"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. "It's just that you've been wearing shorts all night and I didn't notice the scars until just now." It had been dark on the porch and his legs had been beneath the table while they ate. The angles hadn't been right at any other time.' 'It came as a shock, that's all. I wasn't prepared, didn't expect it."
"Most women find that leg incredibly sexy."
Now that she'd seen it, been stunned by it, he wanted to tease her shock away. That was fine with her. She would play along for now and ruminate later on the injury that had healed, but which remained a supersensitive spot to the seemingly invincible sportswriter.
"Oh, it's sexy alright," she told him with an impish grin. "Devilishly so. Almost as good as the hairy chest."
"No lie?"
"No lie. My mouth's watering."
"Hmm."
He lowered his eyes to her lips. His intense gaze was as stirring and provocative as his scathing prose, though in an entirely different way.
The bottom seemed to drop out of Stevie's stomach. Before she became hopelessly trapped by his stare, which seemed to be drawing her closer to him like a powerful magnet, she turned away from him and began vigorously shaking the bottle of lotion.
"Where do you want to do this?"
"I don't know," he answered in a low voice.
"How well are we going to get to know each other?"
She spun around to find him standing very close behind her, looking hungrily at her exposed neck while he played with the end of her braid. As he rubbed the silky strands between his fingers, he whispered, "There's the chair. Or there's the bed."
She flicked his hand away. "Do you want a rubdown or not?"
"I do."
"Then sit down and let's get it over with."
"I guess that means the chair," he said dryly, making an effort to keep from smiling. He pulled a straight chair from beneath a desk and straddled the seat, folding his arms over the back of it. "Have at me."
Stevie moved to stand behind him. She filled one palm with the lotion, then rubbed it against the other. However, when it came time to actually touch him, she hesitated. He had his chin propped on his stacked hands. Eventually her hesitation brought his head around.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"This isn't going to burn or anything, is it?"
"Chicken?" ' 'When it comes to my hide, you bet your ass."
"Do you think I'd smear it on my own hands if it burned?" she asked crossly.
"I don't know. You might. I've written some rotten things about you. This might be your way of getting revenge."
"Which you sorely deserve."
The conversation had given her time to bolster her courage. She laid her hands on his naked shoulders and began massaging in the healing lotion.
"Hmm," he moaned pleasurably after several moments. "Not bad, Stevie."
"Thanks. I've had lots of practice."
"On whom?"
"Other players on the tour."
"Men?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh, yeah? Is there material for a column here? 'Locker Room Lechery'?"
"That sounds like you. Low, mean, base."
" Tennis Court Courtship'?"
"Ghastly headline."
"'Racquets and Romance'? 'Over hands, Or Head Over Heels?'?"
The freckles that dotted the ridge of his shoulders were adorable. They begged to have kisses pecked on them. The skin beneath Stevie's slippery fingers was taut, the muscles supple.
She wanted to slide her hands down his sides and over the corrugated rib cage. The fuzziness in his armpits intrigued her. With her eyes, she followed his spine into the waistband of his shorts. Touching him hadn't satisfied a building curiosity. It had only heightened it.
"Well, how 'bout it?" His mouth was pressed against his hands so the words came out mumbled.
Her massage was lulling him. His eyes were closed. For such a tough guy, his eyelashes were ridiculously thick.
"How about what?"
"Romance. Ever had to use your racquet to beat off the circuit Romeos?"
"Never."
"Not your style, huh?"
"What is my style?" she asked.
"To give an unwanted suitor one of those cool, condescending stares of yours. That would chill most men to the bone."
"So far it hasn't worked on you, Mackie."
"As you said, I'm incorrigible. If I'd taken every woman's first no as final, I'd still be a virgin."
He sighed. "Keep this up, Stevie, and you can have your way with me."
"Don't play so hard to get."
Even though he didn't open his eyes, they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His eyebrows were as dense as his lashes. They were the eyebrows of a man with integrity, although integrity was a term she would never have applied to Judd Mackie. Not until yesterday, when, out of respect for her dilemma, he had let another sportswriter scoop him on a big story.
That unselfish decision had gotten him fired from the Tribune. Didn't that indicate that under that tough, bad-boy veneer, there was a man of honor?
"Do my arms, too."
"My fingers are getting tired," she complained.
"This massage business is hard work."
"Just do it."
Her complaint had been a token one. She was deriving as much pleasure from the massage as he. His biceps were as firm as green apples and as finely shaped. She squeezed them hard, watching the deep impressions her fingers made in his flesh. When she let go, white stripes were left on the tanned skin. He grunted with animal pleasure.
"You accused me of missing my calling," he said. "I think I just figured out what you should have been."
Stevie realized then that Judd wasn't the only one being stimulated by the massage. She had moved closer to him, until her middle was lightly grinding against his back with each motion of her hands.
Realizing that, she suddenly withdrew them.
"That's all I can do," she said, silently adding,
"Without making a fool of myself."
Reluctantly he raised his head and pivoted his bottom until he was sitting correctly in the chair.
He spread his knees wide, placed his hands around her waist and drew her between his legs.
"Mackie?" she said breathlessly.
"Hmm?"
"What are we doing?"
"Doing? Nothing."
He laid his hand on her abdomen again, with his fingers pointed up toward her breasts. "Any more pain?" He applied pressure to her lower body with the heel of his hand.
Unable to speak, she shook her head no.
"Positive?" His fingers curled into the softness of her belly, then relaxed again.
"Positive."
"Good." He'd been watching the movement of his own hand. Now his eyes scaled up her body until they connected with hers. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
The demand was disguised in the form of a polite question. "Yes. I'd tell you."
Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he slid his hand up the center of her body until it covered her heart, which was beating heavily.
"You smell good." He leaned forward and nuzzled her breasts, bumping them with his nose.
"Where'd you find the perfume?"
"I brought my own." Stevie was barely able to form the words while his head was moving from one side of her body to the other and his hand was catching each of her drumming heartbeats.
"I like it."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She whimpered when his lips touched the bare skin of her chest just above the slipping neckline of the peasant blouse. Briefly his lips brushed across her cleavage. Gradually, slowly, he kissed his way up her chest and throat as he came out of the chair.