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But all he'd said was "Anything happens, you've got my cell number." Now he was back, and she hadn't called him during his absence, so he assumed that there had been nothing new to report.
While he'd been gone, she'd changed into a pair of white pants cropped at her ankles and a yellow T-shirt, through which he could see the outline of her bra. She'd always thought her breasts were too small. He'd thought they were downright perfect, and perfectly sensitive.
"Did you find a room?"
He dragged his gaze off her chest and onto more neutral territory. "Uh ... yeah. Cypress Lodge."
"There's better available. I know of some houses that owners rent out when not in use. I should have thought of reserving you one before now, although I've been ... My mind's been scattered. But I could call the office and--"
"The lodge is fine. My standards aren't that high. This room has all the comforts of home. In fact, it's several notches above my place in Atlanta."
She dipped a wooden spoon into the spaghetti sauce, blew on it, sipped a sample, then laid the spoon in a ceramic holder near the burner and replaced the lid on the simmering pot. Going to the small breakfast table, she sat down and motioned Dodge into the chair across from her. He sat.
"Mr. Mitchell doesn't pay you well?"
"Very well. A hell of a lot more than I'm worth." He paused, then added, "But not nearly as much as you make selling houses."
"I've been fortunate."
"You work your butt off."
She conceded the point with a small smile. "I've put in some long days. But I love the work."
"It's made you rich. In Houston. Then here."
She folded her arms across her middle and eyed him shrewdly. "Who'd you talk to? No, wait. Where did you go for your beer?"
"A place on Bowie Street."
"Chat and Chill?"
He coughed behind his fist, saying evasively, "I think that was it."
"Grace. You got your information from Grace." She held his gaze and asked softly, "What did it cost you?"
"Two beers and two cigarettes."
She smiled again, but this time it was a sad expression. "Nothing's changed."
"Everything's changed, Caroline. Thirty years ago we were making love while the spaghetti sauce simmered."
He saw from her expression that she remembered it as well as he did. They'd decided to fool around and had forgotten all about what was on the stove until the smell of scorched tomatoes had alerted them to the potential hazard. He'd told her to hold on and somehow had got them off the bed while still joined. Then he'd carried her into the kitchen, and, as soon as he'd turned off the burner beneath the pot, they'd resumed right there.
Her face became flushed, and she couldn't look him in the eye. "We were young."
"And a little crazy. Crazy in love."
"Don't, Dodge." Her whisper had a desperately pleading undertone.
"Don't what? Don't talk about it? Don't remember? I can't help remembering. That day the spaghetti sauce burned was one of our more rollicking fucks." It had been a combination of laughter and lust. He got hard now just thinking about it.
For Caroline's part, she set her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. He didn't know if she was hiding her shame or her delight. Tears, maybe. But when she finally lowered her hands, there were no tears in her eyes and her expression was impassive, giving him no clue as to her emotions.
She said, "If this lawyer pays you so well, why do you live in a place less appealing than your room at the Cypress Lodge?"
"Because a rathole comes with no responsibilities, and because I've got expenses that keep me on a tight budget despite hefty paychecks and bonuses." She gave him a questioning look, and he felt his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes, wishing he dared light up. "Alimony. Times two."
"You were married twice?"
