Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [59]
“Wake up, Rachel-Ann. I’ve got to go to work, and I don’t want to leave until you’re safely in your car. It’s a rough neighborhood without me to look out after you.”
She opened her eyes, reluctantly. He was dressed, he’d even taken a shower and shaved. He smelled like soap and shampoo, he looked clean and rumpled and the best thing she’d ever seen in her life.
She managed a shaky smile. “I’ll be out of here in a minute,” she said, pulling the duvet up around her. There was no particular reason to be modest—she was still wearing her underwear, the same fancy underwear she’d stripped down to last night in front of his watching eyes. The pile of condoms still lay on the bedside table, unused, and she could feel color flood her face.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had something to eat. I’ve made you a good breakfast and if you don’t eat it I’ll be offended.”
“I don’t eat in the morning.” It smelled divine, though. The wonderful smells of a huge breakfast and coffee, things she hadn’t smelled since she’d been an adolescent and Consuelo ruled the kitchen at La Casa.
“You will today. The bathroom’s over there. I left towels for you. Take a shower if you want—by the time you finish, breakfast will be ready.”
“I don’t eat—”
“In the morning,” he finished for her. “Did I ever tell you I’m incredibly stubborn?”
She waited until he’d gone back into the kitchen, for some reason oddly loath to prance around in front of him. Her clothes were folded neatly beside the bed. She grabbed them and dashed for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
The shower went a long way toward making her feel half human, and she liked the smell of his soap, his shampoo. She’d smell like him when she came out, she thought absently.
She didn’t bother putting her underwear on again, simply tossing it in the trash before she opened the bathroom door a crack, half hoping she’d be able to sneak out the front door while he was in the kitchen cooking.
No such luck. He was waiting for her, and he had her car keys in his hand. She hadn’t noticed his hands before. In fact she hadn’t looked at him clearly at all—she preferred to keep these things impersonal.
But not having sex with him had suddenly made it very personal, and she looked first at his hands, elegant, long-fingered, quite beautiful. Deft, clever-looking hands. Hands that would know how to touch a woman.
She looked at his face. Bony, interesting, attractive rather than handsome, with astonishingly beautiful brown eyes. She looked at him in the bright daylight and that strange sense of comfort washed back over her.
It was the smell of food, she told herself, reminding her of her safe childhood. The untold benefits of an uninterrupted night’s sleep, though she supposed she ought to be offended that he hadn’t interrupted it.
Except she remembered the feel of him, wrapped around her, and she knew it hadn’t been lack of interest that had kept him from making love to her.
Making love—that wasn’t a term she used often. But somehow, with this man, she sensed that was what it would be. Making love. And it was the last thing she wanted.
She tore her eyes away. “Okay, feed me, Seymour,” she said flippantly. “And then I’ve got to get home.”
He’d made huevos rancheros. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had them, and the sight of eggs and salsa so early in the morning should have made her stomach revolt. Instead she found she was starving.
It was heavenly, rich and spicy and perfect, and the coffee was exactly the way she liked it, strong with cream and tons of sugar and just a hint of cinnamon. She was practically at the point of licking her plate when she realized he was watching her.
“You don’t eat breakfast?” he said gently.
She shrugged nonchalantly, reaching for her coffee. “What can I say, it was delicious. Who taught you to cook like that?”
“My mother.”
She set the coffee down hard on the table in sudden shock, jerking her head up