The Unwilling Bride by Jennifer Greene Page A

of her hair invoked sensual, feminine feelings…yearnings…that never seemed to trouble her by day. It was only at night, that her four poster bed looked big and lonely. Only at night, that she would sometimes wake up from dreams, always alone, conscious that she had no one to wrap her arms around after a nightmare.
    She still had nightmares, from that time in her life when she’d been spring-green young and wild—and a keg of dynamite hormones. She wasn’t afraid of sex, she’d reassured herself a million times. In this small town, there were simply very few single men her age running around. Before that, she’d been busy learning her trade—and since the nature of her work was isolating, and she loved her work, a celibate life-style had just sort of…happened. Possibly she’d turned down a few opportunities, maybe even more than a few. But anyone who accused her of being afraid of intimacy or sex would be dead wrong.
    An image of Stefan flashed through her mind. The brawny tilt to his shoulders, the wicked spark of sexual awareness in his eyes, the twist of a man’s smile…a man’s way of looking at her.
    For two weeks now, she’d convinced herself she was imagining that look in his eyes. Clearly Stefan wanted and needed a friend. He was lonely in a strange country, and that one kiss had simply been accidental—his whole nature was physical and affectionate and exuberantly effusive. He didn’t want her. She had no reason on earth to think he sought her company because he desired her, and she’d never done one thing with her appearance or actions to lead him in that direction.
    Suddenly, though, she realized she was shivering.
    Sitting on a window seat next to frostbite-cold panes of glass, it was hardly a wonder the chill was getting to her. She dropped the brush, bounced down and dived straight for the cave of comforters and quilts.
    Even in the dark, though, she could see the soft glow of the jade cameo from the moonlight’s reflection. Until she punched the pillow, turned the other way and firmly closed her eyes.
    As soon as Paige opened the door, Stefan thrust the bowl in her hands. “I just want to bring you small present, for being so kind about letting me use your television. It’s a sweet, called Russian Cream. We call it ‘food for the gods,’ made of cream and sugar and sour cream—nothing good for you, make arteries cringe in horror—but believe you will find it one of those to-die-for things.”
    “Stefan, you didn’t have to do this.” But he saw the way she stared at the confection.
    “Not have to, no. But I am much grateful that you have dish antenna since my house does not. Cannot get Star Trek, no way, on my plain old boob tube. And almost late today. It’s nearly four.”
    “I know. And, um, Stefan, I know I’m the one who introduced you to the show a couple of weeks ago, but do you think there’s a teensy chance you’ve become obsessed with Star Trek?”
    “Obsessed? Great word. You betcha, I am happily obsessed, would be devastated if I missed this twoparter with Spock.” Casual and easy, he pushed off his boots and threw his jacket over a chair. Familiar with her house now, he copped a spoon from the kitchen, then aimed for her back den—and the remote control. The picture zoomed on the screen just as Kirk was explaining the Enterprise mission about going where no man has gone before.
    A fitting analogy for Paige, Stefan increasingly suspected—and was conscious of her following him as far as the doorway, still holding the bowl of Russian Cream.
    She had accurately guessed that he had a problem with obsession, although so far, she seemed to think a daily dose of rerun Star Treks was the cause. He was here for Paige, not Spock. And the way to her heart was clearly through her stomach, hence his bnnging the Russian Cream.
    His feelings for her had grown out of control, but as Stefan saw it, that problem was entirely her fault. He was lonesome for a woman, he knew that,