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He’d showered, pulled on his jeans, but he couldn’t go another step without the true blood of life.
“Coffee,” he said again, directly against Darcy’s ear as she snuggled into her pillow. “Please, tell me where it is.”
“Mm.” She shifted, turned lazily, hooked an arm around his neck. “Too early.”
“It’s never too early for coffee, or too late. Darcy, I’m begging you, just tell me where you keep it.”
She opened her eyes then, and the light was still dim enough to keep her floating on memories of the night. Which saved him from wrath. “You need a shave.” She lifted her other hand, rubbed it over his cheek. “Ah, you look so rough and male and dangerous. Come back to bed.”
Sex with a beautiful woman. Coffee. It was one of life’s most difficult choices. The man who could have both was a king. But first things first.
He slid his hands under the sheets, under her warm, soft body. And hauled her up out of bed. “You can show me where it is.”
It took her a moment to realize he was carting her into the kitchen. “Trevor! I’m bare-assed naked here.”
“Are you?” He glanced down, let his gaze roam. “Imagine that. Coffee, Darcy, and the world is yours.”
She sniffed, huffed. “Promises like that are kept as often as pigs fly.” She gestured to a cupboard, then squealed when he unceremoniously set her warm and naked ass down on the counter. “Bastard.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Men don’t see anything that’s under their noses.”
She shifted, muttering curses, and pushed a couple of tins aside. “There. If it’d been a snake it would’ve bitten you between the eyes. And now I suppose you’ll be wanting me to make it for you.”
It was such a lovely thought. Hopeful, he laid his palms on either side of her, nipped and nuzzled her sulky mouth. “Would ya?”
If he hadn’t been so bloody handsome, with his hair shiny and damp from his shower, his face darkened with stubble, those wonderful gray eyes so sleepy, she’d have beaned him with the can.
“Oh, move aside and let me go get my robe.”
“Why?”
She slitted her eyes instead. “Because I’m cold.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Reasonable. I’ll get it.” He plucked her off the counter, brushed a kiss over her forehead, then went to find her robe.
Yawning hugely, Darcy filled the kettle, got out the pot and filter. She was starting to shiver as she measured out the coffee when Trevor came back with her robe.
He studied the paraphernalia as she bundled herself into the robe. “I’ll have to buy you an automatic one.”
“I don’t make coffee often enough for it to be worthwhile. I start my day with tea most usually.”
“That’s just . . . sick.”
“Ah, such a weakness. It’s nice to find one. There. We just wait for the kettle now.” She reached up to get him a mug, and looked so pretty doing it, rising on her toes, shaking back her tumbled hair, that he was dizzy with . . .
Just dizzy, he told himself. Just dizzy from the picture she made.
“But don’t think I’m making you breakfast.”
He had to touch her, just touch. So he slipped his arms around her, pressing his lips to the side of her neck as he brought her back against him. “You’re so mean.”
Her heart jumped, then beat thickly. The gesture was so simple, so warm, so full of the sweetness of intimacy that frantic sex could never achieve. She squeezed her eyes shut and was careful, very careful, to keep her voice light.
“Well, now, aren’t you affectionate of a morning?”
He wasn’t, not as a rule. He’d have puzzled over it if it hadn’t felt so good to just hold her. “Any woman makes me coffee, I shower her with affection. If she makes me breakfast, I’m her slave.”
“The waitresses in New York City must fight for your table.” She laid her hands over the ones he’d linked around her waist. Just for a moment she wanted that illusion of quiet, settled love. “Myself, I’m not in the market for a slave, but you’re welcome to whatever you can forage.”
He settled for toast, since she didn’t seem to have much else, and leaned against the counter while it browned and she poured boiling water over the waiting grounds.
“God.” He breathed deep. “How does anyone live without the smell of that in the morning?” He gave her a pitying look. “Tea.”
“You Yanks drink so much of it, you don’t know it doesn’t taste near as good as it smells.”
“Blasphemy. There’s a deli two blocks from where I live. Now, they make coffee that brings tears of gratitude to a man’s eye.”
“You miss that.” Since it did smell seductive, she got down a mug for herself. “The delis, the hustle-bustle.” She opened the refrigerator and got out her little carton of cream. “What else do you miss about New York?”
The toast popped. “Bagels.”
“Bagels?” She got out butter and jam as well, then just stood holding them and staring at him. “A man of your resources, and what you miss about New York is coffee and bagels?”
“Right at this moment, I’d pay a hundred dollars for a fresh bagel. No offense to your Irish soda bread. But, really.”
“Well, that’s a wonder.”
He started to make some joke, but the glorious scent that filled the kitchen had his mind clicking in. It was, he decided, too good an opening to pass up.
“New York’s got more to offer than coffee and bagels—though they shouldn’t be lightly dismissed.” He put the toast on the plate she offered him. “Restaurants, theater, art—and for the materialistic, anything and everything that can be bought. You’d love it.”
“Because I’m materialistic?”
“Because if you know what you want, it’s next to impossible not to find it there. Thanks.” He accepted the mug with deep and sincere gratitude. “It’s one of the places you’d go if you signed with Celtic.”
And so, she thought, the door closes on intimacy and opens to business. There was no point in regretting it. “And why would I go to New York?”
“The same reason you’d go to Dublin, London, Chicago, L.A., Sydney, wherever. Concerts, media, exposure.”
She added cream and sugar to her own brew. “It’s a lot to promise when you don’t know how I’ll record, or perform, or stand up to the kind of life that would make.”
“I do know. It’s my business to know.”
“You’ve a lot of businesses, Trevor, and I’ll wager you’re good at each and every one. But it’s this particular one that concerns me. I take your word on this and make this change, I change everything. It’s a lot for me to risk because you like the sound of my voice.”
She held up a hand before he could speak. “You’d risk as well, I understand that. You’d be making an investment in me. But that’s what you do, isn’t it? You make investments, and if one doesn’t pay off, another does, so it’s no great loss. A disappointment, an annoyance, but not your life.”
“Point taken,” he said after a moment. “Get dressed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Get dressed. I think I have a way to settle your mind on part of this.” He glanced at the kitchen clock. “Make it fast, will you?”
“You’ve your nerve, don’t you? Ordering me about this way, and at six in the morning at that.”
He started to ask what the hell the time had to do with it, then wisely concluded that arguing would only force her to dig in her heels. “Sorry. Would you come with me? It won’t take long, and it does go to your point. Your very valid point.”
“Clever, aren’t you? Well, I’ll go because I’m up and about anyway. But keep in mind I’m not on your payroll, and I don’t jump when you snap.”
She turned and stalked back to the bedroom. Satisfied, Trevor finished his breakfast.
For the second time that morning, Trevor roused someone out of sleep. In this case, the results weren’t as cozy. “Bloody fucking hell” was Nigel
’s response. “If your lady’s kicked you out of bed at this godforsaken hour, take the sofa. I’m not budging, and I’m not sharing.”
“I don’t want to get in the bed, I want you to get out of it. Darcy’s downstairs.”
One of the eyes Nigel had firmly shut popped open. “Does that mean you’re sharing?”
“Remind me to punch you later. Right now, get up, get dressed, and make yourself presentable.”
“No one’s presentable at . . . Jesus, six-thirty in the morning!”
“I’m pressed for time, Nigel.” Trevor turned and started out. “Five minutes.”
“At least put the bloody coffee on,” Nigel shouted.
“I’m not making it this time,” Darcy said firmly the minute Trevor came down the steps. She had her arms folded over her breasts and a steely look in her eye. She’d already made it known, in no uncertain terms, that she hadn’t appreciated Trevor rushing her along.
“No problem.” He snagged her hand and pulled her with him toward the kitchen. “Do you want some tea this time?”
“I won’t be placated by a cup of tea. You barely gave me time to put on my lipstick.”
“You don’t need it.”
Since he hadn’t yet put the kettle on, he had to assume the hissing sound came from her and not from boiling water. “Oh, it’s ever like a man to say something so stupid and think it’s a compliment.”
