San Francisco, 1971: hippies in the streets, music and revolution in the air. The evening Marek Sumner opened his door to the wild-looking Felicity Powers, he knew nothing would ever be the same again. But even love and passion couldn’t keep them together.
Forty-three years later, having lived in the world’s most dangerous places as a foreign aid worker, Felicity is back, still offering him love, passion, and adventure. But why would Marek risk having his heart broken a second time? Now a well-known author, he loves his calm, solitary life in an isolated farmhouse. He and Felicity are just too different; their relationship could never work.
But Felicity is just as fascinating and joyful as ever, and that wonderful sexy magic is still there too. As for love, perhaps it’s even deeper and more delightful the second time around.
“Making a quick getaway?” Felicity stood in the doorway taking in the scene: the open but fully packed suitcase on the bed, Marek’s trench coat flung over the table. He was on his way out. No denying the evidence.
Marek sat in the armchair by the window, his face tight, his eyes haunted. “I’m sitting here, in a chair, right? Aren’t the words ‘a quick getaway’ somewhat of an exaggeration?” He drawled the words out slowly, mockingly.
“Okay then. A slow getaway.”
He stared at her, unable to pull his eyes away. Her face was pale, her expression wild. Loose tendrils of hair shadowed her neck, calling attention to the slow throb of veins under the delicate skin. She looked sexy as hell. Tempting and far too dangerous to think about.
“Not quick, not slow. Neither one of the above. No getaway.” His voice was icy, impersonal.
“That!” Her arm waved wildly, gesticulated in the direction of the suitcase. A sharp, searing feeling of betrayal mixed with humiliation kept her tense, unrelenting. “I mean, if you want me out of here, all you have to do is tell me. Since you’re obviously desperate to get rid of me.” She felt as if she’d been stabbed. She crossed the room slowly until she was standing beside him, staring down at him, her eyes flashing with determination and fury. “But let’s not forget you were the one who invited me up here. Remember? I didn’t ask to be put up in your hotel room.”
But you might have done so. If he hadn’t taken matters into his own hands. Well, never again. Never. Your time is up as far as I’m concerned, Marek Sumner!
He stood, studied her for a minute.
“God, you’re beautiful.” It was as if the words had been wrenched out of him, as if he’d have given anything not to have said them. But they made her heart stand still.
She wasn’t going to let herself be flattered. Flattery! Why, it was the oldest trick in the book! She wasn’t going to let herself melt. Yet she did. She tried not to relent. She tried not to feel triumphant. Intuitively, she saw—or felt—the beginning of a capitulation, the raw need in him. Her anger vanished into the warm, soft air of the California night.
He was losing the battle. Thank goodness, he was losing. She would be his lover. They would drift away together on the deep river of sensation. She could almost feel his skin on hers, feel the muscles bunching in his back, in his shoulders as she arched into him.
She shook her head violently. Letting desire ruin your reason! Because he wasn’t moving toward her. His hands weren’t reaching out to stroke, to caress, to love her. It was just the opposite. He’d wanted to avoid her, and she’d have a hell of a job winning him over.
“I’m beautiful?” There was the edge of bitterness she couldn’t keep out of her voice. “Is that why you’re running away?”
“I’m not running anywhere. I was waiting for you. Despite my better instincts. Despite my impulse to leave you here, get out as fast as I can.” Words of passion, but not the words she really wanted to hear