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"Have you ever been married?"
Violet knew the answer, even before he shook his head. Not her slave. She was sure he'd never let a woman get that close. And it made her woman's heart wonder why, though she suspected she already knew a large part of the reason.
"Want to explain that?"
"I can't." His gaze shifted, and his voice was quiet, telling her he wasn't avoiding the question. "It has to do with some things I just can't talk about."
"Ever?" She reached out, touched his face so he would look her way.
"Not yet," he said.
"An honest answer, so I can live with that. "
They drove in companionable silence for some time, and she enjoyed watching the capable way he navigated the car through Tampa's traffic to the interstate, the way he shifted gears, the movement of his long legs as he maneuvered brake and clutch. Actually, she thought she could make a pastime out of just watching him. He was aware of her intent stare, she could tell, but he handled it well, his sub training kicking in so that he did not try to make conversation. That would have intruded upon her obvious, deliberate perusal and been considered rude.
Nevertheless, her scrutiny aroused him. She could tell by the flicker of his eyes, the press of his lips, the occasional swallow that moved the muscles of his throat. It wasn't until they merged into the interstate that she relented and broke the silence.
"Would you like to turn on some music?"
"Sure."
She opened the console, held up a handful of CD's for his inspection.
"Smashmouth? Matchbox 20? Avr...Avril Lavig...Ay-ya-ya-ya."
"Avril Lavignon," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Well, thank God." He plucked out one of the choices. "At least you have a Credence Clearwater Revival tape."
"I'm sure my father probably left that in here."
"Brat."
"Old fogey."
She considered him as he put in the CD, the teasing look in his eyes doing amazing things to her pulse rate. "How old are you, Mac?"
"Depends on the day."
"Mackenzie."
He glanced at her, relented. "Forty-three. You?"
"I turned eighteen a month ago, I swear."
He let out a low whistle. "Well, you're out of luck then, sugar, because I only date high school girls." He lifted her hand, pressed an open-mouthed kiss on her knuckles that shivered through her. "I'd guess twenty-seven."
"Would it make you happy, me being that much younger than you?"
"You make me happy just being near me, sugar. But if I'm right, it would scare the shit out of me."
She smiled. "I'm thirty-two. And I know what scares the shit out of you, Mac." She leaned forward, pressed her lips to his neck. "It's not my age."
Chapter 8
They stopped at a general store in one of the picturesque fishing towns. She bought cheese, blackberry preserves, a fresh toma
to and a couple baguettes to go with the bottle of wine she had in the car already. He got her a fountain vanilla coke and himself a Dr. Pepper. As they pulled back onto the rural route that would take them to Tyler's reclusive home on the Gulf, he reached over and took her hand. He just held it, a simple, sweet gesture that tugged on her heartstrings as she watched his long fingers completely surround hers, the way his index finger stroked her knuckles idly as they talked and rode.
