“It’s an online match.”
“But you play on a real chessboard?”
“I like to.” He sat back, stroking the dark stubble across his chin. His gaze roamed my body as he spoke, lingering on the cotton of my shirt where it clung to my breasts. “I’m a tactile man. I like to touch what I’m thinking about, feel it in my hands before I decide my next move.”
The air between us grew heavy in the flickering firelight. My eyes widened. I looked away, feigning interest in a large, old globe on a pedestal. I could tell he still watched me as I walked over. On a shelf, I saw a newspaper clipping. In black and white, a ballerina leapt across the stage. I stepped closer and read the caption: Sophie Douglas, principal dancer for the New York City Ballet, in the London premier of Swan Lake.
“Wow, is this your sister?”
“One of them.”
“How many do you have?”
“Two.”
“And this one’s a dancer?”
“Full of questions, aren’t you?”
I put down the clipping, but then noticed a photo lying on top of a book. Three kids smiled on a beach, two girls and a boy. I recognized his eyes, still dark but in the photo lit with mischief. Ian had to have been around eight years old when it was taken. Standing sandy and messy from head to toe, he looked directly into the camera with an impish smile. He had a dimple I’d never noticed before on his left cheek. He looked so vibrant, so full of life, the kind of boy you couldn’t take your eyes off of because the second you did he’d be up to no good.
“What have you found there?” He came to stand next to me. Caught, guilty, I took a step away from the shelf.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”
“Didn’t you?” But he didn’t seem angry, more like he was calling my bluff. I looked up into his eyes. They looked clear and focused. He smelled like mint and firewood, and I realized what seemed strange to me.
“Hey, you’re not drunk!”
He leaned against the bookshelf, hand up in his thick, dark hair as he looked down at me with a wry smile. “Shocked are you?”
“A bit, clearly. I didn’t mean to blurt that out. It just occurred to me.” A blush crept up my cheeks. I had no filter whatsoever.
“You do say what’s on your mind. I recall recently you told me I was a drunk.” My blush turned scarlet, but he continued, “You had a point.” I smiled, and he raised his finger in warning. “Do not let that go to your head.”
“No, of course not,” I assured him, while letting it do exactly that. Was he changing his ways? Because of something I’d said?
“I’m not giving up drinking.”
“I never said you should.”
“It helps with the pain.”
“What hurts?” I took a step closer again, wanting to know more. He looked so healthy and strong standing there towering over me. “Is it the burns on your back?” They’d looked painful, but maybe the skin was numb? “Or is it your legs when you stand? Or your feet?”
He shook his head. “So nosy, Annie.” But he reached out and took a strand of my hair between his fingers, looking at it in the gleam of the firelight.
“I’m not trying to be nosy.” I drew even closer, so near I could feel the heat radiating from his broad, strong chest. It was like standing next to a massive wall. My heart hammered. “I’m just wondering, have you tried other things for the pain? What helps?”
“Forgetting. That’s what helps.” His eyes searched mine, flickering down to my lips. Then he let my hair drop, shaking his head, drawing away. “So you want my case file, my medical history?”
There it was again, that detached tone he used, wry, observational, slightly amused. It frustrated the hell out of me.
“I’m not some doctor trying to do a clinical review. We’ve been living together for three weeks and I barely know anything about you. I’m curious about you.” I gestured with my hands, as I tended to do when I felt passionate. “I don’t even know how you were injured. I just know you had an accident.”
“So what you really want is my life story?”
“Yes, I do. I want to know everything about you.”
The warmth in his gaze made me suddenly self-aware. I’d sounded extremely eager. But it was true. I did want his life story. I wanted to know exactly what had happened to him, what he’d done about it, what more he could still do. But I was growing increasingly curious about more than that, too. I wanted to get to know him. I wanted to hear all about his sisters, what friends he’d had over the years, which ones he considered true. And women, had he dated? Ever fallen in love?
&n
bsp; “What will you give me if I tell you all my secrets?” He reached out again, this time tracing the collar of my shirt. His fingers felt rough, calloused and warm against the sensitive skin of my neck.
“Give you?” My lips felt parched, throat dry. My voice came out in a whisper.
“You seem to find me quite mysterious. How badly do you want answers?”
"I don't know about mysterious." A blush flooded my cheeks.
His eyes gleamed predatory and hungry. He licked his lips, looking down at mine, and for a fraction of second I thought he was about to kiss me. Then he drew away, standing up, crossing his arms firmly against his chest. “You’d better go.”
I jumped like a jackrabbit, heading straight for the door. “Goodnight!” I called as I headed out.
“Goodnight, little rose.”
I didn’t get to sleep for a long time.
6
Ian
The way Annie looked at me? She shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t like it so much.
She was so eager and open, so innocent and sweet. She looked at me with shining eyes full of hope. And more. There was desire there, just beneath the surface. Desire I felt increasingly sure she’d never explored with anyone else.
The next afternoon she offered to make me a sandwich. She was bustling about the kitchen with that purposeful, cheerful energy the exact opposite of mine.
Yes, I wanted to sit with her and enjoy a meal. I wanted to watch her flit about the kitchen, her hair up in a messy ponytail that I could undo, letting it fall in soft waves down her shoulders. I wanted to watch her rest a hand on her waist, or the curve of her hip, maybe sucking in that plump lower lip while she thought something over.
So, I’d said no. I did not want a sandwich. But as I turned to leave, she touched me. It was a casual touch, the kind of gesture most people made without thinking about it. But people usually thought before they touched me. They wondered about my burns, my mangled flesh. But Annie brushed her hand along my arm in an almost intimate way, as if she were drawing me closer. It was the touch of someone who knew me well and felt comfortable enough to reach out and communicate with a gesture instead of a voice.