The Cutting Edge by Linda Howard

try to make love to her again? She was afraid that he would, and even more afraid that he wouldn’t.
    Billie regarded her friend thoughtfully. “You know, this is the first time I’ve seen you get cloudy-eyed over a man. Is this one special to you?”
    â€œI’m afraid he will be.” Well aware of the admission in those few words, Tessa wound her suddenly shaking fingers together.
    â€œYou don’t want to fall in love? Sometimes I think I’d give anything I own to find the right guy, the real McCoy.” Why should Tessa, of all people, be nervous about a man? Of all the people Billie knew, Tessa was the most comfortable with men, a woman who honestlyenjoyed a man’s company. It didn’t make sense for her to be so wary.
    Tessa didn’t volunteer Brett’s name, and Billie didn’t ask, for which Tessa was grateful. She didn’t know how Brett felt about their connection being known, but she knew she wouldn’t like the gossip that would flow as surely as the tides followed the moon if it became known that she was seeing Brett Rutland. His position automatically made their relationship difficult. She was totally uninterested in climbing the corporate ladder, but that wouldn’t keep people from saying that she was trying to get ahead on the strength of her performance in the bedroom rather than in the office.
    Because of her uneasiness at both the way she was beginning to feel about him and the difficult situation she could find herself in at work, she was quiet that night. She could feel his cool gaze dissecting her, trying to probe her thoughts. Over coffee, he asked, “Has something upset you?” His voice was so even that it took her a moment to hear the steel in it.
    She blew across the steaming surface of the coffee, then sipped it. “Not really. I’m a little at a loss. Would you rather not have people from the office know we’ve been out together?”
    â€œI don’t give a damn who knows.”
    â€œI know I’m being premature in worrying about it. After all, we’ve only been out twice, and that doesn’t mean—”
    â€œYes, it does mean,” he interrupted, reaching for her hand. He put his hand on the table, palm up, and looked at her slender fingers as they lay across his palm. The contrast in their hands was striking, in ways besidesthe obvious one of size. His hands were powerful, lean and hard, with long fingers and short clean nails, his fingertips rough, his skin bronzed. Her hands were slim and delicate, the bones so fragile that her fingers were almost translucent, her oval nails polished. Her hands bore no rings.
    â€œHave you ever been married?” he asked abruptly, looking at her bare fingers.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œEngaged?”
    She sipped her coffee for a moment before replying. “Twice.”
    His eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
    â€œI found out that I didn’t love either of them enough.”
    â€œYou must have thought you did, at one time.”
    She sighed and looked away from him. She didn’t particularly want to talk about her failed engagements, which to her were almost as bad as failed marriages, but she could sense his determination to get the details out of her.
    â€œThe first time, it was an infatuation that I took for love, that’s all. I was in college, and Will was a medical student. He wanted us to get married right away; he’d already planned for me to quit college and put him through school. I gave him his ring back.”
    He was watching her very closely, reading every nuance of expression that crossed her face. “And the second time?” he asked, dismissing Will as unimportant because he sensed her reluctance to continue.
    â€œAndrew,” she said slowly, somehow feeling compelled to answer him. “He did something that hurt me, and I didn’t love him enough to forgive him.”
    After several moments of silence,