After Hours: Midnight Oil / Midnight Madness / Midnight Touch

Poor thing.

“So you’ll have to take her appointment this evening, and it’s Troy Barrington.”

Peggy closed her eyes. Troy Barrington, naturally. The guy who had slipped naked into her subconscious every night since she’d met him. The guy whom she really couldn’t go near again, especially nude under a sheet, or she didn’t think she could be held responsible for her actions. “Listen, Shirlie—I can’t do it.”

The receptionist looked at the appointment book. “Yes, you can. You don’t have anyone coming until Pilar Morales at nine-fifteen.”

“I, uh—”

The door opened and in walked Troy, with windblown hair and a slight sunburn on his nose. He looked edible, and those weird butterflies swarmed into her stomach again. She couldn’t chalk them up to hunger this time. No matter how hard she fought against it, she was attracted to a football player, a species of man she’d sworn never to allow into her life.

“Hi,” said Shirlie brightly, while Peg aimed a tight smile in his direction. “I’m afraid Margaret has gone home sick, so Peggy will be doing your hot stone treatment.”

A devilish glint entered his eyes. “Is that so?”

Peggy cleared her throat and shot a Death Stare at Shirl, promising to get her later. “Ah, yes. I had a last-minute cancellation. How are you, Mr. Barrington?”

“Even better than when I saw you two hours ago on the practice field, Miss Underwood.” He managed to say her name as if it were code for something deliciously dirty.

Underneath the pristine white lab coat, Peg’s body went nuts, thrilling to every ion of his presence. The vibrations of his voice even played at the base of her spine.

He turned to Shirlie and gestured with his thumb at Peg. “She’s got great legs, doesn’t she?”

“Absolutely!” While Peggy turned red, Shirlie picked up the ringing phone and smiled. “After Hours, may I help you?”

You’ve been no help to me at all, thought Peggy darkly. And what happened to your nervous babbling? Of all the times to be perky and quick-thinking…

“So,” said Troy, looking at his watch. “Massage, right?”

“Right. Follow me to the treatment room,” said Peggy in wooden tones. Barrington thinks I have great legs? A shiver of pleasure went through her, even as she told herself not to be gullible.

“I think I’d follow you pretty much anywhere,” Troy said, “because the view is so nice.”

Should she ignore him or get in his face about the personal comments? She damn sure wasn’t going to giggle and say thank you. Peggy settled for snorting. “God, and here I thought I’d left the cheese in the refrigerator.”

“I guess I should be happy you’re not calling me a dumb cracker.”

She groaned. “He walks, he talks, he makes bad puns. Lord help me, what do I do with him?”

“Personally, I think you should go out on a date with him,” Troy announced, whipping off his shirt. “If he asks you.”

Peggy froze and then noticed what he’d done. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Can you please keep the clothes on until I leave?”

“That’s no fun at all.”

“And I don’t date clients.” I especially don’t date football players.

“Ah. Good thing the client hasn’t asked you to date him yet.”

Peggy choked. “Good thing.”

“So, same drill, right? I shower, towel off, hang my robe on the hook, cover up Mr. Happy?”

She nodded and backed out of the room, feeling utterly discombobulated. Barrington was a big flirt. Problem was, she really wanted to flirt back. And it was ever so bad an idea. Her own personal goals aside, there were a hundred reasons not to ride the Troy Barrington roller coaster.

Peggy went to the kitchenette and got a glass of water for him and a glass of cold Arizona green tea for herself. She gulped some down and then pressed her chilled hands against her hot cheeks.

Inner calm. Balance. Mind, body and spirit in harmony. She took a deep breath and then exhaled; she repeated this three times. Then she walked down the hallway toward the treatment room as if going to her doom.

Troy was lying on his back, his arms folded under his head, his eyes open and amused. He flashed very white teeth as she entered the room again, his gaze following her every move.

“Water?” she asked him, adjusting the volume on the stereo. She had put on another soft, new age CD that was all instrumental.

“Thank you.” He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the table and accepted the glass from her. She looked anywhere and everywhere in the room except at his broad shoulders and sleek, muscled chest.

Why had Margaret had to get food poisoning on this particular day?

She took a sip of her tea, set it down and then drew a rolling side table closer to him. He emitted some kind of aura, a force like a magnet. She could feel it, and instinct told her to go no closer.

Unfortunately her job required her to go closer to Troy, touch him, slide her fingers across his warm, damp skin and gently knead his flesh. But somehow she knew that if she did, there would be no turning back.

Peggy had dealt with creep clients and their pickup lines before. She’d sidestepped unwelcome advances and had no problem whatsoever refusing to work on someone who made her personally uncomfortable.

But the discomfort she felt around Troy wasn’t due to any creepiness on his part…it was all about her primal response to him, the way he sprawled there with the sheet draped casually across his lap—and those seawater eyes inviting her to come sit in that lap.

She found her voice and was amazed that it sounded normal. “Want to get started? Why don’t you lie down on your stomach?”

Troy shook his head. “No, I’ll lie on my back. I want to watch you while you work.”

Great. Just great. “All right.”

He swung his powerful legs back onto the table, careless of the sheet that slipped dangerously low on his hips.

Peggy’s mouth went dry as her gaze flew automatically to a dusky crevice exposed by the movement, and she jerked the sheet over him before her brain could even process what she’d seen. Dark curls and thickness. He was well-endowed in the diameter department, that was certain.

She stood next to him and looked down at him as he lay prone, memorizing the little details of his human terrain. The swells and valleys, the faint creases in his neck, his perfectly formed nose and lips. His eyebrows grew a bit wild, which only added to his manly appeal.

He raised an arm a little as if he wanted to curve it around her, but then stopped. If he hadn’t, then nothing further would have happened between them.

But he did stop, seeming to remind himself that it was she who’d do the touching; that anything else was inappropriate and out of the question. He flattened his hand on the sheet and waited.

Peggy scooped massage cream out of a jar and warmed it in her hands before putting them on his shoulders and applying it in effleurage, the term for the gentle stroking that initiated a body treatment.

Troy closed his eyes briefly and sucked in a breath. Then he opened them and stared into hers. Her hands stopped without her even realizing it. Abruptly she began again.

She wanted Troy to touch her. She’d never, ever wanted a client to do that. But he was different. His skin was hot beneath her fingers, his breathing as shallow and quick as her own.

No matter how she tried to tell herself that this massage was like any other, nothing personal, just business—it was a lie. She poured herself into this treatment as if she were making love to him, slowly, thoroughly and deeply.