As if there weren't bother enough, now Hugh was back, the whoremaster, half ready to carry on as though he'd never been gone. When you both knew the past was past.
But why not just make the most of whatever happens . . . and time be damned.
She turned and glanced back toward the bed. He was awake now too, propped up on one elbow, groggily watching. For a moment she thought she might have disturbed him getting up—in years past he used to grumble about that—but then she caught the look in his eyes.
What the pox. In truth it wasn't always so bad, having him back now and again. . . .
Slowly her focus strayed to the dark hair on his chest, the part not lightened to rust by the sun, and she realized she was the one who wanted him. This minute.
But she never hinted that to Hugh Winston. She never gave him the least encouragement. She kept the whoreson off balance, else he'd lose interest. After you got to know him the way she did, you realized Hugh fancied the chase. As she started to look away, he smiled and beckoned her over. Just like she'd figured . . .
She adjusted the other shutters, then took her own sweet time strolling back. Almost as though he weren't even there. Then she casually settled onto the bed, letting him see the fine profile of her breasts, and just happening to drape one long leg where he could manage to touch it.
But now she was beginning to be of two minds. God's life, it was too damned hot, Hugh or no.
He ignored her ankle and, for some reason, reached out
and silently drew one of his long brown fingers down her cheek. Very slowly. She stifled a shiver, reminding herself she'd had quite enough of men in general, and Hugh Winston in particular, to do a lifetime.