Unforgiven by Elizabeth Finn Page A

his eyes shifted away instantly, and he was left fighting his lips to relax. He’d wanted to smile. As they pulled up outside his contemporary, yet completely warm and earthy home, she inhaled deeply, and her eyes flashed quickly to every surface imaginable. There was little discernible slope to his roof—only enough to allow for effective drainage during the heavy rains. The siding he’d chosen was a cedar plank siding, and the windows were large and many.
    She climbed from his front seat, still staring up at his tall and towering home. It was a two-story structure with the bedrooms on the second floor, but the first-floor living room was open to the high second-floor ceiling. Once she’d made it up his front steps and he’d opened the front door, escorting her into the large living room, her eyes still hadn’t stopped roving and taking in every last detail.
    “Your home’s beautiful, Dare.”
    “Darren. No one calls me Dare anymore.” That name held entirely too many memories—memories that sparked rage with the woman standing in front of him, and he didn’t want to feel any of that at the moment. He’d had enough of it recently, and it was wearing on him. It was making his well-ordered and managed life entirely too confusing and complex. It was bringing up far too much of his past that he’d prefer to ignore—prefer to pretend didn’t exist at all. It was making it damn hard to simply believe he was happy.
    He didn’t bother responding to her compliment. “Stay here a moment.”
    He walked to his office that sat beyond the open dining room, and as he rustled through a medical case with miscellaneous instruments, he tried to calm the tremble in his own hands. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t get nervous. He didn’t allow himself to care enough about anything to warrant such pathetic responses as trembling, sweating under pressure, heart-pounding nervousness, but he could see the shake in his hands as he dug through his case, and he could nearly hear the pounding of his heart roaring through his head.
    As he returned to the living room, he saw her sitting on his large sectional couch. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her knees set together, and her body rigid. He sat on the coffee table in front of her, holding the operating scissors and tweezers in his hand.
    “Scoot forward.” He was already sitting very near the edge of the table, and he needed her closer. She struggled to figure out what side of his legs to put her knees on as she moved toward him. He made that decision for her when he reached between her knees, pushing them apart and wedging his knee between hers. They were entirely too close, and his heart was thudding away. He was guessing hers was too, but he’d never shown much respect for her personal space before, and he wasn’t going to start now.
    In the past, she’d enjoyed the limits he’d pushed with her. He’d always chastised himself loudly in his head as he overstepped one limit after another, touching her just a hair too low on her back, refusing to pull away when he found himself too close. She’d allowed it, and he knew why. She’d wanted him. She’d wanted him just as much he’d wanted her, but the touches, the looks, the closeness were where it had ended in that lifetime—at least for the most part.
    He might be displaying the same lack of consideration for her personal space now too, but it was different. Everything was different. She was panting by the time she had scooted to the edge of the couch. His knee was practically touching her crotch, and he swore he could feel the warmth of her sex.
    He studied her old, tattered T-shirt. It was gray, and he knew it. He knew it well, and he’d seen it plenty. She likely thought he was staring at her tits, and he certainly wasn’t above noticing them—perfect and perky, if a bit bigger than they’d been six years ago. He’d always liked her build, and despising her didn’t seem to wipe out his ability to