haunting eyes to go with the sweet voice, and all of her was so damned unforgettable.
He didn't go to the connecting doors, but out into the hallway to her door. He thought as he knocked quietly that she had every reason to tell him to go to hell, and no reason at all to want to see him again. But the door opened.
"May I talk to you?" he asked. She was wearing some kind of lounging outfit, pants and a loose, peasant-type top made of terrycloth, the same pale green as her eyes. With her creamy skin and bright hair she was a heartbreakingly gorgeous sight. For the first time, he wondered if her absence from his side was why there had been a constant ache in his chest since this morning. Quickly, he pushed the thought aside.
Erin hesitated, then stepped back to allow him to enter. He went into the sitting room, absently noticing a large sketchpad on the table near the balcony doors and remembering that she had decided to take up artwork. There was a charcoal drawing on the top page, but he didn't go near enough to see what it was. He turned to face Erin, and she spoke before he could.
"You didn't have to come here, you know." Her voice was soft, her face expressionless. "I've already decided to leave, so—"
"Don't," he said involuntarily.
She shook her head. "What was it you said about me, that I didn't know what I wanted? That seems to be your problem."
"I know what I want. I also know what I can't have."
Erin's chin lifted slightly and a spark of anger showed in her eyes. "Do you mind? I really don't want to hear that kind of statement again. I don't know what game you're playing, Keith, but you can count me out. I may have thrown my pride to the winds with you this morning, but I've stopped that now. I'm not a masochist."
Keith shoved his hands into his pockets, fighting the insane urge to reach out and yank her into his arms. "I'm sorry, Erin. I never meant to hurt you. And it wasn't—isn't—a game. You have to understand."
She didn't understand, and hours of grappling with her own emotions had left Erin in a precarious balance on the edge of control. She was baffled by him, by the contrast between his words and his actions. He kept saying no and yet he couldn't seem to stay away, couldn't close the door between them. She had the consolation of knowing that this was difficult for him, but it didn't help at all because she didn't understand why he was fighting so hard.
And complicating the whole thing was her confused certainty that he really was concerned about her, that he was convinced he would hurt her, and was determined not to. His sensitivity argued against his own words. If he cared so much about not hurting her, then how could he be capable of doing it? Erin had held her own with men who had made careers of being enigmatic, but Keith had her totally bewildered.
During the last hours, she had told herself he'd been right this morning; she didn't know what she wanted. He was the first man she had felt so—so overwhelmed by, and thinking clearly about him seemed beyond her. All her instincts told her there was a great deal of anger in him, that he was a dangerous man, and yet she didn't feel the least threat from or fear of him. What she felt, more than anything else, was a sense of certainty, of conviction.
She sighed. What good was her confidence when he struggled so hard against it? No good.
Erin squared her shoulders and met his intense gaze with all the coolness she could muster. "If you've said what you came here for, then please leave. I have to finish packing."
"I don't want you to go," he said.
She wasn't given to emotional gestures, but if there had been something heavy nearby, Erin would have thrown it at him. Instead, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and counted silently to ten. Then, carefully, she said, "I want to go."
"Do you?"
"Stop it, Keith!" She looked around a little wildly, but there was nothing heavy close by.
An odd laugh escaped him. "I know—I'm not being
He didn't go to the connecting doors, but out into the hallway to her door. He thought as he knocked quietly that she had every reason to tell him to go to hell, and no reason at all to want to see him again. But the door opened.
"May I talk to you?" he asked. She was wearing some kind of lounging outfit, pants and a loose, peasant-type top made of terrycloth, the same pale green as her eyes. With her creamy skin and bright hair she was a heartbreakingly gorgeous sight. For the first time, he wondered if her absence from his side was why there had been a constant ache in his chest since this morning. Quickly, he pushed the thought aside.
Erin hesitated, then stepped back to allow him to enter. He went into the sitting room, absently noticing a large sketchpad on the table near the balcony doors and remembering that she had decided to take up artwork. There was a charcoal drawing on the top page, but he didn't go near enough to see what it was. He turned to face Erin, and she spoke before he could.
"You didn't have to come here, you know." Her voice was soft, her face expressionless. "I've already decided to leave, so—"
"Don't," he said involuntarily.
She shook her head. "What was it you said about me, that I didn't know what I wanted? That seems to be your problem."
"I know what I want. I also know what I can't have."
Erin's chin lifted slightly and a spark of anger showed in her eyes. "Do you mind? I really don't want to hear that kind of statement again. I don't know what game you're playing, Keith, but you can count me out. I may have thrown my pride to the winds with you this morning, but I've stopped that now. I'm not a masochist."
Keith shoved his hands into his pockets, fighting the insane urge to reach out and yank her into his arms. "I'm sorry, Erin. I never meant to hurt you. And it wasn't—isn't—a game. You have to understand."
She didn't understand, and hours of grappling with her own emotions had left Erin in a precarious balance on the edge of control. She was baffled by him, by the contrast between his words and his actions. He kept saying no and yet he couldn't seem to stay away, couldn't close the door between them. She had the consolation of knowing that this was difficult for him, but it didn't help at all because she didn't understand why he was fighting so hard.
And complicating the whole thing was her confused certainty that he really was concerned about her, that he was convinced he would hurt her, and was determined not to. His sensitivity argued against his own words. If he cared so much about not hurting her, then how could he be capable of doing it? Erin had held her own with men who had made careers of being enigmatic, but Keith had her totally bewildered.
During the last hours, she had told herself he'd been right this morning; she didn't know what she wanted. He was the first man she had felt so—so overwhelmed by, and thinking clearly about him seemed beyond her. All her instincts told her there was a great deal of anger in him, that he was a dangerous man, and yet she didn't feel the least threat from or fear of him. What she felt, more than anything else, was a sense of certainty, of conviction.
She sighed. What good was her confidence when he struggled so hard against it? No good.
Erin squared her shoulders and met his intense gaze with all the coolness she could muster. "If you've said what you came here for, then please leave. I have to finish packing."
"I don't want you to go," he said.
She wasn't given to emotional gestures, but if there had been something heavy nearby, Erin would have thrown it at him. Instead, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and counted silently to ten. Then, carefully, she said, "I want to go."
"Do you?"
"Stop it, Keith!" She looked around a little wildly, but there was nothing heavy close by.
An odd laugh escaped him. "I know—I'm not being
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