“Please, don’t leave until I’m done, Val,” she called out again, her voice small and fear-tinged.

Damn it all to hell and back.

“I’m quite vulnerable, you know. If those men come by and I’m stuck in here defenseless, unable to protect myself.”

If those imagined bad guys—or for that matter, any man—came upon her, the lady would be unable to protect herself.

He opened his mouth to say as much . . . but . . . stopped himself.

“Fine,” he said brusquely. “Will you hurry?”

“Of course!” she exclaimed, the natural joy that seemed to always infuse her voice fully restored, and she resumed belting out her merry song.

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come

Let earth receive her King

Let every heart prepare Him room

And heaven and nature sing . . .”

And when it seemed her bath would never end, that he would be forced to endure the sounds of water sluicing over her naked skin, flushed red from the heat, and imagining her in all her naked splendor, at last, the Lord took mercy.

“Done!” she called out. “But I still need to change my garments, so if you can wait a moment more?”

Val swallowed painfully, struggling to get his throat to move.

Oh, God.

Think of anything other than the lady on the other side of that kitchen door, completely naked and toweling herself off.

It didn’t help.

The thoughts to replace were of him pushing her hands gently aside and dragging that towel over her naked form himself. Wiping away the moisture that clung to the small of her back, running the towel along her spine, and then his lips kissing each place he touched.

He broke out in a sweat. Pressing his forehead against the heavy oak panel, Val knocked his head slowly and silently against it, his gaze locked on several initials all nicked upon the door. He passed a cursory look over the CM, and QM, to land on the MM.

Myrtle McQuoid.

Yes, think of her as a small girl carving her name into the wood door.

Better yet, think of the older brother who’d surely—and rightfully so—beat Val bloody and unconscious, and only then call him out for lusting after the lady as he now did.

It didn’t help.

His wicked mind still only dragged forth imaginings of—

The door opened, and a black curse slipped out as he pitched forward. He hurriedly righted himself, retaining his feet . . . but just barely.

He glared.

“My apologies,” Myrtle said in her cheer-filled way.

“Fine,” he grunted. “Now I can . . .” Leave.

It was a silent directive issued by his conscience, that white angel on his shoulder who knew him to be a devil, and who sought to influence him in the ways of the right.

Only, Lord help him—and it was a prayer he sent to the heavens—he was hopeless to leave.