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“You’re not working?” She sounded startled and a little dismayed.
“Not for the next few days,” he said easily, though he hadn’t missed her reaction. “We can’t get to know each other if we don’t spend time together, right?”
“I suppose you’re right.” She sounded less than gracious.
“Did you lounge around all day? Looks like you spent a little time in the sun.”
Instinctively, she touched the tip of her nose with a fingertip, obviously making an effort to smile and match his friendly tone. “Is my complexion giving me away? I swam this morning, and I swear I sat by the pool for less than thirty minutes slathered in sunscreen, but these freckles can’t be banished.”
“I didn’t notice the freckles. You simply have a little extra glow.”
“Oh.” She appeared to be at a loss for words. “I watched a chef on your telly this afternoon,” she offered in what he recognized as a bid for a safer subject. “He made the most scrumptious-looking chicken dish. My mouth was watering by the time he finished. I wrote down the recipe, but I’m not really sure why—I’ve never cooked in my life. It looked like fun.”
Rafe chuckled. “Most women don’t consider cooking fun. They’re so busy rushing around with careers and family commitments that cooking is just one more thing on the list to get finished. Where’s your recipe?”
She turned and gestured behind her. “On your kitchen counter.”
“Would you like me to teach you how to make it?”
She stared at him. “You can cook?”
“I have become a thoroughly modern American male,” he announced in an overly grand tone. “I can cook, I can clean, I can provide. And all this with one hand tied behind my back, of course.”
“I’d like to learn to cook,” she said in a somewhat hesitant tone. Then she smiled, and her eyes grew soft. “My family will be so surprised when I get home.”
And in that moment, he promised himself that by the time she got home, she was going to think of him and smile like that, with that faraway look of familiar intimacy that made onlookers feel they’d been left outside the magic circle. But he didn’t tell her any of that. “Then I’ll teach you,” was all he said.
Over the next few days, he worked hard to make Elizabeth feel at ease. He gave her the big guest suite at the far end of the hallway from his room, and he let her have private time by the pool. He helped her learn her way around his kitchen and took her shopping for a few clothes and things to extend her stay.
She wouldn’t let him hang around while she browsed the women’s clothing section, which he thought was amusing. And she guarded her packages fiercely when he tried to find out what she’d bought.
“Just odds and ends,” she said. They were seated in a little ice-cream café with her bags beneath the table.
“What kind of odds and ends?”
“Ladies’ odds and ends,” she said repressively.
He had to laugh. “I’ve seen ladies in their odds and ends before, you know. Out of them, too, come to think of it—” He stopped at the look on her face. “Magazines,” he said hastily. “Men’s magazines.”
“Right.” She made a little pout. “Here I am, buying stretchy knickers and getting fatter by the day, and you’re talking about seeing women in the altogether. Thin women, no doubt.”
So that was why she’d been so coy about her purchases. She was shy about buying maternity clothes. And it suddenly struck him that he was being less than a gentleman when she was probably feeling insecure enough about her body. “Elizabeth,” he said. “There hasn’t been a serious woman in my life in…well, ever.” He leaned across the table. “And you don’t have to buy any knickers for my benefit. I like you just fine without them.”
Her face was a study in consternation. “Sh-h-h! This is hardly the place to talk about my lingerie!”
He couldn’t agree more. The thought of Elizabeth as he’d seen her the night they made love, clothed only in moonlight and shadow, had its usual effect on his body. Why, he wondered, could one special woman make every one of your senses sit up and take notice while the rest… Since he’d met Elizabeth, he couldn’t even remember another woman’s face.
Still, he was glad he’d brought up the topic. Or pursued it. Whatever. She might insist on no kissing, but he planned to make sure she didn’t forget what it had been like between them that night.
Because he fully intended to repeat it. Soon.
Her eyes were alive with wary sexual recognition and he smiled at her, a predator’s smile, lazy and content because he knew that eventually he’d get what he wanted. “Okay, we’ll change the subject. What would you like to do tomorrow?”
“Cook breakfast,” she said eagerly.
He stared at her for a second, then threw back his head and laughed. “Okay, we’ll cook breakfast. Shall I teach you how to make French toast?”
As she nodded, it occurred to him that she was changing, absorbing American ways and independence and enjoying herself in the process.
