Diana slept like the dead. Considering the workout he’d given her, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. They’d made love twice. They’d taken a shower together. He’d donned a pair of sweat pants and lent her an old T-shirt, and they’d split the container of ice-cream. Then they’d made love again.
Man, he could become addicted to her. Not just because she was beautiful, not just because her body fit so perfectly to his, not because her skin was peach soft, and the curves of her breasts matched the curves of his palms, and she was so hot and wet, and when she came she made a sound deep in her throat, and when he came inside her, he felt as if he was dying and being reborn all at once…but because of her smile, and her velvety voice, and her energy. Because she was one hell of a woman.
She had told him she needed to be awake by seven. She had a big day ahead, that estate deal she’d negotiated and had to oversee. Not a problem; he was usually awake before seven, anyway.
The way things were going, though, he might be awake at seven because he would never fall asleep between now and then. His brain was in overdrive. His brain, his nervous system… His conscience.
The local women he’d had relationships with knew who he was and where he’d been. He’d never had to sit them down and tell them the sordid details of his past. But Diana knew none of that. He should have told her.
How could he? She’d been so open, so eager. So ready to rock and roll. And he’d wanted her the way a thirsty man wants water, the way a drowning man wants air. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her at the Faulk Street Tavern and that song from the jukebox had snared them in its web. Was he supposed to stop everything and say, “Before we get it on, let me tell you about my criminal record.”
Yes. That was exactly what he was supposed to do.
And he didn’t do it.
He glanced at the clock on his night table. Midnight. He wanted to call Ed Nolan, but if he did, he’d either wake the poor guy up or interrupt whatever he might be doing with Gus. Besides, he already knew what Ed would say: You should have told her.
Tomorrow. When they woke up. First thing. He’d come clean.
Which left the rest of tonight. Maybe, if he wrapped himself around her, and embraced her beautiful body, and nuzzled his face into her thick, silky hair, he’d be able to fall sleep.
Fat chance. Just thinking about that caused his dick to perk right up.
Maybe he didn’t have to tell her. After all, this wasn’t the romance of the century. They were hot for each other—hot like one of those thousand-acre forest fires they were always experiencing out west—but it wasn’t as if he and Diana were heading toward ’til-death-do-us-part vows. In a day, or two, or maybe a week, she would return to her life in Boston. She’d stop slumming with a working-class kid from Brogan’s Point and go back home to her antiques and her tailored wardrobe and her blue-blood friends. This was a vacation for her. A few days away from it all, spending time in a luxurious inn overlooking the water and enjoying some crazy-hot sex with a local. Nobody was saying anything about a permanent commitment.
He wasn’t going to ask her to marry him. He couldn’t afford the sort of diamond ring she was used to. He couldn’t afford her. They would have some fun, they’d screw their heads off, and then they would say goodbye. Why drag the ugly truth into it?
What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Why not let her believe Nick was a noble, upstanding citizen with an unblemished past? Why disillusion her?
He settled deeper into the pillow, slung one arm around her narrow waist and drew her back against him. The position didn’t do much to ease his aroused state, but somehow, he managed to drift off to sleep.