"Just the smell of you. Your skin, your hair. You make me hard."
Not a compliment she'd ever gotten before, but she could see the evidence of the sincerity of it.
"Okay, check me out," she said mildly, and lay down. Sean raised himself on one elbow, and his left hand began to turn her face this way and that.
"It's my fault," he said, his voice steady but not exactly calm. "I shouldn't have stopped to lock up the studio."
"The only fault is Carver's," she said. "I've played that blame game too many years. We don't need to start it all over again. For the first year after he attacked me, I thought, 'What if I hadn't worn that green dress? What if I hadn't let him hold my hand? Kiss me? Slow dance with me? Was it my fault for looking pretty? Was it my fault for treating him as I would any date I liked? No. It was his fault, for taking a typical teenage evening and turning it into the date from hell."
Sean's fingers gripped her chin gently and turned her face to the other side so he could examine her bruises. He kissed the one on her cheek, and then he pulled the cover down to look over her body. She had to stop herself from pulling it right back up. This level of intimacy was great and very exciting, but she sure wasn't used to it.
"This is the closest anyone's been to me in years," she said. "I haven't even seen a doctor who looked at this much of me." Then she told herself to shut up. She was babbling.
"No one should ever see this much of you," he said absently. "No one but me." His fingers, whiter even than her own magnolia skin, brushed a dark bruise on her ribs. "How much are you hurting?"
"I'm pretty stiff and sore," she admitted. "I guess my muscles were all tensed up, and then, when I got knocked around… "
He touched her side gently, his hand very close to her breast. "Will you be able to dance tonight? We need to call Sylvia and cancel if you will not be able. She can get Thompson and Julie to do it."
He was still hard, ready for her. She was having a difficult time remembering her sore muscles.
"I don't know," she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt.
"Turn over," he said, and she obediently rotated. "How's your back?"
She moved her shoulders experimentally. "Feels okay," she said. His fingers traced her spine, and she gasped. His hand rubbed her hip.
"Don't think I got bruised there," she said, smiling into the pillow.
"What about here?" His hand traveled.
"There, either."
"Here?"
"Oh, no! Definitely not there!"
He entered her from behind, holding himself up so his weight wouldn't press on her tender ribs. "There?" he asked, the mischief in his voice making something in her heart go all soft and mushy.
"You'd better… massage… that," she said, ending on a gasp.
"Like this?"
"Oh, yes."
After they'd basked in the afterglow for a happy thirty minutes, Rue said, "I hate to bring this up, but I'm hungry."
Sean, stung by his own negligence, leaped from the bed in one graceful movement Before Rue knew what was happening, he'd lifted her from the bed, ensconced her in a chair, and clean sheets were on the bed and the old ones stuffed in a hamper. He'd started the shower for her and asked her what kind of food she liked to eat "Whatever's in the neighborhood," she said. "That's what I love about the city. There's always food in walking distance."
"When you come out of the shower, I'll be back with food for you," he promised.
"You haven't bought food in years, have you?" she said, and the fact of his age struck her in a way it hadn't before.
He shook his head.
"Will it bother you?"
"You need it, I'll provide it," he said.
She stared at him, her lips pressed together thoughtfully. He didn't say this like a wimp who was desperate for a woman. He didn't say it like a control freak who wanted to dole out the very air his sweetheart breathed. And he didn't say it like an aristocrat who was used to having others do his bidding.
"Okay, then," she said slowly, still thinking him over. "I'll just shower."
The heat of the water and the minutes of privacy were wonderful. She hadn't been around people on a one-on-one basis so much for some time, and to be precipitated into such an intimate relationship was quite a shock. An enjoyable one, but still a shock.
Having clean hair and a clean body did wonders for her spirits, and in the light of Sean's determination to provide for her, she found a pair of his jeans she could wriggle into. She rolled up the cuffs and found a faded pumpkin-colored T-shirt to wear. It was pretty obvious she wasn't wearing a bra, but she didn't know where her bra was. Rue had a terrible conviction that it was still in the studio, which would be a dead giveaway to the other dancers. She left the bedroom and went out into the living room/kitchen/office to wait for Sean. It was small and neat, too, and had a couple of narrow windows through which she could see people's feet go by. For the first time, she realized Sean had a basement apartment.
Shortly after, he came in with two bags full of food. "How much of this can you eat?" he asked. "I find I have forgotten." He'd gotten Chinese, which she loved, and he'd bought enough for four. Luckily, there were forks and napkins in the bags, too, since Sean didn't have such things.
"Sean," she said, because she enjoyed saying his name. "Sit down while I eat, please, and tell me about your life." She knew how his face looked when he came, but she didn't know anything about his childhood. In her mind, this was way off balance.
"While I was in Pineville," he said, "I looked in the windows of your parents' home. I was curious, that's all. In the living room, your father was staring into a huge glass case that takes up a whole wall."
"All my stuff," she said softly.
"The crowns, the trophies, the ribbons."
"Oh, my gosh, they still have all that out? That's just… sad. Did he have a drink in his hand?"
Sean nodded.
"Why did you tell me this when I asked to know more about you?"
"You're American royalty," he said, supplying the link.
She laughed out loud, but not as if he were really amusing.
"You are," he said steadily. "And I know you've heard Sylvia say I was an aristocrat. Well, that's her joke. My origins are far more humble."
"I noticed you could make a bed like a whiz," she said.
"I can do anything in the way of taking care of a human being," he said. He looked calm, but she could tell he wasn't—something about the way his hands were positioned on the edge of the table. "I was a valet for most of my human life."
CHAPTER NINE
"You were A gentleman's gentleman?" Her face lit up with interest.
He seemed taken aback by her reaction. "Yes, my family was poor. My father died when I was eleven, so I couldn't take over his smithy. My mother was at her wits' end. There were five of us, and she had to sell the business, move to a smaller cottage, and my oldest sister—she was fifteen—had to marry. I had to find work."
"You poor thing," she said. "To have to leave school so early."
He smiled briefly. "There wasn't a school for the likes of us," he said. "I could read and write, because our priest taught me. My sisters couldn't, because no one imagined they'd need to." He frowned at her. "You should be eating now. I didn't get you food so you could let it grow cold."