Yvonne Mitchelson owns a small string of lingerie boutiques. Lately her designs have been lackluster but her partners have the answer: there’s nothing like a love affair to spark creativity. However, past scars have left Yvonne afraid to love or feel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Michael Benjamin is the epitome of American male: white, affluent, and handsome. He has his own scars given to him by his late wife. He is now one of Atlanta’s most-eligible bachelors and determined to stay that way. Until he meets Yvonne.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Their first night of passion leaves them both shaken. Unable to go back o business as usual, they agree to have a relationship with no commitment required. Love, however, has a way of changing even the best-laid plans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Michael Benjamin didn\u2019t see the slap coming, but he sure saw the stars afterwards. He touched his cheek gingerly, golden eyes glinting with genuine regret. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Diedre…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSorry?\u201d the seething redhead repeated, her voice rising several octaves. \u201cFirst you tell me that the only way I\u2019m going to get an engagement ring is to buy it myself, and then you have the nerve to tell me you\u2019re sorry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A heavy sigh escaped him. This wasn\u2019t the way he wanted to end his relationship with the model. He hadn\u2019t meant to snap at her but pressuring him for something he wasn\u2019t capable of giving had brought out the cutting remark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not the marrying type,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cI told you that when we started seeing each other. I wish you had believed me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His furious ex-lover laughed hollowly. \u201cWhat woman in her right mind believes a line like that? That was a challenge, not a confession. What you should have told me is what a cold-hearted son of a bitch you are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
True, but that wasn\u2019t something that could be brought up in casual conversation. Or bed. \u201cLook, I know I\u2019ve handled this badly. Maybe if we went to dinner?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The statuesque woman who commanded thousands of dollars per photo shoot leaned over his desk, her teal dress revealing the creamy swell of her cleavage. \u201cThe only way we\u2019re having dinner together is if they\u2019re serving your magnificent specimen roasted on a stick!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stalked to the door, then turned. \u201cDid you love me at all?\u201d she asked, her voice becoming plaintive. \u201cEven just a little?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wanted to tell her yes. She was a beautiful, vibrant woman. It should have been easy to love her, but he couldn\u2019t. He couldn\u2019t love anyone. \u201cDiedre …\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho is she?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe woman who ruined you for the rest of us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just like that, memories ambushed him, kicking him viciously in the gut. \u201cI …\u201d he trailed off, unable to speak past the guilt and anger that clogged his throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Diedre nodded, as if his lack of answer was answer enough. \u201cI never stood a chance, did I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He thought about explaining, but that damned tightness kept his throat securely closed. Wordless, he shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Diedre sighed. \u201cI know it\u2019s wrong to speak ill of someone I don\u2019t know, but I hate her.\u201d She left without a backwards glance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Regret mixed with relief as he rose then turned to gaze out the window behind his desk, not seeing the afternoon sunlight. \u201cSometimes I do too,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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