed. You almostwerekilled. What the devil were you thinking, stepping off the pavement like that without looking first? You areneverto put your life at risk like that again.” He gave her a small, painless shake. “Do you understand me?”
Taken aback by the dark fury burning in his eyes, Joanna was slow to respond. She felt as if she’d been languishing in a hot bath, only to have a bucket of cold water suddenly dumped on her head. Where had it come from? Better yet, what was its purpose?
“Would…would that have bothered you?” she asked. “If I were hurt?”
“Would it have bothered me?” he repeated incredulously. “Would it havebotheredme? Yes, it bloody well would have! What sort of stupid question is that?”
Why, he’s scared, she realized.
Frightened out of his wits, really.
Because ofher.
She could all but feel Kincaid’s anger vibrating in the air. But beneath all that bristling, tumultuous rage was panic and fear. Fear that he wouldn’t have felt…unless he felt what she did. Daring to risk his wrath, she stretched up and gently brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because you’re my client, and I’m responsible for you.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
“Because you’re my secretary, and I don’t have time to find another.”
“Why?” she persisted.
She wanted—she needed—to hear him say it. Actions were all well and good, but sometimes words were the only thing that could fill a heart. If he was going to drain her emotions like this, he couldn’t leave her empty. He had to give hersomething. Something to fill her until the next kiss. Something to sustain her until the next soft moment. Something to give her hope that when she was done spinning, and twirling, and falling, he would catch her.
He would always catch her.
Because he was right. Shecouldhave been killed. And maybe it was selfish of her but, before she died, she wanted what kings went to war for. She wanted what sonnets were made of. She wanted what poets wrote about.
Lust, and longing, and love.
She wanted itall,damnit.
And she wanted it with Kincaid.
“I understand your reservations,” she began when he remained wrapped in icy silence. “I would have them, too, if I were in your place and a stranger arrived unannounced on my doorstep, demanding things. Making me feel things I didn’t want to feel. But I know that I’m more thanjustyour client. I’m more thanjustyour secretary.” Wide eyes framed with thick lashes implored him to open up to her. To lower his guard. To come out from behind his wall of stone. To trust her as she trusted him. With her secrets, with her life…and with her heart. “I do not want to keep going in circles.”
“Whatdoyou want?” he demanded, all raw tension and simmering angst.
“You, Thomas Kincaid,” she said with quiet conviction. “I want you. And I know—”
“You don’tknowanything,” he snarled. “Not about me. Not about what you’re asking.Nothing.”
“Kincaid—”
But he was already walking away.
And this time, there was no one to catch her when she fell.
