relationship took trust and compromise and the relinquishing of control…and those were three luxuries that Chelsea would never have.
#
On a Tuesday in July, when the evening sky was streaked with the pink and orange of the setting sun and the temperature hovered near ninety, Chelsea was locking the door to the gallery when she sensed a presence behind her. It wasn’t the hairs standing up on the back of her neck feeling that signaled danger, but more of a…melting. A tremor of electric need shivered through her, starting at her toes and rocketing through her body.
“Chelsea Lana Ryder,” that voice said—the voice that had once before driven her senses to distraction.
Chelsea whirled around, her keys clattering to the pavement, and found herself staring into the dark depths of Ricardo de Santos’s eyes. His nearness had been an illusion; he was standing a respectful three feet away, his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. He was dressed more casually than the last time they met, but style still oozed from every inch of him: fine leather fisherman sandals, a soft cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled past his wrists, a heavy gold watch. His hair had grown out slightly, and the ends now curved resolutely. He hadn’t shaved, and a day’s growth shadowed his sculpted jaw, emphasizing the sensual curves of his mouth.
He bent and picked up her keys, hooking them on his index finger. They dangled between them, as rush hour traffic raced by on Soto Street and the pink sky deepened to orange.
Chelsea caught her breath. All she had to do was reach for the keys, but somehow her hands didn’t seem to be following the directions issued by her brain. Sensing that, Ricardo slowly smiled, a knowing, sly smile. He grasped one of her hands and turned it over, letting his thumb graze the sensitive skin of her palm before he dropped the keys into it. Still he didn’t let go, and his touch sent rivers of need up through her arm and straight to the core of her.
He folded her fingers one by one over the keys. She could feel their hard metallic edges biting into her skin, the sharp curve of the pewter key chain one of her clients had given her as a gift. Ricardo’s hand was large enough to fully enclose hers. God, what was this obsession with his hands ? She admonished herself. But of course—it was the only part of his body that she’d touched. If she’d only brushed against his elbow, she’d probably have an elbow fetish—
This was ridiculous. Chelsea jerked her hand back, tossing the keys into her bag. Never mind that she’d been obsessing over this man for weeks; it was just acrush, and she was a grown woman who didn’t need to respond to every twist and turn of her libido.
“What are you doing here?” she said, but it didn’t come out cool and indifferent as she’d planned. Her voice sounded thin and strained to her own ears.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Let me guess—you were in the neighborhood and you wanted to see how the other class lives. Those of us whose sales are still in the three digits, rather than six and seven.”
Ugh, now she just sounded petulant. Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut and mentally chastised herself. Lashing out when she felt cornered was an old, old habit; one that she’d mastered a long time ago. She wasn’t going to give in to it now.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, staring at the buttons on his shirt, unwilling to meet his eyes. “It’s just been a long day.”
“Then let me buy you a coffee.” He offered her his arm—how was it that most men couldn’t pull that gesture off without looking like a boy scout escorting a grandmother to church? Ricardo, of course, looked utterly suave.
To refuse now would only make things worse, so Chelsea slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The cotton of his shirt was fine and smooth to her touch, but she could feel the heat of his skin underneath.
“I—I really don’t have time for