Expecting...And In Danger

Maybe he’d seen it in her eyes, because she remembered very clearly what he’d said. “I want to come in, Charlie. I want to be with you. But we need to be clear with each other.” That gentle hand had cradled her head, his thumb spread to stroke her temple. “No expectations beyond what we can give each other tonight.”

She’d let him in. Even as those silent hopes died, she’d let him in, wanting passion and memories, craving whatever temporary oblivion he might bring her.

Rafe had been a skilled lover, and a greedy one. And he’d left before sunrise. She’d pretended to sleep while he found his clothes in the dark. Even when he’d bent over her and his lips had brushed her cheek, she’d faked sleep, afraid that if she spoke, if she did anything to acknowledge his leaving, she would embarrass them both.

No expectations. He’d wanted to be with her, but once had been enough.

She sighed once and stood, reaching for one of the thick, oversize towels. He had at least left her a note. She’d burned it.

The blasted towel smelled like him. She made a face and rubbed herself dry briskly. None of that, she told her excitable hormones. Since the night when she’d tumbled into bed with him so easily, she’d done a much better job of shutting out foolish dreams. In fact, she hardly dreamed at all anymore.

Four

Rafe was using his favorite knife on a fresh shitake mushroom when he heard Charlie coming down the iron staircase. She’d spent an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, but he’d expected that. He’d once asked his sister Maggie what women did in bathtubs that took so long. She’d given him one of those “I Am Woman” superior looks and told him he wouldn’t understand.

Women and bathtubs. He shook his head and got the steaks out of the refrigerator, where they’d been marinating. The broiler was already hot. He was forking the steaks onto the broiler pan when she spoke.

“You’re cooking!”

“I said I would.”

“No, I mean really cooking. I smell herbs—oregano?—and you’re cutting up vegetables.”

“Vegetables for the salad, oregano and rosemary in the marinade for the steaks.” He closed the oven door and glanced at her. Then paused, startled. “Your hair is curly.”

Her hand lifted self-consciously to touch the damp curls. “I couldn’t find a blow-dryer, so I towel-dried it.”

“I don’t have one.” He couldn’t stop staring. She looked so pretty with her face all warm and pink from her bath and her hair all messy with curls. His sweats pretty much swallowed her, of course. She’d rolled up the sleeves and the pant legs several times. “You always wear your hair all smoothed out.” He shook his head. “It looks nice smooth, but I like it like this. Curly and a little wild.”

“I like it smooth.” She wandered around, inspecting his kitchen with a small, worried vee between her eyebrows. “I had no idea you knew how to cook. Your kitchen—” She waved one hand at the counter. “Everything’s clean. Not just wiped-down clean, but put-away clean. The rest of your place is a mess, but the kitchen is neat. And you’ve got enough pots hanging in the pot rack to open a kitchen supply store.”