Authors: Emily March
Her lover. Whoa
.
“She didn’t mention the honeymoon thing when she offered it,” he continued. “She asked if we’d rather have a soak in a private fresh water hot tub or a crowded mineral pool. I’ll take privacy over crowds any time, won’t you?”
“Umm …”
“Yes?”
“You know that old saying about out of the frying pan into the fire?”
It took him a moment to make the connection. That smile turned devilish. “You’re saying I make you hot.”
She lifted her chin.
“I’m saying you’re trying to seduce me.”
“I’ve been doing that since the day we met. You haven’t been cooperating. Until tonight.” He stepped close to her and took her in his arms. Lowering his voice to a sensual rumble, he said, “Don’t worry,
Bellissima
. I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
He kissed her, softly, sweetly, and so tenderly that she wanted to sigh. As first kisses went, it was perfect.
“That’s the problem,” she grumbled in a moment of honesty when he lifted his mouth from hers. “I’m more afraid of myself than I am of you.”
He laughed and stepped back. Grabbing her hand once again, he pulled her toward the honeymoon cottage.
Rose hadn’t seen the inside of the cottage since it was
completed, but she’d definitely heard about it. Celeste had built it the previous year and she was very picky about to whom she rented it. She wanted the honeymoon cottage to be a luxurious retreat for special couples.
So why the heck had she given Eternity Springs’s newest fox the henhouse key?
Warm, yellow lamplight glowed in the window of the charming Victorian cottage painted baby blue with white gingerbread trim. As they approached, she wondered about the late cancellation. Had a groom somewhere walked out on his bride at the altar?
Been there, done that—sort of
.
She and Brandon had already booked their honeymoon eight months out when her world fell apart. On the night that would have been her wedding night, she’d wondered who was sleeping in the ocean view bridal suite.
Don’t go there, she warned herself. Hunter Cicero wasn’t Brandon. He’d used her for her connection with her father. Cicero just wanted to connect.
As Rose stepped onto its front porch, she attempted to combat the nervousness rolling through her stomach by talking. “I’ve been meaning to take a look through this cottage for weeks. I walked through it when it was being built, but I haven’t seen the finished product. You’d think that since I live at Angel’s Rest, I’d keep up better with all the improvements Celeste is making around here. I know the cottage is becoming very popular. I recall her mentioning that a magazine writer visited earlier this month and is going to write an article about it. I’m surprised anyone would consider Eternity Springs as a honeymoon destination, but I guess if they’re looking for an out-of-the-way spot that’s still within driving distance of an airport, this valley is a good choice. I think—I’m babbling.”
“You’re nervous. Don’t be nervous with me,
Bellissima
.”
Cicero unlocked the door and opened it, then put his hand on her waist and ushered her inside. The front room was a sitting area furnished with a plush, oversized love seat and rocker big enough for two positioned in front of a stone fireplace. A kitchenette had granite countertops, gleaming cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and fresh red roses on the small drop-leaf table.
“It’s beautiful.”
Romantic
.
Dangerous …
“Celeste said there are switches for the outdoor lights and heaters along the back wall,” Cicero said, striding into the bedroom. Rose followed him to the threshold of the French doors where she hovered, unable to make herself follow the man toward that huge bed.
Until he flipped a switch and light flooded a walled-off courtyard outside.
“Oh, wow.”
Fingers of steam rose from the surface of a large, infinity-edged hot tub. Small waterfalls spilled from the hot tub into a plunge pool below. “Looks inviting,” Cicero observed. “I’ll go change.”
Rose nodded, then took advantage of his absence to open the door and step outside with the thought of slipping into the concealment of the bubbling water before he returned. She had never been the type to prance around strutting her stuff in her swimsuit, even as a teen. It had taken her the longest time to get comfortable being naked around Brandon.
She couldn’t believe she was contemplating getting naked in front of this gorgeous man.
The hot water felt divine and the clean smell of the water a welcome change from the stinky smell of the mineral waters at the hot springs pools. She settled back against
one of the jets so that the water pounded the muscles between her shoulder blades and started to relax.
Then the lights dimmed, soft jazz began to drift from unseen speakers, and the door to the cottage opened. Her tension flooded back. Cicero stepped outside wearing a spa robe and flip-flops and carrying a tray that held two flutes, a bottle of champagne and a plate of fruit and cheeses. He set the tray down beside the steaming water, and when his hands went to the belt on his robe, Rose’s mouth went dry. She felt a little light-headed.
Had he put on a bathing suit?
The robe pooled to his feet. Yes, he’d put on a bathing suit. She didn’t know whether she was glad or disappointed.
Not that there wasn’t plenty of skin to see. The man was built with broad shoulders, a muscular chest that declared him to be an outdoorsman rather than gym rat, and a flat stomach that hinted at a six-pack. All that exercising he’d been doing in the library, she thought. He had just enough chest hair to give him that masculine appeal without being hairy.
Rose sank a little lower in the water as he stepped into the pool.
“This feels great,” he said, taking a seat at an angle to her, his knee accidentally brushing hers. At least, it could have been accidental. Knowing him, though, he’d planned it.
“Champagne?”
She loved champagne. Absolutely adored it. But it went to her head faster than anything, and add that to possible dehydration from soaking in steaming hot water—not to mention the intoxicating effect of sharing said water with this fallen angel of a man—if she had any sense at all, she’d tell him no. “Yes, thank you.”
A moment later, the familiar pop echoed through the
night. Cicero filled a glass and handed it to her, then poured one for himself. Holding it up in a toast, he said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” She sipped her drink, consciously going slowly when what she really wanted to do was chug it. Tension rippled through her. Doubts assailed her. What in the world was she doing here? She reached for a distraction. “How did you break your nose?”
He stretched out his long legs and smiled.
“I’ve been assured that the break isn’t obvious. You’ve been studying me closely.”
“I’m a physician. I notice lots of things.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” He took a leisurely sip from his glass, then said, “I usually tell anyone who asks that a jealous husband did it. It makes for a more interesting story than the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
“Someone was bothering my sister and I tried to stop it.”
Curious about the incident, she wanted to ask more but his voice held a note of finality so she held her tongue. He changed the subject by saying, “So, tell me about your writing.”
Her writing? Now that surprised her. It was also the easiest question he could have asked her. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. What I’m most curious about is where you get your ideas.”
She laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Because it’s the question an artist always gets asked? The creative process is different for everyone. I’m interested in yours.”
The sentiment was one of the sexiest things he could have said to her because it showed interest in her beyond the surface. “My canned answer is that inspiration comes from everyday experiences.”
“What’s the truth?”
Rose took another sip of her champagne and absently shifted so that a water jet pounded against her spine between her shoulder blades. “I can tell you because you won’t think it’s crazy, right?”
His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smirk.
“Honey, believe me, I’ll understand.”
She drew in a deep breath, then confessed, “I hear voices.”
“Oh, yeah?” He sat up a little straighter. “Your characters speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“Now that’s cool.”
“Yeah, well, not so much. Usually—unfortunately—the villain begins the conversation.”
“Oh.” He took a contemplative sip of his champagne. “That adds a measure of creepiness to the process, I imagine.”
“You can’t begin to guess.”
“Once you write their story, do they leave you alone?”
“That depends. I’ve written one sequel.”
“Ah. Have these characters spoken to you all of your life?”
Rose hesitated, inwardly debating just how open she wanted to be. But the shadows and the privacy and yes, the company, added an intimacy to the night. She confessed something she’d never told another soul, not even Brandon. She’d only admitted it to herself in the last couple of years.
“It started after I was deployed to Afghanistan. I think it’s my mind’s way of dealing with some of the things I’ve seen. That’s what happened with my sister. She was with Doctors Without Borders and survived a horrible situation in Africa.”
She told him about Sage’s experience, and how it had driven her away from medicine. She told him about the
dark paintings Sage had produced that were so different from those whimsical works for which she was known. Rose talked for some time about her sister’s situation, answering his questions and sharing some of what she’d learned about the political realities of the war-torn region.
“In my twenties, I spent a few years backpacking—primarily in Europe, but I traveled through parts of Africa, too,” Cicero said. “It’s both a beautiful and a horrible continent. Now, tell me about Afghanistan.”
Rose delayed answering by sipping her champagne. This was not the focused, intense seduction she’d anticipated. “I don’t talk about it.”
“Afraid you’ll lose your character’s voices?”
“No, that’s not it. Writing is my hobby, not my passion. I’m different from Sage in that respect. Her therapy became her passion. Mine has remained a therapy.”
He reached for the cheese plate, then silently offered it to her. As she selected a plump strawberry, he suggested, “Maybe if you talked about it rather than write about it, that would help.”
Rose hesitated. Something about him compelled her to share the story, but caution held her tongue. “You know what they say: Doctors make the worst patients. I don’t think I can talk about it.”
“Okay, then. Tell me about one of your villains.”
That she could do. “His name is Brian Stebbins. He’s a surgeon whose stint in Iraq drove him crazy. He’s a serial killer who re-creates IED attacks then attempts to save his victims by doing field surgery. He always fails. Well, until the last two chapters.”
Cicero popped a grape into his mouth and slowly shook his head. “Whoa. That’s pretty scary, Dr. Anderson. So who defeated him? Who is your protagonist? A sexy, beautiful female physician?”
“Not hardly. My hero is a portly, balding gentleman who looks a little like Alfred Hitchcock.”
“Now you’ve totally ruined the fantasy.”
“He’s actually very charming, which is part of the reason he has three failed marriages.” She stretched out a leg and flexed her foot. “He is a complicated man, an orthopedist with a brilliant mind and a mild alcohol problem. His oldest illegitimate son is a detective on the case, which is what pulls him into the story.”
“I want to read it. Seriously. That sounds like the type of book that’s right up my alley. So, tell me how it works. You sit down at the computer and your characters dictate to you?”
“I wish it were that easy. Usually I sit down at the computer and I write two paragraphs, then delete one, then write three paragraphs, then delete two. So, how does the creative process work for you?”
There was a long pause then he said, “Lately, not very well.”
She heard a note in his voice that she’d never heard before, one of uncertainty with an amazing dash of insecurity. Hunt Cicero insecure? She found the idea both surprising and intriguing. He’d always seemed to be the most confident of men, the kind never to back down from a challenge. “Is there something similar to writer’s block for glass artists?”
“Apparently. I admit it’s a new experience for me. Not one I particularly enjoy.” He refilled his glass, then stared at the rising bubbles for a broody few seconds before asking, “Do you read poetry?”
That one came out of left field. “I’m afraid I’ve never developed an interest,” she confessed. “I blame it on my ninth grade English teacher. She made us memorize poems and stand up in front of the class and recite them. Pure horror for a beanpole of a ninth grader, let me tell
you. From then on out, my only exposure to any type of poetry has been the limericks my unit used to compose during our stint in Kandahar.”
“Limericks,” he repeated, his brow knitting thoughtfully.
“And bacon haikus.”
His grin flashed. “Bacon haikus?”
“State fair pig races
.
Poor showing blue ribbon run
.
Bacon for breakfast.”
“Your contribution?”
“No, my anesthesiologist’s—a former farm boy. Most competitive man I’ve ever met. He was very bitter about some of his stock show competitions.”
Cicero’s laughter rose on crisp night air, and the sound sent a sensual shiver running up Rose’s spine. To distract herself, she reached for a piece of cheddar cheese.
“Maybe that’s my mistake. I’ve been thinking about feathers instead of farm animals,” Cicero said.
“Feathers?”
This time when he hesitated, the silence stretched longer. Rose was about ready to conclude that he wouldn’t respond when he recited:
“Hope is the thing with feathers
.
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without
the words And never stops at all.”