Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [146]
Becca didn’t want to know.
ADAM was stretched out on the sofa in his living room, a soft pillow under his head, a light afghan pulled to his waist, so relieved that Becca was back safe and sound, staying in his house, her stuff scattered around, all at home now, that all he could do was grin. He didn’t want her to leave, not ever. He heard her moving about in his wonderful, fully equipped, very modern kitchen, making him a healthy snack, she’d said.
The house was cool since he’d had the good sense to install central air-conditioning when he’d moved in. Soon, he thought, he’d get that ugly green tile out of that second-floor bathroom. Another four days and his energy would come roaring back and he’d head right down to the tile store. The master bedroom was sort of stark though, with just a big black lacquer bed and a matching black lacquer dresser, a couple of comfortable black and white chairs, and a good-sized closet, nearly walk-in, he’d said to her, lots of room for both of their clothes.
He’d had big plans for the bed the night before, about two hours after she’d gotten back from Riptide, and even though he couldn’t move a whole lot and his flexibility was nearly nil, and he’d tended to moan from pain as well as pleasure, it hadn’t mattered. She’d simply taken charge. He nearly shook the afghan off now thinking of how she’d looked astride him, her head thrown back when she’d screamed out his name. And then she’d fallen over on him and the pain had nearly made him yell again. But he’d lain there, silent, holding her against him as best he could, stroking her smooth back, and then she’d slowly straightened, frowned at the sight of his rib, all yellow and green now, and said, “I nearly killed you, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
“Kill me again,” he’d said, and she laughed and kissed him and kissed him again and again, and loved him until he’d yelled again, this time not from any pain in his ribs.
He felt good. He had plans for that bed again today, maybe in about an hour from now. He was stronger today, maybe he’d be able to do a bit more moving around. He hadn’t been able to get his hands and mouth everywhere he’d wanted to last night. Ah, but today. His fingers itched, his mouth sort of tingled. And what about tomorrow and the next day? Maybe he’d keep her in the bedroom until they had to leave for the church to get married, then right back here again. It sounded really fine to him. He wondered what Becca thought about mirrors everywhere.
She brought him some iced tea and a plate of celery stuffed with cream cheese. She sat beside him and fed him between kisses.
He realized suddenly there was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then he realized what it was—she was hiding something from him. And her eyes, something different there—he realized, finally, that it was shock. Well, he supposed that nearly burning to death on the roof of her father’s house would leave its mark. Or realizing a man she’d really liked was in actuality a madman. Or maybe, he thought, his mouth tightening, that madman, Tyler McBride, had, in fact, hurt her or tried to, and she hadn’t seen fit to tell him.
He ate another celery stick, eyeing her, then said, his voice all suspicious, his brows lowered, “You swear you didn’t lie to me? You swear there was no real trouble up in Riptide?”
She lightly stroked her fingers over his cheek. She loved to touch him. She particularly liked him naked so she could touch all of him, kiss all of him. She leaned down now and kissed his mouth, then straightened again. She said, all easy and blasé, “Nothing that couldn’t be handled. Sam’s all right. I can’t tell you how wonderful Rachel is with him.