Nicole tucked the disappointment away. “Finished? With the meal?”
“No. With what you wanted to say to me. Said all you wanted to say?”
Not really. She’d only lived in San Diego for a little over a year and between Wordsmith and her dad, there’d been no time to make any friends. This was the closest she’d come to a heart-to-heart talk since her lost carefree life in Geneva.
She hadn’t told him how her heart broke at watching her father die, day by day, piece by piece. How hard she tried to hold on to him, how horrible it was to feel him slipping from her grasp.
She hadn’t told Sam how tired she was between caring for her father at home and the fourteen hours a day and more she put in at work.
She hadn’t told him how lonely she felt, sometimes, without a friend to help relieve the relentless pressure. Or how worried she was about money, wondering whether her money would hold out to help ease his end.
But he wouldn’t want to hear that. Her story was pathetic enough as it was. “Yes. I think I more or less said what I had to say.”
Those dark eyes bored into hers. He raised his hand and brought it to her face. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck lifted as he ran the back of a long index finger down her cheek.
“I’ve never felt skin this soft before.” The finger ran lower, over her jaw and rested on a vein in her neck. Surely he had to feel how her heart pounded?
She was finding it hard to breathe as he ran his finger up and down the pulse point. He could read her every reaction there, as if her neck were some kind of lie detector.
He wasn’t reacting at all, simply looking at her, touching her. “Did you even listen to a word I said?”
His mouth tightened. “Oh yeah. Every word. So. Let me get this straight. You’re caring for a sick father, while trying to start up a new business and keep your head above water financially. Is that about it?”
“Verysick father.” How it hurt, every time she said it. “But yes, that’s about it. And what it means is that I don’t have the time or the energy for an affair.” She finally found the strength to move her head away from his touch and sopped up somemuhummarrahwith a pita triangle and put the whole mess in her mouth. Hot, spicy, delicious. Pure heaven, tinged with regret. Well, the bitter taste of regret was one she was used to by now.
Man up, she told herself.
“I’m sorry.” Nicole studied the grain of the wooden table for a moment, then met Sam’s eyes again. “I’m trying to be as clear and honest here as possible, Sam.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” His jaw muscles clenched. “And I appreciate your honesty. What I don’t get at all is why you would think that any of this would make me desire you any less.”
She blinked in surprise. “Well, I told you. I don’t have time for an affair. Time or energy. My father is my top priority, and after that comes trying to make a living. There just isn’t anything else in my life. There can’t be. So…anything you might want from me, I can’t give you. You’d be better off with someone else, someone who isn’t so wrapped up in problems. Actually, frankly, right now you’d be crazy to want me.”
He was silent a long moment, then picked up his fork. “I think we’d better eat some more of this meal, otherwise Bashir will have my head.”
Nicole put on a wobbly smile. He was right. The food was fabulous, it would be a huge pity to let it go to waste. Live in the moment, and all that. A sigh was in her chest but she refused to let it out. What good would it do?
It felt good to have spelled out the situation to Sam, clearly and coolly. She’d definitely done the right thing. And if it felt like she’d stabbed herself in the heart, well, her heart had been taking a pounding for quite some time now.
Her appetite had gone, but she made a real effort to do justice to the magnificent meal. She was a diplomat’s daughter and had attended 17-course state dinners even when she was ill and had to choke down the food. She knew how to do this.
Sam was quiet, and so was she. Maybe he was feeling the regrets, too. But life was like that—good things happened at the wrong time. It was simply fate.
Kismet, Bashir would call it.
The sun was starting to set over the pretty gardens by the time the waiter came with a small bronze coffeepot with a long wooden handle, thedallah, that had always somehow reminded her of Aladdin’s lamp, and poured a fragrant brew. The cups were without handles. Smiling, Nicole brought the warm cup to her nose and sniffed appreciatively. The coffee had been brewed with cardamom and was dense, sugary, delicious. It set off perfectly the tiny bite-sized pieces of baklava the waiter slipped on the table. She loved the Lebanese version, made with rosewater syrup instead of honey.
The room was dramatically lit by the intense glow of the setting sun, turning everything golden; even Sam Reston’s dark, deeply-tanned skin turned bronze. Right at this moment, he looked almost sinfully attractive. And utterly beyond reach.
Sam put down his coffee cup, crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, face deadly serious. Deep grooves bracketed his strong mouth and his nostrils were white and pinched, as if from some strong emotion. “Now I have something to say to you.”
Nicole put down her cup, leaning a little forward, too. He’d done her the courtesy of listening carefully to what she had to say. Now she’d return the favor.
Whatever he had to say wouldn’t change the situation, but he deserved a hearing. Whatever it was he wanted to say wasn’t pleasant, though. His face had taken on such a grave cast.
“Here’s the deal. I never talk about my past. It’s no one’s goddamned business but my own. But I think there are a few things about me you need to understand. You know I talked about my brother Mike, and that though we don’t share any blood, we’re closer than most brothers?”
Nicole nodded. The cop. The cop who was going to be driving by and deterring Creepy and Creepier.
