He disappeared into the kitchen. Lights flipped on. She heard water running, clattering and clinking. When he came back out, he was holding out a big glass of wine, so densely red it was almost black.
“This stuff will knock you out on an empty stomach, so sip it slowly,” he said. “I’ve got some water on to boil for some artichoke ravioli, and some red sauce. That work for you?”
She laid the flowers down on a table and accepted the glass gratefully. “That sounds like heaven.”
She savored the complex, aromatic wine as she gazed at the photographs. They were stark, dynamic, full of high contrasts. One showed a young man diving off a cliff into a lake. He was still upright, his body starting to jackknife, his face a grimace of concentration.
She peered more closely and realized that it was Duncan’s brother, Bruce.
She took a closer look at all of them. There was a young girl, curled up asleep, her mouth open. The same girl again, older, laughing, swinging on a rope swing, hair flying like a banner. She was pretty, with the same narrow face and uptilting eyebrows as Duncan. Then a photograph of a handsome older woman in profile, staring off a porch, smoking a cigarette. She looked like Bruce. Mother. Family.
There were landscapes, too. Deserts and mountains, barren and stark. Cruelly sharp contrasts of light and shadow made them almost like moonscapes. They were lonely, strange, aching. Very personal.
She called back to the kitchen. “Did you take the pictures?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “Is there one of your father here?”
He came out of the kitchen and leaned against the entryway, sipping his wine. “No. He’s long gone. Haven’t seen him in years. Off in California, working on his fifth wife. She’s welcome to him.”
“Oh.” She stared down into the cup of bloodred wine. “I think I can one-up you there. I doubt my father even knows of my existence.”
“No? Your mom kept it a secret from him?”
“In a manner of speaking. Are these landscapes Afghanistan?”
His brow furrowed. “What do you know about Afghanistan?”
“Bruce told me you were stationed there. That you were a spy.”
He grunted. “Bruce babbles about things he knows shit about.”
“So? Did you take them there?” she prodded him, staring at a picture of jagged mountain peaks, the sun a blazing halo behind them.
“Yes, most of them,” he said.
“Was that where you learned to fight like that?” she asked.
He hesitated. “More or less.”
“Amazing photos,” she offered. “I wouldn’t have dreamed that you had an artistic side.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Heaven forbid that you engage in something as frivolous as art.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you busting my balls?”
“No. I just like your pictures. I like what they say about you.”
He looked alarmed. “What do you mean? What do they say?”
“Relax,” she soothed. “I couldn’t tell you in words. I can’t discuss visual art intelligently. I just…I like the way they make me feel.”
A cautious smile started in his narrowed eyes. “Thank you.”
Duncan slowly lifted his glass. She lifted her own in response. Toasting rare, delicate perfect moments of connection, the kind that got her worked up and longing for things she could not have. The tinkle of crystal was a chime, sweet and faint as a blown kiss. The sound of an unspoken pact, delicately sealed. Stop it, D’Onofrio. She had to stop projecting wishful fantasies onto every single interaction. It was stupid.
She’d been privately dubious about eating pasta at two in the morning after an evening like this, but when he set the plate loaded with plump ravioli, red sauce, and a generous dusting of savory pecorino, something inside her stood up and cheered. It smelled superb.
They ate in silence, every last bite, and afterward, he watched her finish her wine. His unwavering gaze made heat rise in her face.
“I expect you want a shower,” he said.
She nodded, mutely.
“The best one is off my bedroom,” he said. “Come this way.”
Ah. Well, he could hardly be blamed for assuming, she thought wildly, as she followed him and her suitcase down the hall. Was this what she’d intended? And if not this, then what? Get real. Calm down.
He didn’t join her in the shower. Part of her was disappointed. She stayed in the pounding hot water, pondering it.
Duncan Burke was wrong for her. She’d known it in the restaurant. His mind was wired in a way that was foreign to her. He would annoy, insult, and disillusion her. He already had. He would again. It was a sure thing. A death-and-taxes type of sure thing.
This was set against the fact that he aroused her to a screaming pitch of excitement, he was an incredibly gifted lover, and he’d saved her life tonight. He’d used his body as a shield when that guy was pointing a gun at her. He was a good guy, beneath his hard edges. Brave, valiant, self-sacrificing. Incompatible or not. Insensitive or not.
And she wanted him. Bad.
When she got out of the shower, her decision was irrevocable. She toweled off, let her hair out of its clip, and shook it loose.
She hung the towel carefully back on the rack, and looked at herself in the mirror, naked but for the little pendent with the A in tiny rubies that Lucia had given her. Hanging right between those rather large breasts that had always embarrassed her. She’d felt since she was twelve or so as if her curvy body were flaunting itself to the world against her will, demanding attention that she did not actually want.
But Duncan seemed to like it. Finally, those boobs were good for something. She reached up, touched them gently. They were much more sensitive than usual. Goose-bumped with delicious anticipation at the thought of what lay ahead. Her nipples tightened.
She walked out into his bedroom like that. He had showered, too, in another bathroom, and wore a terry cloth robe. He glanced over, did a double take. “Ah…holy God. You’re…just look at you.”
“Did I thank you for saving my life?” she demanded.
He looked alarmed. “Yeah, but you don’t have to thank me by—”
“Shut up, Burke. Make love to me now, before I lose my nerve.”
He blinked. “Ah, okay,” he said hoarsely. He started toward her.
“I know this is a mistake,” she announced.
He stopped, looking perplexed. “It is?”
“Yes,” she told him. “But I don’t care. I’ll pay whatever price I have to pay. Life’s too short. I figured that out when those guys shoved me into the car. It could all go away so quickly. And I want to feel this.”
He touched his finger gently to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t work yourself into a state,” he soothed. “How much wine did you drink?”
“This is not about wine!” she yelled. “I know exactly what I’m saying and doing, Duncan Burke! Don’t you dare condescend to me!”
“How could I?” he asked, dryly. “You’re terrifying.”
“Oh, yeah? Do I intimidate you?” She put her hands on her hips.
“Some of me.” He tossed off his robe, displaying his naked body and his huge erection. “Other parts of me are fucking fearless.”
She stared at him. He was so perfect. Tall, broad, those lean, defined, capable-looking muscles, just the right amount of hair, beautiful thighs and flanks, long, narrow feet. And his penis. Oh, boy.
She wanted to read him like braille. Lick him like a lollipop.
He tossed the comforter back and pushed her until she tumbled backward onto the silvery sheet. It was cool against her damp skin. She scrambled up, curling her knees beneath her.
He stood there, erection bobbing right before her eyes. He started to speak, and stopped himself. His face looked grim.
“What?” she demanded. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
His throat bobbed. “I don’t want to fuck this up again.”