Suddenly he was staring directly at her and she glanced away. Why was she blushing? He couldn’t see. She knelt tenderly in preparation to sit, suppressing a groan when her hip hit the ground.

“Come here,” he said.

“Uh . . . what?” she asked, confused by his request. Had he somehow sensed her staring at him—admiring him?

“Take off your jacket and come here.”

“I don’t think so.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to attack you. Your muscles got beat up on that fall. You got it worse than I did. You’re not going to be able to move tomorrow morning if we don’t do something to help you. Take off your jacket.”

She did so reluctantly.

He waggled his finger at her in a beckoning gesture. “The sun will keep the muscles good and warm. Now come here.”
She scooted toward him. He circled his hand in the air. “Your back to me. I do a lot of massage and acupressure in my chiropractic practice. It’ll keep your muscles from seizing up.”

She sat before him. He swung one leg around her so that her hips were just inches from his spread thighs. Ever so gently, he stroked her hair.

Her heart stalled for a moment, but then she realized he was smoothing the strands over to one side so that they wouldn’t get caught in his massaging fingers. Was it her imagination, or did he linger at his task? How did her hair feel against his fingertips? She resisted an urge to touch it herself, strangely curious as to how he experienced her.
He put his hands on her shoulders and began to rub. She moaned, all thought vacating her brain.

“Hurt?” he asked, his deep voice just inches away from her right ear.

She just nodded. His hands paused in their kneading motion, but he continued to touch her. “Does it hurt bad, or hurt good?”

She heard Enzo snuffle and whine above them in the silence that followed.

“It hurts good,” she admitted in a hushed tone.

He continued his massage, loosening stiff, sore muscles. The sunshine beat down on the top of her head, upper back and shoulders. Her pain slowly faded, as did her anxiety. Her flesh grew more supple beneath his deft hands. Her eyelids became heavy as she fell under a spell.

He focused on her neck for several minutes.

“Do you get headaches?” he asked.

Her eyes blinked open. “Yes. A few times a month, pretty bad. How did you know?”

“You carry a lot of tension in your neck and shoulders.”

She moaned softly when he used his thumb to work the kinks out of her spine. He moved lower down her back. He was a magician. She lowered her chin to her chest and drifted. A pleasant, heavy sensation settled in her sex and tingled her clit when he opened his hands and cradled her waist as he continued to rub her spine with his thumbs. She realized his size was making her feel delicate in comparison; feminine . . . aroused.

“These knots aren’t from the fall. How come you’re so tense? Is being an actress that stressful?” he asked gruffly.
“It depends. I put most of the stress on myself. I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist.” She turned her head, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You never told me how you knew I was an actress. Have you seen . . . I mean . . . do you go to movies?” she fumbled.

“Sometimes. Not much. I’ve never gone to one of yours.”

“Then how did you know about my job?”

For a moment, he didn’t reply, just continued to knead at the knots in her lower back using his thumbs. “I listen to music a lot. I have the CD from Golden Idol. A friend of mine knew I liked Sierra Gallas, and she bought me the soundtrack from the movie,” he said, referring to the 1950s movie siren who had also been a singer of jazz and blues ballads. Jennifer had played the role of Sierra Gallas several years ago in the film Golden Idol. She’d been awarded an Academy Award for her performance.

She twisted her torso to try and see him. He stopped massaging her back but kept his hold on her waist. His unseeing gaze was fixed where his hands were wrapped around her.

“And did you like the recording?”

“I’ve been known to listen to it once or a hundred thousand times,” he said, deadpan.

As if he’d known she smiled, he returned it. Her grin faded.

He was really something to look at when he smiled. The pleasant ache expanded in her pussy.

“I read you did all the songs yourself. No voiceovers,” he said.

“That’s right,” she murmured. She was utterly focused on the feeling of his hands holding her hips and the movement of his mouth. “I had an exceptionally talented voice coach. I practiced for more than a year before doing the movie and recording.”

“You did a phenomenal job.”

Her cheeks heated. He didn’t appear to be the type to compliment people often, and so she appreciated the sentiment all the more because of it. “Thank you.”

“It’s how I recognized you this morning in the forest. You were singing ‘Love in the Moonlight.’”

Her mouth fell open in amazement. “You mean . . . you literally knew it was me when you followed, not just a random woman staying with the Pierces who happened to be singing an old Sierra Gallas tune?”

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. His hands shifted lower. He began to make subtle circular motions over the swell of her hips, massaging her, but also . . . stroking her.

She felt a rush of warmth between her thighs.