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  He turned away from her. “But if you think so little of me that you can’t be honest with me then you aren’t that person. If you wanted the surgery we could have discussed it together. I would have been here for you, even just as a friend. But if you think all I’m looking for is a pretty face you’re very much mistaken. Go home, Bridget. We’re done here.”

  She picked up the photos and walked out, proud of herself that she made it all the way inside her house before falling apart. Then she huddled on her sofa as night fell, sobbing until she was sure she had no more tears left. Her eyes felt swollen, her throat was raw and her chest hurt. Or maybe it was her heart. Never in all her planning had she ever thought Clay would not understand. That he’d be so angry with her.

  What right did he have? Until that night they’d never had more than the most casual contact. Okay, so that night had been intense. And yes, it had touched feelings in each of them she hadn’t expected. She was sure he hadn’t, either.

  The therapist’s words echoed in her head. “You might not be happy with what you get.”

  So now what did she do? How could she live next door to him after this disaster?

  She had no idea how long she sat curled up on the couch, rocking back and forth. Once she thought about calling Joni but she wasn’t yet ready to share her humiliation with anyone, even her closest friend. First she had to figure out how to handle it herself.

  Finally she managed to find her way to her bedroom and crawl into bed with her clothes on. She hoped tomorrow would be a better day. It couldn’t be much worse.

  Chapter Eight

  Clay stood in his kitchen watching the sun begin its slow descent in the sky, washing away the vivid shades of gold and red. Red. That made him think of Bridget. Red. With her golden hair.

  Shit.

  Well, he’d fucked this up royally, that was for sure. He hoped he didn’t get floor burns on his ass from sliding around with both feet in his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been as much of a total jerk to a woman. Of course, he’d never been shocked by his feelings like this, either. He was fucking in love with her, for shit’s sake.

  In love!

  Him. Clay Randall, the big bad SEAL who didn’t do love or anything even close to it. He’d always fooled himself that the reason was the hazards of his chosen career. He didn’t want some woman sitting home waiting for him wringing her hands in despair. Of course he’d completely ignored the fact that his captain as well as three other members of his team were deliriously happily married to women who had their shit together, provided a wonderful sanctuary between missions and supported each other when their men were away.

  Maybe he was just a selfish bastard who didn’t want to give away a piece of himself to another person. But meeting Red had changed that. And when his one-night seduction and his friend from next door had blended into one he should have felt like he’d won the fucking jackpot. Instead he’d felt insulted she hadn’t trusted him and yelled at her like some grade A idiot.

  Good going, jerk-off.

  Leaving the wine where it was, he tossed some ice cubes in a glass and poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon, tossing back half of it in one shot. Standing at the breakfast room window he stared out into the fading twilight, replaying everything in his head.

  Why hadn’t he figured it out the night of the blackout? Was he so desensitized that one body was the same as the other? What the fuck did that say about the kind of person he was? He’d been so busy chasing a ghost he hadn’t realized she was right under his nose.

  He should have been smart enough to understand what kind of courage it took for her to do what she did, everything from the seduction the night of the ball to having the surgery to exposing herself to him tonight. And he couldn’t begin to imagine what her life had been like all these years. He knew exactly how cruel people could be, how devastating and brutal their remarks.

  She’d come to him and practically laid her heart at his feet, exposing herself physically and emotionally, hoping that he’d just be so excited at finding her that nothing else would be important. And what had he done? Taken his bruised ego out on her.

  His mother and sister would be so proud of him. Not.

  He couldn’t just let it lie there like an elephant between them. The plain truth was he was in love with her. He wanted her. In his life. In his bed. In his heart. So now what did he do? Groveling came to mind, and plenty of it. But he figured if he just went over there and tried to push his way in he wouldn’t get past the closed door.

  No. He needed a plan. And a good one. If, indeed, there was one.

  * * * * *

  “Looking very, very good.” Dr. Richards snapped off the light on the complex examining machine and rolled backward in his chair. “Among my best work, if I do say so myself.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased.” Bridget forced a smile. This was good news. She should be very happy about it. Instead she sat there with her heart like a lump of concrete weighing her body down.

  Dr. Richards studied her. “I sense something a little less than overwhelming happiness here. Is there something I should be aware of?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

  He pushed the machine aside and took one of her hands. “One of the things patients who have any kind of plastic surgery often are faced with is a lack of fulfillment of their expectations. Is that what we’re dealing with here?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Have you met with the therapist again? This is one of the reasons the Durban Trust insists it be one of the conditions of the surgery.”

  “I’m seeing him again tomorrow night.”

  “Good. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you through whatever the situation is.”

  I doubt it.

  “Okay, then,” Richards said. “One month from now we’ll take another look.” He smiled at her. “Good luck, Bridget. You deserve it.”

  If only the Good Luck Fairy thought so too.

  She was really trying to see things from Clay’s point of view. At least after she’d finally finished sobbing enough tears for a tsunami and gulping down half a bottle of wine. Maybe she had misjudged him, but he hadn’t walked in her shoes all these years. Been the brunt of cruel humor and tasteless jokes. Hidden at home rather than socializing because being out with people was too humiliating. In fact, she was still very fragile in that area.

  But apparently he had looked at the whole thing differently than she did. She’d expected him to take a look at her very naked body when she ripped the mask away and pull her into his arms.

  So much for that.

  She was still lost in her very private pity party, still trying to see things from Clay’s perspective, when she pulled into her driveway and had to slam on the brakes. On the driveway, in the center of the closed garage door, stood an enormous red vase filled with a thick arrangement of red roses. A red ribbon was tied around it, the ends trailing onto the concrete.

  What the hell?

  She jammed the gearshift into Park and got out of the car to pick it up. A rectangular white envelope was sticking up between the blooms and she plucked it out.

  For the woman who stole my heart. C.

  Bridget read the card at least six times, her heart doing a jitterbug, and finally picked up the vase, put it in her car and drove into the garage. Inside the house she set it in the center of the breakfast table where she’d be sure to see it every morning and night, then just stood back and admired it.

  Okay. He’d sent flowers. Great flowers. But did he send them to Red or Bridget? He hadn’t indicated either. Should she call him and thank him? Go over to his house? No, she wasn’t ready to face him again. Her feelings, her emotions, were still too raw. And anyone could send flowers. It was an easy fix.

  Still, shoving her sunglasses back on, she stepped out onto her back porch and looked over at Clay’s house to see if he was outside. No, nothing stirring. She sighed. Okay
, so he was just easing his conscience.

  Then why didn’t he call?

  Yes, Bridget, and say what? “I’m sorry I was such an idiot.”

  Somehow she had a feeling apologizing didn’t come easily to Clay Randall.

  Okay, enough dwelling on that. The conference her publisher was sponsoring was in two weeks and she had a lot to do to get ready for it. For one thing she had to get with her publisher to decide which ebooks to feature so they could print covers for her to sign. Promotional items to check on. And definitely an appointment at the salon the day before so she looked her very best.

  Stripping off her work clothes she changed into old shorts and a faded tank top and stuck a frozen dinner in the microwave.

  Ah, the glamorous life of an author!

  She was better the next day, especially after her session with the therapist.

  “Focus on the good things happening to you and not on things you can’t change,” he told her over and over. “Life is different for you now in many ways.”

  She hadn’t been in the house for ten minutes before her doorbell rang. Looking out through the blinds she saw a kid in his teens on her porch carrying a huge straw basket and the delivery van from a gourmet food store in her driveway.

  What the hell?

  She opened the door cautiously, leaving the safety chain on. A girl couldn’t be too careful.

  “Bridget Reilly?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I have a delivery for you.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t order anything.”

  He looked at the tag on the handle and shrugged. “All I know is I’m supposed to deliver this to you. Can you please open the door wider?”

  Sighing she released the chain and reached out to take the basket.

  “You gotta sign.” He slid a small clipboard from beneath the handle and held it out to her along with a pen from his pocket. “Thanks,” he said after she scribbled her name, and loped down the steps to the van.

  Bridget closed the door and carried the basket into her kitchen. Whatever was in it was completely covered with opaque red cellophane. When she pulled it away she saw dozens of chocolate hearts of all sizes. On top of the candy was a note.

  You have all the pieces of my heart in your hands. C.

  She couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips. Well, she’d have to give him marks for inventiveness. Just like the previous night, she walked out onto her back porch and looked over at his house, but nothing was stirring. There wasn’t even a light on.

  Sighing she turned back inside. Maybe she could work all this into her current work in progress.

  Each night for the remainder of the work week she came home to find a new gift. One night it was a big red teddy bear wearing a t-shirt that said, I’m an idiot. Well, yes he was. And where had he gotten a tiny shirt like that? Another night it was wine. But the one that made her laugh the most was the gift on Friday, a stuffed donkey with a note that said, I am such an ass. C.

  She sat in the living room cradling the toy and munching on one of the chocolate hearts. Clay had still been suspiciously absent all week which was not only weird but also driving her crazy. Was the man deliberately avoiding seeing her? The gifts were wearing her down little by little, especially the cute little donkey. But if they never spoke to each other they’d never resolve anything.

  His house remained ominously dark that night. Finally she forced herself to sit down at her computer. She had only one week before the conference and she needed to make sure she had everything together. Then she’d get back to her work in progress. And tomorrow she was going shopping for some new clothes for what she thought of as her coming-out party.

  And I won’t be wearing anything red.

  But in the morning when she opened the garage door there was another basket sitting in the driveway. All it contained was a wine bottle and a note. Curious, she picked it up, saw the bottle was empty and frowned.

  “You have to read the note,” a deep male voice said from behind her.

  Startled, she nearly dropped the basket, looked over her shoulder and saw Clay standing less than two feet away.

  “What—”

  “Read the note,” he repeated.

  Looping the handle of the basket over her arm she slid the note from its envelope and opened it.

  If you’d like to exchange the empty bottle for a full one, provided by a man groveling on his knees, show up next door promptly at seven tonight. Dress entirely optional. C.

  She stared at the note for a long moment then turned to ask Clay about it, but he’d left as silently as he’d appeared. Every nerve in her body suddenly snapped to life and the pulse deep in her cunt beat hard enough to send out messages in the jungle. Anticipation raced through her like a wildfire.

  Setting the basket in the garage she backed out onto the street, her mind whirling, hope blossoming like a new flower.

  * * * * *

  Bridget wet her lips nervously, smoothed her hands over the skirt of her brand-new sundress and rang the doorbell at Clay’s house. She barely had time to take another breath before the door was pulled open and there he was. For a long moment she could only look at him, drinking in the sight of his lean, muscular body, the masculine face, the deep brown eyes.

  “H-hi. It’s um, seven o’clock.”

  Clay reached out a hand, tugging her into the house and into his arms. One hand cupped her chin, tilting her face up so he could take her mouth in a hungry, predatory kiss. His tongue swept inside, licking every surface while one hand stroked her back and the curve of her ass. She was pressed so tightly against him she could feel the hard ridge of his cock pushing against her.

  Just at the moment when she was sure she’d run out of breath Clay lifted his head and stared into her eyes. Her new eyes.

  “I don’t know where to begin to tell you how sorry I am. How much I regret every single word.” He grinned. “You’re free to kick my ass if you want.”

  She studied his face, trying to read him. “It took a lot of courage for me to come here that night and do what I did,” she reminded him.

  “I know. And I reacted like an idiot.” He stroked her cheek. “I can’t begin to know what you’ve gone through all these years. But I want to get this out before anything else. I think I fell in love with you before we ever had sex. Made love. Whatever we call it. All those times we spent talking, even when you hid behind those dark glasses. It’s the person I want, Bridget. Please understand that.”

  “As long as you understand how important is for me, finally not to be afraid to let people see what I really look like.”

  “Think I could see what you really look like now?” he drawled, one corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin.

  “You mean all of me?” she asked, teasing him.

  “Wait.” He took a half step back. “I promised you wine and groveling. The whole nine yards. First things first.”

  She shook her head, suddenly so eager to feel his naked body against hers she wanted to rip off her dress.

  “Maybe the wine could wait. Even the groveling.” She tugged his shirt from the waist of his jeans and with fingers that trembled only slightly opened the button and pulled down the zipper.

  “Someone’s anxious,” he noted, mischief sparking in his eyes. “I think I see Red making an appearance.”

  “Is that who you want?” She searched his face, trying to read his expression. “I’ve been a nervous wreck all week. Even with all those great presents I wasn’t sure how you really felt. And if you wanted Red or Bridget.”

  “I want both.” He captured one of her hands and pressed it against his cock. “Does this answer your question?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Then I think we need to move to someplace more comfortable.”

  He fastened the button on his jeans, swept her up in his arms and carried her down a short hallway to his bedroom. Her breath caught as she noted the candles placed everywhere waiting to be lit and caug
ht the scent of jasmine in the air.

  “I’d never have figured you for such a romantic,” she said.

  “I think there are a lot of things about me you don’t know. But tonight I’m going to show you as many as I can.”

  He undressed her slowly, kissing each area of her body as he exposed it. She hadn’t worn a bra with the sundress so when it pooled around her feet she stood in front of him wearing only a thong and sandals. The look in his eyes could never have been faked. It was more than lust. It was a deep-down hunger for a lot more than sex.

  He kissed her cheeks, her jawline, the sensitive spot behind one ear, the hollow of her throat. Then he kissed her eyelids, so tenderly she felt tears gathering.

  “The real you isn’t what covers your eyes but what they tell me.”

  “And what do they tell you?” she asked in a breathless voice.

  “That you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could fit into my life.”

  Before she could respond he cupped her breasts in his palms and put his mouth first to one nipple then the other, pulling, sucking, tugging until they were hard and pebbled and aching. Bridget tried to unfasten the button on his jeans again but he pushed her fingers away.

  “Not yet.”

  Dropping to his knees he looked up at her. “This is only partially groveling,” he teased then licked the seam where hip and thigh met, letting his tongue dance lightly over her skin. She was trembling, clutching at his shoulders to keep herself upright as his tongue licked and lapped and teased. Very slowly he pulled the insubstantial fabric of the thong down her legs, pausing only to let her step out of them before parting the lips of her pussy and running his tongue the length of her slit.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she whimpered, so close to the edge already that she could feel the little spasms gathering force deep inside her.

  Clay lifted her to the bed and placed her carefully on the edge, bending her legs so she was completely open to him. He stared down as her while he yanked off his shirt, undid his jeans and pushed them down along with his boxers. His eyes were like hot coals burning into her as he wrapped his fingers around his shaft and stroked it slowly from root to tip.