“Because they mean something to me, okay? And so do the men who created them. They’re proof that beauty can be found where you’d least expect it. That most people have some good in them. That the amount of talent that goes to waste in prison is a tragedy.”

She was too close. He couldn’t think. He longed to take her in his arms and push her away at the same time, which made no sense. “That’s bullshit! The men who created these things aren’t significant to you. They’re just a bunch of lost souls grasping for something, anything, to make them feel they have value. And you believe you’re a bigger person for patronizing them. But you’d never open your heart to one of them, not really, and you know it.”

He was almost yelling when he finished. He could see the effect of his outburst, the way her face drained of color, and regretted it. But he was too far gone to change course, too torn by his own emotions to even apologize. It was better this way, he told himself. Better if she hated him. Better if she took him back to the damn motel and left him there. Then there’d be no chance of becoming the next man to contribute to her “collection.” The last thing he wanted was for some token representing him to be displayed here with all the others. Let her feel sorry for the poor bastards who’d made these arts and crafts. He wanted none of her pity.

What he wanted was her body, he told himself.

But, deep down, he knew he wanted much more than that.

What he really craved was her respect.

11

Her chest rising and falling much too fast, Peyton stood in the middle of her office long after Virgil had stalked out. She knew she needed to calm down. But she couldn’t. She was caught in a web spun by her own emotions and desires—one that challenged every instinct she possessed regarding self-preservation, not to mention sense of duty. She’d hoped to achieve some sort of equilibrium with this new person in her life. But she couldn’t. For one thing, he wasn’t someone to whom she could simply explain how she felt—because he understood more than she wanted him to understand, looked far deeper, to the hard truth, blanching at nothing. For another, in all her years in corrections, she’d never encountered anyone so at war with himself. That made everything more complicated.

She didn’t think of the inmates who’d given her these gifts the way he thought. She considered them friends, and there was nothing wrong with that. But she doubted she could convince him. What difference would it make, even if she could? Their argument hadn’t been about other men. It’d been about the two of them and how they felt whenever they were together. He understood that she was attracted to him. She’d made that obvious enough. He also understood that she was fighting it—that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, take a chance on someone like him—and he resented it.

She’d resent it, too, if she were him, wouldn’t she? Not only was he a victim of his mother’s and uncle’s actions, he was the product of an imperfect system. Her hesitation to get involved with him further convinced him that he didn’t deserve to be considered by someone like her, which wasn’t true. He’d said, You know what I want from you. If you want it, too, you don’t have to make me dinner. You don’t have to view me as an equal. Hell, you don’t have to do anything at all. Just ask. But now he acted as if he’d accept nothing less than her soul.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted her own heartbeat. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. It hammered away, refusing to slow down.

Go back to your room, close the door and lock it.

She promised herself she would. But once in the hallway she turned to the guest room and, swallowing hard, lifted her hand to knock.

Virgil’s whole body tensed when Peyton came to his door. “Go away,” he snapped.

“That’s it?” she said.

Yes…. No. God, he liked her and he hated her. Or maybe it was what she stood for that he both liked and hated. He barely knew her, and yet she represented everything he couldn’t have and everything he wanted all at once.

He should keep his hands to himself. That was the one course of action where he couldn’t go wrong. So he gritted his teeth and clung to his control. “Yes.”

He heard the weight of her footsteps as she left. Then his stomach knotted and his hands curled into fists because he wanted to hit something, something that would send enough pain through him to crush the physical longing.

Pulling the pillow over his head, he ordered himself to let her go.

Fifteen minutes later he got out of bed and descended the narrow stairs leading to her room. “Peyton?” he called when he reached her door.

It took her a moment to answer. He got the impression that she couldn’t decide whether or not she owed him that much. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say; he sure as hell couldn’t explain his actions or his emotions.

She opened the door. The look on her face accused him of hurting her even though he had no idea how he’d managed to do that. Maybe it was her pride he’d damaged. He supposed a woman like her wasn’t used to being turned down.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She must’ve believed he was sincere because her pained expression dissolved and she began toying nervously with the bottom of her T-shirt.

Once he allowed his gaze to fall lower than her face, he realized that the sweatpants she’d worn earlier were gone. Bare legs extended to bare feet, the sight of which sent a fresh charge of testosterone through him.

“I don’t know how to help you,” she whispered.

“Maybe I don’t want you to help me.”

“Then what do you want?”

For her to see him as an ordinary man. To desire him as an ordinary man.

“Take off your clothes.” His voice sounded so raspy he almost didn’t recognize it. He felt so much more than lust, but whatever else he craved was like an itch he could never scratch. He figured he could be happy with pure sex. Being able to make love to a woman, a woman like Peyton, was far more than he’d expected before returning to prison, wasn’t it? So why had he tried so hard to resist?

She stood, seemingly transfixed. Would she refuse? He’d made his request a command because part of him hoped she would. That she’d save him, since he couldn’t save himself. The other part felt as if he’d die a little if she shut him down….

“Why do you have to tempt people, challenge them, into not giving you what you want?” she asked.

His chest burned; he wasn’t sure why. “This isn’t a psychoanalysis session. Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“No. Forget it. Just get out of here.” She started to turn away, but she didn’t close the door and he clasped her elbow.

“Don’t say no,” he murmured, but he didn’t hold on to her very long. He didn’t want her to feel forced.

She stared at him as if she understood why he’d been crude, as if she was just as lost as he was. Then she lifted her T-shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor.

The sight of her in nothing but a pair of sheer lace panties hit him harder than any physical blow he’d ever sustained. He stepped back and gulped for breath, dared not move toward her for fear she was just another dream that would dissipate into thin air if he tried to touch her.

“Virgil?” She sounded uncertain of his reaction, or lack of reaction.

His throat so dry he couldn’t speak, he raised a hand to tentatively cup her breast. The weight and feel of her resting in his palm shot to his brain like a snort of heroin. It’d been at least ten years since he’d wasted any brain cells on drugs, but it was a feeling he’d never forgotten.

Half expecting her to stop him, he caught his breath. He’d had so much practice being disappointed in life he didn’t truly believe she’d give him what he wanted. Bringing him here, teasing him with her nakedness, could be some sort of test, to see if he’d resort to force if she suddenly changed her mind. He’d heard of C.O.s who did that. Some got off on the danger of such games. But he had no desire to force Peyton or any other woman. It was her cooperation and participation he desired.