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She nodded, went to the stove, took down a mug and poured herself some coffee. Got a plate from the cupboard, a spoon, knife and fork from the silverware drawer. She liberated a while linen napkin from the shelf. Then she went to the empty space at the foot of the table, pulled out the chair and settled into it.
The men watched her.
She reached for the platter of sandwiches.
Four pairs of hands reached out to help her. She glared. The hands drew back. She leaned over the table. The sandwiches were halved; each half looked substantial enough to feed a family of four.
“I made them,” Jake said proudly.
Emily nodded, took a half of what looked to be ham, cheese, turkey, beef and a couple of dozen other things and put it on her plate. She picked it up again, realized there was no way she could possibly get her mouth around it, put it down, took her knife and fork and sawed off a corner.
The men watched her.
She put the piece in her mouth. Chewed, even though the thing seemed unchewable. Swallowed. Took a sip of coffee. Sawed off another piece of sandwich.
The men went on watching her,
She swallowed. Drank a little coffee. Cleared her throat. If she talked about eating the sandwich with a knife and fork, maybe she could keep them from trying to talk about anything else.
So she tried what she hoped was a smile.
“I don’t normally do things like this,” she said, “but—”
“But you did.”
She looked at Caleb. His voice was stern, that big-brother tone in it he’d occasionally used on all the sisters when they were in their teens.
“Well, yes. I know it doesn’t look good. But what else could I do? I mean, all that size and heft...”
A fist hit the table. Emily swung her head toward Travis.
“Jesus H. Christ, we don’t want to hear that kind of stuff!”
“Huh?”
“So, that was it? The guy turned you on so bad that you agreed to be his mistress?”
Emily blanched. “What the hell are you talking about, Jacob?”
Travis: “We’re talking about your—your paramour.”
Any other time, she would have laughed.
Caleb: “Your lover.”
Jacob: “The guy who seduced you. Marco Santini, the son of a bitch!”
Emily stared at her brothers. She had never seen them so furious. The hard, handsome faces. The cold eyes. The tension visible in the set of their shoulders.
And Khan.
He looked exactly the same. Angry. Furious. Totally and completely pissed off.
She put down her knife and fork, wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Listen to me,” she said carefully. “Listen well, because I’m only going to say this once
. This is none of your business!”
