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“You’re stunning,” he had told her sincerely.
Her hands had grown white where she clutched a small black pocketbook. Averting her face, she’d said, “Not sure why I bothered when people are going to look through what I’m wearing.”
“Do you need me to tell you you’re beautiful either way?”
She flinched. “Took a long look, did you?”
So much resentment. It annoyed him to be lumped in with all the other voyeurs. He had spent the past hour taking stock of how thoroughly Jensen was arrowing those images back at the bank, how the world media was exploiting Gwyn’s naked body for ratings. He had looked at everything but her photographs, deliberately sparing her one more pair of male eyes and himself the disturbing dual reaction of arousal and fury.
The thought that men around the world were licking their lips in lascivious heat over her figure was making him grow murderously affronted.
So he didn’t appreciate her goading him.
“They’re imprinted on my mind,” he said without apology, watching something tense and disturbed flash across her expression before she quelled it. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t mean that from a physical standpoint, but that’s true, as well.”
She reacted with a startled stare of confused vulnerability.
“That sounds almost kind. Are you practicing? Because there’s no one here to overhear you being nice to me.” Her mouth pouted in consternation, lips possibly trembling a moment before she firmed them.
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