Afterlife (2 page)

muscles atrophy. That said, over the

past three months,

Dana had made tremendous progress.

She was a strong,

brave woman, but Rachel also knew

a great deal of it had

to do with the man who encouraged,

bul ied and stood by

her, no matter what.

He’d bring her to the therapy area,

but typical y he’d

return to the waiting room during the

first part of the

session, when Dana would insist she

didn’t need babying.

However, with uncanny timing,

whenever the session

reached its worst point, Peter was

likely to wander back to

see if Rachel wanted a soda from the

vending machine.

When she’d decline, he’d take a seat

nearby with a

magazine he wasn’t reading. Even

without sight, Dana’s

other senses would align on him like

a rifle scope, and

things would get better.

Like most healthcare professionals,

Rachel knew family

support for meaningful recovery was

immeasurable.

Fortunately for Dana, her fiancé was

also very affluent, and

he didn’t let her pride stand in the

way of using his

resources. He’d already facilitated a

cochlear implant

surgery that used enhanced hearing

technology. It had

reduced Dana’s hearing loss to a

mild hardship, mostly

exacerbated by her inability to see

people’s faces as they

spoke. The cosmetic surgery that had

been done since

they were engaged was handled by

the best plastic

surgeon in the country.

Peter Winston was part of top

management at

Kensington & Associates, one of

Baton Rouge’s most

prestigious corporations, a

manufacturing and acquisitions

concern. Since Rachel was sure

Peter’s role as operations

manager for al their domestic and

overseas plants had to

be a busy and difficult job, the fact he

didn’t miss a single

PT appointment spoke volumes to

her. Despite Dana’s

insistence that he didn’t need to be

such a mother hen,

there’d been days he’d flown back in

from a job only for

this, having to leave again that

evening. It not only told

Rachel how devoted he was to Dana,

but that he knew,

despite her spirited banter, how hard

this was for the

determined young woman.

“Why don’t you go away and flex

your muscles for the

nurses up front? Show them your

tattoo. They can coo over

you while Rachel and I get some real

work done.”

“What if one of them wants to stroke

my impressively

large ego?”

“Give me back my cane.”

Chuckling, he bent and caught her

mouth, which softened

under his. Though Rachel stayed

ostensibly occupied with

her calendar, her ears caught his

quiet admonition to

behave and work hard, that he’d be

close by. Dana’s

serious response was a bare whisper

Rachel nevertheless

managed to hear.

“Yes, Master.”

She gripped the edge of her desk,

hard enough that the

rough underside cut her hand, but she

bit her lip to keep

from making a noise of distress. The

cut was the least of it.

Yes, she’d been sure for a while, but

it was the first time

she’d heard it confirmed so baldly.

The painful vindication

had her floundering in an appal ing

swamp of self-pity, envy

and an old fury that wel ed up to

choke her.

Damn it, Rachel, stop it.

To hear it, to know it existed in such

a desirable form,

didn’t just double her over in pain. It

thril ed her with a

charge of sensual lightning through

her extremities. She’d

have to ground the energy into the

solid earth beneath her

feet—or in this case, the beige tile

floor—because it had

nowhere else to go.

That had always worked in the past,

but maybe it was

how much she genuinely liked these

two that made it more

difficult to ignore the effect they had

on her. From the

moment they arrived for each

appointment, she strained for

every word between them, absorbed

every touch and

gesture, as if she was living

vicariously through them, and

maybe she was. Recently, she’d been

waking from dreams

that left her thighs damp with

perspiration, her gown knotted

up around her waist as if a man had

pushed it there.

While Peter and Dana might keep

those old demons

awake and tormenting her, they

hadn’t resurrected them. It

wasn’t Peter who’d invaded her

dreams. It was the man

who’d referred Dana to Rachel’s PT

practice.

Jon Forte.

* * * * *

When not doing physical therapy for

the hospital, Rachel

ran a smal yoga studio. Jon had

started attending her

classes once a week almost a year

ago. Because of his

work schedule, he came to different

classes, varying his

attendance, but she suspected that

was a good thing. If he

was a dependable regular in any of

them, that class

probably would have had a mile-long

waiting list for female

attendees.

There was a different kind of beauty

to him. Unlike Peter,

who was a broad mountain of

muscle, Jon had the build of

a Baryshnikov, al compact strength.

Though not overly tal

at around five-ten, it made him quite

a bit tal er than

Rachel’s five-three. His eyes

reminded her of striated

sodalite, the vivid blues infused with

the fire of the earth that

had created it. His hair was thick,

black silk that feathered

temptingly over his forehead.

Like everyone else in her class, she’d

done a double-

take the first time he spoke. Not only

did he possess the

velvet tones of a late night DJ,

spinning languorous R&B

tunes in the loneliest hours of night,

but it was impossible to

imagine arguing with him, doing

anything to interrupt those

fluid, resolute syl ables from flowing

over the skin like the

reassuring brush of angel feathers.

He was always courteous, talking to

each woman in a

way that suggested he took a personal

interest in her life

and how her day was going. He had

that stil , attentive way

about him as Peter did. If another

male attended her class,

he handled that interaction in a

relaxed, friendly way,

seamless male bonding amid a sea of

estrogen.

He was a K&A management scion as

wel . Fol owing

impulse rather than good sense, she’d

looked up articles

on the company. Like Peter, he was

one of the bril iant five-

man team that ran K&A. They’d been

given various

nicknames in both the business and

society pages,

including

the
wunderkind
, because of what

they’d

accomplished at a relatively young

age in the

manufacturing world.

However, one gossip columnist gave

them a different

name.
Knights of the Board Room
.

With the calculated

indiscretion that a gossip columnist

could dare, the reporter

had noted they had a closely bonded

intuition usual y

shared by fetuses in the womb.

Another reason for the

nickname was that they were wel

known for their support of

charitable efforts, both with money

and hands-on time.

They’d been deeply involved in

relief efforts for Katrina and

supposedly always had personal bets

running between

them where the winnings went to the

charity of the winner’s

choice. In the pictures taken of them

at different functions,

she knew they were al handsome as

sin, though her gaze

always strayed to Jon’s face, and

sometimes her fingers,

slipping over the image with guilty

shame at the girlish act.

With his mechanical aptitude and

inventor’s spirit, Jon

was cal ed the “boy genius” of the

group. He held dual

financial and engineering degrees and

already had multiple

patents for innovative manufacturing

processes and

gadgets. He also had impressive

diplomacy and

negotiating skil s, and was

considered the calming yet

irresistible influence of the group.

Business rivals had

dubbed him “Kensington’s

Archangel” with grudging

admiration.

Knowing he was an engineer and

inventor explained why

the knuckles of his long-fingered

hands were often scraped,

his palms cal oused. She’d not only

had the shameful,

secret pleasure of touching them, but

some of the rest of

him as wel . Enough to know

firsthand his trim frame truly

was solid muscle. Because his upper

body strength made

the more extreme positions easier for

him to execute, she’d

fal en into the despicable habit of

using him to demonstrate

those. Despicable because she used

those innocuous

visual cues as an excuse to make

contact.

Note how Jon has his weight

balanced.
A quick touch of

his thigh, braced and holding in

Warrior One.
Pay

particular attention to the position

of the neck here, the

angle of the hips…
She’d almost

gone too far that day,

because when she’d stepped up

behind him to lay her

hands on his hips, she’d accidental y

brushed the upper

rise of his taut buttocks with her

thumbs. She’d blushed like

a girl. Thank heavens for the dim

lighting, the flickering

candles that created a tranquil

environment and hid such

reactions. His skin was fueled by a

heat that warmed her

whole body at the casual touch.

She assumed he came to the class for

the camaraderie

of others, because he was more

proficient in the ancient

practice than Rachel was. Some days

she wished he would

stop coming; other days she could

hardly wait to see which

day he turned up. In less rational

moments she blamed
him

for reviving al these feelings.

He’d given her direct permission to

touch him, after al .

* * * * *

It was a ritual she performed with al

her new students. At

the beginning of a class, she would

take a seat on her mat

and ask the first-timer the same

question. “May I touch

you?”

The reason for the question was

innocent enough. At the

end of each session, they would

perform the yoga
nidra
,

the students lying on their mats,

entering a state of deep

relaxation. She would visit each one,

kneel at the crown of

his or her head and massage the

temples with herbal-

coated hands, her thumbs slowly

rotating over the third eye,

spiritual y located above and

centered between the

eyebrows.

When she’d met his gaze that first

day, at the beginning

of class, those blue eyes had been

deep and mysterious in

the candlelight, almost causing her to

lose her train of

thought.

“May I touch you? Jon.” She added

the name as an

afterthought, but it felt wrong, as if an

honorific was needed

instead. Particularly when something

indefinable entered

his gaze as if he heard the pause and

—unlike her—had no

doubt about what should go in that

empty space.

“Yes, Rachel. You may.”

No nervous half smile and quick one-

word assent, as

often happened with a new student,

surprised by the

question. Those four words, uttered

in that velvet tone, had

brought back to life dangerous

fantasies she’d kept quel ed

for so long. She had the crazy thought

that it wouldn’t matter

when or how she wanted to touch

him. He would always

require that she wait for his

permission. It made her palms

dampen and her pulse flutter.

Maintaining her focus that day,

staying centered in her

practice, had been al but impossible,

because al she

could think about was touching him at

the end of it. She’d

lectured herself, messed up right and

left cues about twelve

times, until her students were teasing

her good-naturedly.

However, when she final y knelt at

his head, her hands