“You’re lovely.”

I peeled off my dress and he handed me a man’s dress shirt. “Put this on?”

“Should I be worried that the artist who was supposed to paint me nude wants me to put clothes on?” I laughed as I slipped the worn cotton shirt over my shoulders.

It smelled like him. And that day, as I inhaled that musky scent, I admitted to myself that I had a crush on him, the notorious womanizer Ethan Bauer.

My fingers moved to the buttons and his gruff voice stopped me. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Ah, I see,” I said.

“Do you?” He led me to the small couch. “Because I want to see you, Maggie. And if that makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me. You need to be comfortable for this to work.”

I laughed. “I’ve already laid myself out na**d for you. I can’t imagine what you think might make me uncomfortable about posing with a shirt half on.”

He didn’t reply but situated me so I sat sideways on the couch, legs bent slightly, the shirt covering my breasts.

“Look to the left,” he said, clicking on a new light.

He returned to his canvas and studied me. “Beautiful. Are you okay?”

“Maybe you’re the one that’s too modest, Ethan,” I laughed. “I’m fine. Paint, already.”

“I’d like you to move your right hand, Maggie. As if you were about to touch yourself.”

His words buzzed through me and sent heat to pool in my belly. My ni**les tightened under the soft cotton of his shirt as I cupped myself between my legs. “Like this?”

His chest rose, fell, rose again. “You’re perfect.” He crossed to me, spoke in soothing tones. “We don’t want to give it to them. We want to taunt.”

He moved my hand, pulling it up so that my palm lay against the flat of my belly, my fingertips just above the thatch of hair between my legs.

“This isn’t really my style,” I said, eyes on his. “I don’t exactly need to sneak up on it.”

He chuckled, his face inches from mine, his smile sending that heat circling lower.

If he had moved in first, I may have been turned off. If he had closed the distance between our lips, the next year would have unfolded differently. Maybe I would have gone to more parties. Maybe I’d have followed Lizzy to Brady’s a little more often and had a harmless affair with a young townie—maybe some guy I went to school with or a recently divorced physics teacher from New Hope High School. Maybe I’d have given William Bailey the chance he deserved instead of cornering him into a marriage neither of us was ready for. But Ethan didn’t make a move toward me.

I recognized the heat in his eyes, and it made me hot, made me feel powerful. In that moment, I wasn’t so foolish as to think he might someday leave his wife for one of his students. That would come later. After hours of lovemaking, hundreds of paintings he would never show. His secret obsession, he called me.

At that moment, it wasn’t about anything but hot, thick, blood-pumping feminine power. I lifted my head just enough to brush my lips across his. I kissed him, this man I thought so highly of, I was willing to overlook the wedding band on his finger.

I take a deep breath and exhale deliberately, as if to blow away the memory.

Regret holds me in its claws for a few stuttering heartbeats.

Ethan emerges from the bathroom and I freeze. When our eyes lock, the warmth I once felt for him is gone. Those soft gray eyes seem to be pleading me to deny it, to validate his always-faltering self-worth.

“What do you want from me, Ethan?”

“Honestly?”

I let out a puff of air. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“Let me take you to dinner. There’s so much we never said.” His gaze does that roaming, conquering thing again. I want to tell him to keep his eyes to himself, but that would mean admitting I notice.

My eyes began to water, another sneezing attack coming on. “I’d rather not,” I say, but it sounds more like Ud wathur wot.

Ethan steps forward and reaches for my face. “Don’t cry.”

The pressure builds further in my head. I grab his wrist to push him away, and William Bailey turns the corner.

Will takes in my face, my tears, Ethan’s hand. “What’s going on here?”

Ethan drops his hand as if my face was suddenly burning him.

“Maggie, I don’t want you seeing him,” Will says, hard eyes on Ethan. “He’s trouble.”

Ethan nails me with the intense gaze that once got me in so much trouble. A moment later, Will’s eyes lock with mine. If Ethan’s gaze says, “I want you,” Will’s says, “I need you. I’m incomplete without you.”

Chapter Ten

William

Maggie walks into the gallery dressed in cut-offs that show more thigh than they cover and a tiny tank top, and I nearly drop a piece of stained glass off my ladder at the sight.

“I’m ready to work,” she announces, spreading her arms. “Use me and abuse me.”

Having her here is a really bad idea.

I shoot a guilty glance over my shoulder toward the back office, but Krystal’s not here. She went over to campus to talk to someone about another painting that she seems to think we need for the opening.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” I call down from the ladder.

“You mind if I take a look at what you have here?”

“Knock yourself out.”

I carefully hang the piece of stained glass from the wire line, pretending I’m not completely shaken by her presence. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the river and flood the gallery with light. The stained glass will draw everyone’s eye here. I center it carefully before climbing down to greet her.

When I reach the bottom of the ladder, I wipe my damp palms on my jeans.

With a slow spin, she smiles. God, she’s practically glowing today. Did Asher Logan do that?

“This photography is amazing.” She sits by a box in the middle of the gallery, folding her legs under her as she sorts through artwork.

“He’s out of Chicago,” I say, motioning to the photos. They’ve been mounted to stainless steel and make for perfect additions to sleek, contemporary interior designs. They are made to be displayed in panels of three. But which pieces to display at the opening? I haven’t decided yet. Maggie was always better at finding themes in collections of art. I’m better off behind the camera.

“What are you thinking for prices?”

I hand her the pricing binder and she scans the columns. “These are really reasonable rates for this kind of talent, but I don’t want to scare people away either. We always said we were going to have art for everyone, right?” She tilts her head to look at me and a red curl falls in her face. I make a fist to resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear. She blinks, as if realizing her error. “Of course, maybe you and Krystal weren’t worried about that. I’m not trying to make my position more important than it is, I just—”

“Maggie.” I hold up a hand. “Stop being so self conscious. We want you here because we value your ideas.”

She grins and my shoulders relax. It’s such a damn relief to have some of this tension gone between us. “Okay,” she says, “because I was thinking we could do a sampling of his different sizes for the opening—that way someone on a budget might still be able to take some of his photography home. Not to mention we could make a nice balance of small and large pieces along that wall.”

“Sounds good.” Tucking my hands into my pockets, I step closer to examine the photographs she’s chosen. “Listen, the house is done.”

Her head snaps up and she looks at me with wide eyes.

“Our house. Krystal’s and mine,” I say hastily, then wish I could pull the words back. I hired the contractor to build the house when Maggie and I got engaged and just never stopped the process when she left.

I study a painting because I can’t bear to watch her. “We’ve been living there for a while, but I think the finishing touches are finally all in place. We’re doing a housewarming party this weekend. We wanted to invite you.”

“I’ll see you then,” she says, and I can hear the forced smile in her voice. “What were you going to do with the little room off the front?” She hops off the floor and wanders over to the paintings leaning against the far wall. “I adore this watercolor series, and I think it would look great with the lighting in that room.”

I swallow. Hard. “We promised to feature Professor Bauer in that room.”

Her hands freeze on a watercolor of a little girl in white. “Oh.” The tremor in her hand is barely perceptible, but I see it.

“It’s just that he helped us get the grant to open the gallery,” I explain.

She tucks her hands in her pockets—to hide that they’re shaking? “Of course! And, gosh, with that talent why wouldn’t you feature him?” She turns a small circle. “Where is his collection?”

You can’t protect her, Will. “He’s going through his paintings now. He’s going to make his own selections.”

She gives a tenuous smile. “I would expect no less from the illustrious Ethan Bauer.”

I swallow and step away from her. She smells too damn good today. “He’s being really damn secretive about his collection. He insists he can’t set it up until the morning of the opening, and he wants to stage it himself.”

That happy glow seems to slip right off her face. “Why would he do that?”

I lift a shoulder. “Krystal’s chalking it up to his artistic temperament, but I don’t like it any more than you do.” I watch her carefully as I ask, “Do you have any idea what it might be?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll talk to him, see what I can find out.”

I know that costs her. She doesn’t want to talk to Ethan Bauer any more than I do, but I also know he’s more likely to talk to her than anyone else.

“It’s just so hard to believe,” she says as she scans the walls. “This is really happening. When we talked about it, I don’t know if I ever really thought we’d do it. But you made it happen.” She sets her eyes on me and pain slices across her features so damn clearly I feel like I’ve hit her. “You and Krystal, I mean.”

The silence is awkward and unnatural between us, and I search for something to fill it. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” I blurt before realizing I plan to share my problems with Maggie at all. “Me and Krystal? Our relationship is broken. I’ve done everything I can think but—Jesus, we’re not even ha**g s*x and that was fine but it’s like she doesn’t even want me to touch her anymore.”

Maggie dodges my eyes. “We shouldn’t talk about this.”

I release a bitter laugh. “I used to talk to you about all my girl problems.”

“Will…”

“I’m thinking about calling off the wedding.” Saying the words makes them more real, and as they slip from my lips anger and frustration and regret all rush through me in a flood so intense I can’t tell them apart.

She blinks at me. “You are?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want?”

The only sound is the hum of the air conditioner as we stare at each other, and I feel that old addiction surge up, that need for a fix that silences every reasonable thought and makes me reckless until all I can hear is my blood in my ears and all I can think is of tasting her again.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she pulls the bottom one between her teeth.

In two strides, I close the distance between us and pull her against me. Hard. It’s stupid and impulsive, and I feel like I might die if I don’t do it. But I do. Because last week’s brush of lips did nothing to squelch this craving. It only left me wanting more.

I bury my hands in her hair, holding her tight as I slip my tongue between her lips in a kiss that’s fueled by this mess of emotion pumping through me. Anger. Frustration. Regret. Her hand curls into my chest, and I pull her closer. I want her curves against me, need her under me. In this moment, my future and my plans mean nothing next to the pulsing need to possess. To take.

My hand slips under her shirt. When my mouth moves to her neck, I feel a shudder pass through her, and my dick aches from the unaccommodating confines of my jeans. God, I’d forgotten the rush of making this woman tremble.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

“It okay,” I promise, snaking my hand up to her breast. Even to my own ears, I sound like a manipulative asshole, but only part of my brain registers what a scumbag I’m being. The rest of my mind is four steps ahead, getting her na**d and getting inside her. Fucking her until I don’t care anymore what a mess my life has become.

I can’t register anything that doesn’t get me to that goal. So my fingers are working their way to the clasp of her bra before I realize the hand on my chest isn’t encouraging. It’s pushing me away.

I loosen my hold on her a fraction and she takes the opportunity to shove me, harder this time, until I stumble back.

Her eyes blaze with anger as she lifts her hand to her lips. For a minute, I think it’s heat I see there. Passion.

“Never do that again,” she says. And it’s the shaking in her voice that brings me to my senses. It’s a shaking that has nothing to do with arousal.

“Oh, Jesus.” My breathing is heavy and labored, and I stumble back a couple more steps as I struggle to get the air I need. “Jesus, Maggie. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”