“Relax!” he growled.

Then she saw the problem. One of her chains had looped itself around a button of his shirt. He fumbled with it, cursing under his breath, until he worked it free.

Less than five minutes after pulling off his boxers, he was pulling them back on. Laura kept her eyes averted, but in her peripheral vision, she followed his motions, which were jerky and abrupt, those of an angry man barely holding on to his temper.

He stuffed his shirttail into his jeans as though he was furious at it. He buttoned up his fly with dispatch, but his belt buckle presented a challenge. When he finally managed it, he slapped it lightly into place and turned to face her.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t use it because I was afraid it would make a difference.”

“You’re damn right it would have made a difference. That’s why I brought it.”

“I mean I was afraid it would prevent conception.”

“I told you it wouldn’t.”

“It might have affected the motility of the sperm. Something. I don’t know,” she said defensively. “I just didn’t want to take a chance.”

“Well, I didn’t want to hurt you again.” His loud vehemence seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. It rendered them both silent. Finally he said, “Look, I know you have a low opinion of me. You think I’m an outlaw. A criminal. A big, dumb football player. Well, fine. Think whatever you want to. I really don’t give a rat’s ass so long as your money’s good.”

He paused for breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was gruff. “But I hurt you. Twice now. And I resent you thinking that would be okay with me. Because it isn’t.”

She sat up but kept the sheet pulled to her waist. “It shouldn’t make any difference to you.”

“It does.”

“Well, it shouldn’t!” He was provoking an emotional response from her, and she didn’t want to feel any emotion, even anger. “This isn’t about how you feel or how I feel.”

“I understand that. But if you’ve gotta do it this way, you could at least make it easier on yourself. Why don’t you watch the dirty movies?” He raised his hands to stop her from commenting. “Forget it, forget it.”

Again, he paused to take several deep breaths, then said, “No touchy-feely. Fine. I’m not into all that, either. No kissing or foreplay because that would…Because…I get why there’s no kissing or foreplay, okay? But couldn’t we at least have a conversation first?”

“What for?”

“Because maybe that would stop you from cringing, and I wouldn’t feel like I was violating you.”

“I don’t think of it as a violation.”

He snorted in disagreement. “Could have fooled me. You don’t even look at me.”

She gave him a meaningful look then, but she didn’t dare verbalize what she was thinking-that looking at each other would make it harder, not easier.

He seemed to realize that, too, because he turned away and mumbled a string of swearwords. He tilted his face up toward the ceiling, placed his hands on his hips, and blew out a gust of breath. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Christ.” After a time, he looked at her again. “I walk in here, we’ve barely made eye contact. You’re lying there, still and silent, resigned to a fate worse than death. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“I don’t care how it makes you feel.”

She did, but she couldn’t let him know that. Actually, his concern touched her, and that was a dangerous sentiment. They couldn’t be friends. Or enemies. They could be nothing to each other. Between them there must be nothing except total indifference, or she could never return to this house.

Her features impassive, her tone cool, she said, “This is biology, Mr. Burkett. Nothing more.”

“Then why don’t you just have me jerk off into a bottle and hand it over? You’ve made it plain how distasteful it is to have me on you. Admit it, you came unglued when I put my hand down there. Hell, you panicked when your chain got caught on my button. If it’s so god-awful, why do you put yourself through it?”

“I thought you had that figured out.”

“You were driving the night your husband lost his manhood. Poor you. You’ve got that cross to bear the rest of your life. This is your penance, I guess. Screwing a lowlife like me. Is that it?”

He’d scoured an open wound, and she lashed back in self-defense. “If I can stand it, surely you can.”

His expression changed to match hers. The skin of his face was pulled tight, actually changing the configuration of the bruises. “I didn’t sign on to be insulted.”

“And I didn’t promise to make polite conversation. Stop worrying about how I feel and just-”

“Play stud.”

“That’s what you agreed to do.”

“Well, I’m rethinking our agreement. I don’t need this shit.”

“No. Just our millions.”

He glared at her for several seconds, then turned. He reached the door in two long strides and flung it open so hard it bounced back when it hit the wall. “I’d say ‘Fuck you, lady,’ but I already did.”

He slammed the front door on his way out, thinking he was leaving for the last time. Even if he wanted to come back, which he didn’t, his exit line was reason enough for them to fire him.

Fire him? Like this was a normal job. Like the terms of his employment would ever be a matter of record. He could just imagine some time in the future being interviewed by a prospective employer.

What was your last job, Mr. Burkett?

I was paid to fuck this rich wacko’s wife.

Uh-huh. And you failed to perform the task?

Oh no, I performed just fine.

Then what was the cause of your dismissal?

I lost my temper and told her off.

I see. And all you had to do was show up, keep your mouth shut, and just fuck her?

That’s right.

You’re not very bright, are you, Mr. Burkett?

Apparently not.

It sounded like a third-rate joke.

She must have parked around back, where he’d parked the first time, because the red Honda was the only car in the driveway. In the time it took him to reach it, he was already considering going back inside to apologize. He was still mad as hell, but he couldn’t afford his anger. The price tag of it was half a million now, and millions more to come. Not worth it. Not by a long shot.

He turned on his heel and had started back toward the house when he spotted something that drew him up short.

CHAPTER 14

RODARTE WAS PARKED HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK. THE WINDSHIELD of his car reflected the leafy trees above it, so Griff couldn’t see him. But he stuck his hand out the driver’s window and gave a friendly little wave.

Griff forgot about his apology to Laura Speakman. He jogged to the Honda, scrambled in, and cranked the motor. The tires left rubber in the driveway as he backed out. He sped the short distance and came to a squealing stop a half inch from the grille of Rodarte’s sedan. He was out of the Honda before inertia settled in.

Rodarte was waiting for him. His car engine was idling, but the driver’s window was down. It took all Griff’s self-control not to grab him by the neck and haul him out through that window. “You’re a goddamn coward, Rodarte.”

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

“You hire goons to do your dirty work on men. Women you beat up yourself.”

“Speaking of, how is your favorite whore?” Rodarte laughed at Griff’s expression of rage. “Okay, so I got a little carried away. Why didn’t you report me to the police?”

“That was Marcia’s decision.”

“But I bet you didn’t argue against it, did you? The very thought of police involvement puckers your sphincter, doesn’t it? As for the working over you took, I heard you got jumped by a couple of former fans.”

“They were pros.”

“You know this?”

“You were behind it.”

Rodarte wagged his finger at him. “But you didn’t file a police report. I’ll bet you didn’t tell your lawyer, either. Or your probation officer. Jerry Arnold, right?”