The scars on his soles from the torture not withstanding, they were gorgeous feet. Wiry swaths of hair matted his legs and chest and arms—not so much that he was hirsute but enough that it beckoned a lover to run her palm over it. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of his cologne—Halston Z-12—and the smell made her weak with lust. There was entirely too much temptation lying an arm’s length away. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her with those glorious brown eyes in which a glint of amber shone. She knew passion could turn that glint to molten gold. “Did I wake you?” she asked. “No,” he answered, and reached out a hand to her. “How’s your head?” she questioned as she took his hand and let him pull her to his bed. “Better,” he replied. He scooted over so she could lie down beside him. “You smell like the sea.” “Egads, Cronin!” she groaned, lifting her arm. “Really?” 69 Charlotte Boyett-Compo “It’s a good smell.” “Not rotting kelp, then?”
