Her Best Worst Mistake by Sarah Mayberry Page B

it for her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.
    “ I’ll drive you home,” he said,
opening the front passenger door.
    Violet took a step backward. “No, thank you.”
    It was his turn to frown.
    “ We both know what will happen if
you take me home,” she said.
    He didn’t bother denying it. He was already hard
again at the prospect of round two.
    “ Is that a problem?”
    “ Yes, it is. Elizabeth’s my
friend.”
    It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Elizabeth
had been her friend five minutes ago, when he’d been deep inside
her, but he controlled the impulse. He wasn’t about to beg. And she
was right—she had far more to lose in this situation than him. He
could excuse her to himself as a fling, an indulgence he’d allowed
himself in the aftermath of his broken engagement. She had no such
excuse for sleeping with him.
    “ I’m not letting you walk
home.”
    “ I’ll catch a taxi.”
    He collected his suit jacket from the floor. “Violet,
be serious. Only a complete asshole would let you catch a cab home
after what just happened.”
    “ I want to go home alone, and only a
complete asshole would force his company on me. Especially after
what just happened.”
    He reached for patience. “Violet—”
    She held up a hand. “No, Martin. I’m not going to be
browbeaten into submission. I’m not a delicate flower, I’m not a
people-pleaser, and I don’t need or want your protection. Us having
sex doesn’t make you automatically responsible for me. In case you
hadn’t noticed, that kind of thinking went out with pointy bras and
girdles.”
    She tossed her hair, her chin lifted defiantly. Not
so long ago, that little chin lift had made him want to punch a
hole in the wall. Now, it made him want to get close enough to kiss
her full, pink mouth again, a tectonic shift that made him feel
decidedly off balance.
    “ Let me pay for your cab
then.”
    She made an outraged sound. “On what planet would I
let that happen? I’m not some prostitute you need to send back to
her pimp.”
    He glared at her. She was starting to piss him off.
Much more familiar territory. “When have I ever indicated that I
see you as a whore, Violet?”
    Her chin dropped a notch. “You haven’t. But you get
my point.”
    “ No, actually, I don’t.”
    “ We had sex, Martin. You don’t owe
me, and you don’t own me.” She flipped up the collar on her coat.
“Let’s just agree that this was yet another stupid, impulsive
mistake that happened for God-only-knows-what reason and leave it
at that. You go your way, I go mine.”
    She didn’t wait for him to agree or disagree, she
simply turned her back on him and started walking. He swore under
his breath, a choice word from his Hackney days, then got behind
the wheel. He followed her out of the mews, engine barely revving
higher than an idle. She glanced at him once over her shoulder,
then proceeded to ignore him as she headed for the nearest taxi
stand. He shadowed her, stubbornly refusing to abandon his escort.
The driver behind him leaned on his horn and Martin waved out the
window, signaling that he should overtake.
    Violet threw him a bemused, annoyed look as she
reached the taxi stand. Clearly, she couldn’t understand what he
was doing. Why he felt responsible for her. She wasn’t the only
one. It wasn’t because he felt he owed her anything—what had
happened in the back seat of his car had been an exchange of
equals, neither of them supplicant to the other. But he couldn’t
simply drive away and abandon her as though their encounter had
been as casual as shaking hands. It had been intense, mind-blowing,
consuming.
    He frowned as he watched Violet slip into the back of
a cab, confused by his own thoughts and feelings. The taxi
signaled, then pulled out from the curb. Martin followed. At the
next intersection, Violet’s cab turned left, he turned right.
    When he’d left her apartment a month ago, he’d
honestly believed he’d never see her again. He