After a few more bites, the cramps eased, allowing him to actually enjoy the meal again.
And as the cramps lessened, it took all of his willpower to eat like a human and not shovel the food into his mouth by the handfuls in a desperate need to quench the gnawing hunger in his belly.
At times like this, it was hard to remember he was still a man and not some feral, rampaging beast that had been freed from its cage.
He'd lost most of his humanity centuries ago. What little was left, he intended to keep.
Grace leaned against the counter as she watched him eat, slowly, almost mechanically. She couldn't tell if he liked the food, but he kept eating it.
Yet what amazed her were the perfect European table manners he had. She'd never been able to successfully eat that way, and she wondered when he'd learned to use his knife to balance the pasta on the back of his fork and eat it.
"Did they have forks in ancient Macedonia?" she asked.
He paused. "Excuse me?"
"I was just wondering when the fork was invented. Did they have them in..."
You're rambling! her mind shouted at her.
Well, who wouldn't? Just look at the guy. How many times do you think someone has acted like an idiot and had a Greek statue come to life? Especially one who looks like that!
Not often.
"The fork was invented sometime in the fifteenth century, I believe."
"Really?" she asked. "Were you there?"
His features blank, he looked up and asked, "What, for the invention of the fork, or the fifteenth century?"
"The fifteenth century, of course." And then thinking better of it, she added, "You weren't there when the fork was invented. Were you?"
"No." He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with the napkin. "I was summoned four times during that century. Twice in Italy and once in England and France."
"Really," she said, trying to imagine what it must have been like back then. "I bet you've seen all kinds of things over the centuries."
"Not really."
"Oh, come on. In two thousand years-"
"I've mostly seen bedrooms, beds, and closets."
His flat tone gave her pause as he returned to eating. An image of Paul pierced her heart. She'd only known one selfish, uncaring jerk. It sounded as if Julian had known many more.
"So tell me, do you just lie in the book until someone calls you?"
He nodded.
"What do you do in the book to pass the time?"
He shrugged, and she homed in on the fact that he didn't possess a wide range of expressions.
Or words.
She moved forward and took a seat across the table from him. "You know, according to you we have a month together, why not make it pleasurable and talk?"
Julian glanced up in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had actually conversed with him, except to issue encouragements or suggestions to help heighten the pleasure he was giving them.
Or to call him back to bed.
He'd learned very early in life that women only wanted one thing when it came to him-some part of his body buried deep between their legs.
With that thought in mind, he drifted his gaze slowly, leisurely, over her body, stopping at her breasts, which grew tight at his prolonged stare.
Indignantly, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited until he met her gaze.
Julian almost laughed. Almost.
"You know," he said, using her words. "There are far more entertaining things to do with a tongue than talk- like run it over your bare breasts and through the hollow of your throat." His gaze dropped down to the table to the approximate area of her lap. "Not to mention other places it can go."
For an instant, Grace was dumbstruck. Then amused.
Then very horny.
As a therapist, she'd heard much more shocking things than that, she reminded herself.
Yeah, but not from a tongue that she wanted to do things with other than talk.
"You're right, there are other things to do with one, like cut it out," she said, taking some satisfaction in the surprise that flickered in his eyes. "But I'm a woman who likes talk and you are here to please me, are you not?"
There was only the subtlest of tenseness to his body as if he resisted his role. "I am."
"Then, tell me what you do while you're in the book."
His gaze bored into hers with a heated intensity that she found unnerving, intriguing, and a bit frightening.
"It's like being trapped inside a sarcophagus," he said quietly. "I hear voices, but I can't see light or anything else. I just stand there, unable to move. Waiting. Listening."
Grace cringed at the very idea. She remembered once, long ago, when she had accidentally locked herself in her father's toolshed. There had been no light, no way out. Terrified, she had felt her lungs seizing up, felt her head go light in panic. She had screamed and pounded on the door until she had bruised her entire hand.
Finally, her mother had heard her and let her out.
To this day, Grace was slightly claustrophobic from the experience. She couldn't imagine what it must be like to spend centuries in such a place.
"How horrible," she breathed.
"You get used to it. In time."
"Do you?" She didn't know, but for some reason she doubted it.
When her mother had released her from the toolshed, she found out she'd only been inside for half an hour, but to her it had seemed like an eternity. What would it be like to really spend eternity that way?
"Have you ever tried to escape?"
The look he gave her spoke loudly.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Obviously, I failed."
She felt horrible for him. Two thousand years spent in a lightless crypt. It was a wonder he was still sane. That he was able to even sit here with her and speak at all.
No wonder he had wanted food. That kind of sensory deprivation was sheer, unrelenting torture.
In that moment, she knew she was going to help him. She didn't know how, but there had to be some way to break him out. "What if we could find a way to get you free?"
"I assure you, there isn't one."
"Fatalistic, aren't you?"
He cast a droll look at her. "Being trapped for two thousand years does that to a person."
Grace watched him eat, her thoughts whirling. The optimist in her refused to take his pessimism to heart, just like the therapist in her refused not to help him. She'd sworn an oath to relieve suffering when she could and Grace took her oaths most seriously.
Where there was a will, there was always a way.
And come heck or high water, she would find a way to get him free!
In the meantime, she decided she would do something for him she doubted anyone else ever had before-she was going to see to it that he enjoyed his reprieve in New Orleans. The other women might have kept him confined to their bedrooms or closets, but she wasn't about to put chains on anyone.
"Well, then, let's just say that this incarnation is for you, bud."
He looked up from his food with sudden interest.
"I'm going to be your servant," Grace continued. "Whatever you want to do, we'll do. Whatever you want to see, you'll see."
One corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement as he took a drink of wine. "Take off your shirt."
"Excuse me?" she asked.
He set his glass of wine aside and pinned her with a hot, lustful stare. "You said I can see what I want to see and do what I want to do. Well, I want to see your naked breasts, and then I want to run my tongue-"
"Whoa, big fellow, simmer down," Grace said, her cheeks scalding, her body white-hot. "I think there should be a few ground rules while you're here. Number one, there won't be any of that."
"And why not?"
Yeah, her body demanded in a half begging, half angry inner voice. Why not?
"Because I'm not some alley cat with her tail up in the air waiting for the nearest Tom to come over, stick it in, and leave."