"Sure you are," Christy said with a smile as she sat with some difficulty and propped her back against the headboard.

"Are you okay?"

"A bit sore."

A devilish grin spread over his face. "From the dancing or from the f.u.c.king?"

She laughed and ma.s.saged her thighs. "Both probably. I'm not used to so much exercise."

"You're good at dancing salsa," he said to her. "How did you get into it?"

"I thought we were going to talk about you now."

"Nope, we aren't. You're far more interesting. How did you get into salsa?"

"It wasn't voluntarily, I can tell you that," she muttered. "My first sponsor forced me to learn."

"Your sponsor forced you to learn salsa? What the f.u.c.k?"

She stared at him. Not only did he get out of talking about himself, but he'd turned the tables and was prying information out of her. Man, he was good.

Christy shook her head. "Why is it so easy to talk to you?" She sighed and, without waiting for an answer, continued, "Five years ago I was two hundred pounds, I couldn't stop eating, and my life was a wreck. Out of sheer desperation, I went to one of those twelve-step support groups I always said I'd never go to because they were for losers and lunatics. I was at the end of my rope, so when they told me I had to get a sponsor, I did." Besides, how much worse could her life have gotten? She had hit rock bottom and had lost the ability to negotiate with food. Up until then she'd always been able to somehow restrict her intake or go on weird, crazy diets for some period of time, never mind how short. Not anymore. She'd been done in. Food had won the battle.

It wasn't that she'd gone on huge 30,000-calorie binges, but she'd been just eating constantly, hooked up 24-7 to her own very special IV drip. Every morning she'd sworn to herself that today was the day, but by ten a.m. she was already totally sugared up. She'd been utterly powerless. Depressed and isolated. Spending all her days in a permanent food fog, feeling drowsy and sluggish and so d.a.m.n tired.

The whole extent of her social life had consisted of getting off work as fast as possible to go hide at home and eat. Buying her food, eating it, and sleeping it off had been the highlight of her day. And running after her mother and putting out fires, of course.

Her place had been a mess, but she didn't care. She hadn't even had the strength to face it; she just wanted to sit in front of the television, stuff her face, and s.p.a.ce out.

"Lora, my sponsor, was a seventy-year-old grandma from southern Texas who had temporarily moved to California to be with her son and his kids. She might sound like a sweet woman, but in reality she was a take-no-s.h.i.t-from-no-sucker drill sergeant from h.e.l.l that always shot straight from the hip." Lora had been a hundred-pounder, and she was very tough, probably because of her AA background. The second she'd seen how Christy had been living, she'd started ordering her around, bullying her into making changes. First on her list had been "cleaning" Christy's food; second had been uncluttering her home. Christy had tried the I'll-do-that-tomorrow approach, but Lora had been a tough cookie. She'd say, "No, you'll do it today, and I'll help you." And she'd stay around until Christy got off her b.u.t.t and did it. There'd been no way of getting rid of her except by doing what she wanted Christy to do.

"She had me going to meetings every day, making me drive her and other old-timers all over LA for their AA meetings and ours. You should have seen us. I had gangsta rap always playing, hoping they'd prefer to get another ride, but it didn't bother them at all. Not happy with that, Lora decided I had to sign up for some activity because I was too much of a couch potato. She kept nagging me, said she had the afternoons free and that she'd go with me. I thought I'd sign up for whatever Lora would hate doing, and when she stopped coming, I'd drop it too and she wouldn't be able to chew my a.s.s for it. So I chose salsa. I thought she'd never go for it."

Cole looked intently at her. "It backfired?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. For the next two frigging years, that seventy-year-old lady dragged me to dance lessons every Wednesday and Friday. She didn't even miss a cla.s.s. I spent two hundred and eight afternoons in a senior community center dancing salsa and mambo. And...let me count...twenty-four Sat.u.r.days in exhibitions in other community centers 'showing off our skills.' d.a.m.n embarra.s.sing."

Cole barked out a laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish. We were always very short on men, but it didn't stop them in the least."

"You should be a salsa star by now with so much practice."

"I was the only one there under sixty. They were all lovely, but they kept forgetting the steps, so the teacher kept repeating them. We never went past the basics." She'd been bored out of her skull, but it'd kept her busy and not eating, which had probably been the main idea to begin with.

"How did you convince Lora to let you stop?"

"Convince Lora? No one convinces Lora of anything. She had to move back to Texas when her younger daughter had a third kid and needed her help. Thank G.o.d for unplanned pregnancies and sloppy birth-control methods. Otherwise I'd still be trapped in that h.e.l.l dancing salsa."

In spite of everything, Christy loved Lora to pieces. She'd gotten her on a food plan and working on her issues. Without Lora Christy wouldn't have made it. Some days she'd wanted to eat so badly she really didn't know how she'd managed. Well, she knew-it had been Lora and those d.a.m.n opinionated old-timers occupying all her time. And then when she'd reached her goal weight and Christy had discovered she had no clue who she was or what to do with her life if she wasn't either bingeing or dieting, Lora had helped with that too.

"You were as bossy as Lora on the dance floor. Only I was used to being cushioned by her big b.o.o.bs every time the step required me to lean over her chest. And you didn't have those. It threw me off at first."

"Glad I could somehow enhance your salsa experience."

That he did. She hadn't gotten what dancing salsa was about until this very night in Cole's arms.

"The hard protuberance digging into my lower back was a novelty too."

"This protuberance?" he asked, taking her hand to his groin. He was hard again.

She laughed, tugging her hand free. "Forget about it. I'm dead. And I'm thirsty. And a bit hungry too."

G.o.d, HE LOVED having her in his bed.

He kissed her. "Come on, let's go get something to eat."

She covered herself with the blanket and jumped over the bed.

Cole stood up, buck naked, and extended his hand to her. "Coming?"

She kept looking around.

"What are you looking for?"

"Something to wear, of course."

"You don't need anything. Let's go."

It didn't seem to convince her, because she didn't move, her hands still clutching the sheets.

"I'm not comfortable strolling around your house naked."

"Why not? I'm not exactly dressed myself."

Christy didn't answer, stubbornly staring at him with those chocolate eyes, her lips firmly pressed into a tight line. She began wrapping herself in the blanket, which pooled at her feet.

"Fine," he said, breathing out. "Take one of my shirts."

He went to the dresser, picked up a sweatshirt, and tossed it to her. She pulled it on and followed him to the kitchen.

The food issue might be under control, but she was far from comfortable with her body. While having s.e.x, with her mind lost to pa.s.sion, she was looser about it, but once the s.e.x-induced fog was gone, she got self-conscious again, trying to cover herself up as if her body wasn't acceptable. As if it was a source of embarra.s.sment.

"This isn't going to fly with me."

Her chin shot up. "My lack of nudity, you mean? I don't see why not; I'm accommodating enough while having s.e.x. More than enough, actually. I don't see why going naked or dressed around your house should be important."

"Because you're hiding from me. h.e.l.l, you're hiding from yourself. Why?" He so didn't get it. She was beautiful, heart-stoppingly so. Yes, she had some marks on her body from the weight, but they were barely noticeable. Besides, he loved a soft body cushioning his. He hated toned-up, hard stomachs and protruding bones. She should never feel ashamed of herself in front of him.

She shrugged. "You win some; you lose some."

"What the f.u.c.k does that mean?"

She stopped in front of the doors to the patio. "This place is great. Have you lived here long?"

He was getting p.i.s.sed. She made him crazy; one moment he wanted to hug her, the next he wanted to yell some sense into her. Or f.u.c.k her into submission. It was confusing.

"You're changing the subject to avoid my question, and not very skillfully at that."

"I didn't pretend to be subtle. I am avoiding your question," she stated, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've been straightforward enough. h.e.l.l, I've been yapping about myself nonstop since we hooked up. Your turn."

She might have a point there. Besides, that stubborn look on her face said she was winning this one. "Fair enough," he said as he opened the refrigerator and stared at its contents. Aunt Maggie's pasta ca.s.serole was probably out of the question. He fished out some leftover chicken and put it on the kitchen table. A bottle of orange juice and a carton of milk too. "I've lived in this house for around four years. I've always been very partial to this side of the lake, so when the city council decided to develop it, I jumped in. James too." He scanned his fridge again. "Okay, apart from chicken and cheese and bologna to make sandwiches, which I guess aren't an option, we have watermelon b.a.l.l.s and some yogurt. What do you want?"

"I love yogurt. Is it sugar-free?"

He had no clue. He took a look. "Sorry, no."

"Oh, don't worry. Watermelon b.a.l.l.s are fine."

He took the fruit from the fridge, and after placing the platter in front of her, he brought her a bowl. "Dig in. Don't be shy."

She poured some juice in the bowl and added some watermelon b.a.l.l.s. Then she hopped up to sit on the counter. "Tell me something else about you."

"What do you want to know?" he asked as he grabbed some mayo and lettuce and began making himself a chicken sandwich. He cut some extra pieces of chicken and brought one to her lips. "Open up."

She did, and he felt stupidly proud that she'd taken food from him.

G.o.d, get a grip. She's f.u.c.king your brain into mush.

"Oh, I don't know. Do you like running the family business?"

"Sure. And that's lucky because my dad didn't give me any options. When I came home from the marines, I told him I was staying home for good and that I'd like to work with him in the company. He slapped me on the back and said, 'About time.' Next thing I know the old man had reserved a condo in the Eternal Sun Resort in Florida and was retiring. Dumped everything on me."

He fed her some more chicken, mesmerized at the sight of her mouth opening for him, of her tongue innocently darting to catch the oil from his fingertips.

"Why did you leave the marines?" she asked, seemingly oblivious to her effect on him.

He shrugged. "It was time."

He'd loved the military, but one could only tempt death so many times. And his father had needed help.

"What about the shrapnel scars? How did that happen?"

"I did several rotations in the bomb squad in Afghanistan."

Her eyes popped open. "And..."

"And s.h.i.t happens, sweetheart." 'Specially when you were an explosives expert in a h.e.l.lhole full of crazy fanatics and warlords. Something good had come out of it, though. His proficiency in explosives had let him into the business of high-profile demolitions, making his dad's company quadruple its profits.

After she refused more chicken, he leaned on the counter, crossed his feet at his ankles, and watched her finish her watermelon b.a.l.l.s while he ate his sandwich. He made a mental note to go shopping. If Christy was going to be spending time in his bed, he needed to be able to feed her properly.

"Do you get along?"

"Hmm?"

"You and your dad. Do you get along?"

"As well as two hardheaded men can."

Cole had been a pain in the a.s.s while growing up. His mother bailing out had made him withdrawn at first, then confrontational, but his father had stood by him through everything. They had b.u.t.ted heads often, probably because they were very similar. It'd taken him several years to realize being like his dad wasn't such a bad thing at all. If he ever got to be half the man his father was, he'd be bouncing off the walls with happiness.

"He calls often, nags at me for not settling down. With James's engagement he's increased his efforts. The bugging is unbearable."

She giggled. "How come you don't have a cute Mrs. Cole Bowen lurking around?"

"I don't need one. Don't want one either. Putting up with the aggravation and the tedious job of keeping a female happy isn't for me. The fights, the expectations, the crying, the nagging, the guilt-tripping you into changing yourself? Forget it. It gets too d.a.m.n tiring to walk on eggsh.e.l.ls all the time. Besides, no matter what you do or say, you end up f.u.c.king it up. You're being an insensitive pig. They want you to remember dates, to be considerate with their feelings and in touch with yours." Too many emotional demands, especially when he didn't have the feelings they wanted him to be vocal about. He was just too set in his own ways, didn't have the stomach for that kind of drama.

Christy laughed. "I see you think highly of women."

He shrugged. "Nothing personal, babe."

"Gee, thanks. So no Mrs. Cole Bowen for you. What about kids; do you want those?"

"Kids are okay, but they need to be raised in a family and I'm not going to be forming one of those." He'd thought about marriage once, for about five seconds, then discarded the crazy idea. It might work for other people, but not for him. Besides, all the Marine Corps bunnies around base sniffing after medals and uniforms hadn't done much to improve his overall opinion of females. Women were pretty and to be enjoyed, but always to be kept at arm's length.

As for children, he'd sign up for the Little Buddies program. Spoil rotten the horde of babies James and Tate, with the way they were going at it, were bound to have. That would have to do, because if having a kid meant dealing with a wife, even if only temporarily, he'd sooner claw his own eyes out. As far as he was concerned, placing one's emotional well-being in the hands of a woman was like joining a demolition derby without the common decency of wearing basic protective gear. Suicide, plain and simple. No, thank you. He could think of a thousand other less painful ways to off himself.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

He snorted, amused. "What? Are you telling me up until now you've gone for impersonal?"

She ignored his jab. "Why all the control?"

"I told you. I like to be in charge of my pleasure. And the woman's."

"Afraid she'll get out of hand?"

"You got me," he agreed with a laugh, not willing to elaborate. Giving free rein to a woman terrified him, but not in the sense she meant.

As they finished eating, Christy glanced at him with indecision. "Thank you for the food. It's getting pretty late. Maybe I should go."

He strode to her and bracketed her body with his arms. "Do you want to go?"

"I don't know. You tell me. What does the s.e.x workers' union say about clients staying over?"

He laughed softly. "I'd have to check the man-wh.o.r.e union labor agreement because I'm not familiar with it. Although I'd say in this case, it's up to the client."

"Last time I was exhausted and accidentally fell asleep in your bed," she hurried to explain. "I don't want you to think-"