When Somebody Loves You by Cindy Gerard Read Free Book Online Page A

superior swagger toward her. “You are an uptight, uptown, uppity little witch who can’t stand the idea of a man—any man—exercising even the tiniest influence over your actions!”
    She faced him, arms crossed over her breasts in casual defiance, her expression a perfect study of bored tolerance. “You’ve been drinking.”
    “Two beers. I’ve had two lousy beers and as cold and frosty as they were, they didn’t hold a candle to that facsimile of a kiss I had the bad judgment to think I wanted from you.”
    That, he knew, was hitting below the belt. But his pride was at stake here, and he wanted at the very least to insult hers.
    He was cruising for a good shouting match, yet she wasn’t about to deliver. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to kiss that benign scowl off her face. Then he wanted to make love to her until she was chanting his name like a prayer.
    She should have had the good grace to look wounded, he thought. Or at least to call him a few names. But she just stood there, her chin held high, her hands cradling her elbows, waiting for the next insult to fly.
    Irked with himself for even being there, irked with her for her lack of reaction—any reaction—he stepped toward her.
    “Dammit, January,” he muttered, raising a hand in frustration.
    In a lightning move, she shrank away from him, covering her head protectively. “Don’t . . . please don’t.”
    Michael’s hand froze in midair. He was so stunned by her reaction, he didn’t understand its significance for a moment. She was waiting for a blow. She thought he was going to hit her.
    His stomach lurched with revulsion as suddenly everything became clear. Too clear. Too sickeningly, disgustingly clear.
    All along he’d sensed she was afraid of something. Now he knew what that something was . . . the back of his hand. Evidently some low-rent, slimy bastard had knocked her around, and she figured every man would give her the same treatment.
    Fighting a rage unlike any he’d ever known, at the thought of someone, anyone, touching her violently, he lifted his hand to its original destination and dragged it through his hair.
    “January . . .” He swallowed hard and wondered where to go from here. “January, I don’t hit women.”
    She drew a steadying breath, then, looking embarrassed, pulled herself together. “I think you’d better leave.”
    Michael’s gaze never left her face. It all made sense now, he mused, the iceberg shoulder, the crusty indifference. They were shields to hide the vulnerability, the shame, the fear that kept her from confiding in him. “Look at me, January.”
    He wasn’t sure what emotion propelled her—defiance, pride, or sheer will—but she returned his gaze levelly.
    “I am not like him. Whoever he was, I am not like him. Give me the chance to show you that. Give me the chance to show you how good it could be between us. That’s all I want, the chance to show you something good.”
    She wasn’t having any of it. Not tonight. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, and he could tell by the slight trembling she was working so hard to conceal that she was holding herself together by a very thin thread.
    One of the hardest things he’d ever done was leaving her like that and walking out the door.

    “Did you know he has a dog?”
    “Leonard has a dog?” January asked, glancing up from her salad and meeting Helen’s eyes. They were sharing a late lunch at January’s desk. Helen had been recounting her previous night’s date with Leonard.
    “Oh, goodness no.” Helen laughed around the folds of a paper napkin and carefully patted her mouth so that her lip gloss—the color, she’d informed January with a wicked grin, was Passionate Pumpkin—wouldn’t smear. “Leonard can hardly take care of himself, let alone a dog. Michael. Michael has a dog. A big bushy hound named George. George the Bush. Get it? Don’t ya just love it?”
    January sighed and speared a crouton with