“It was a judgment call,” she began, letting out a shaky breath when he touched his mouth to her cheek.
“I’m going to stay with you tonight.” Then to her temple. “I’m going to see that you sleep.”
“Sex as a sedative?”
He frowned, but brushed his lips lightly over hers. “If you like.” He lifted her off her feet, flustering her. “Let’s see if we can find the right dosage.”
Later, with the lights still on low, he watched her. She slept facedown, a limp sprawl of exhaustion. To please himself, he stroked a hand down her back—smooth skin, slim bones, lean muscle. She didn’t stir.
Experimentally, he let his fingers comb through her hair. Thick as mink pelt, shades of aged brandy and old gold, poorly cut. It made him smile as he traced those fingers over her lips. Full, firm, fiercely responsive.
However surprised he was that he’d been able to take her beyond what she’d experienced before, he was overwhelmed by the knowledge that had, unknowingly, taken him.
How much farther, he wondered, would they go?
He knew it had ripped him when he’d believed she’d thought him guilty. The sense of betrayal, disillusionment was huge, weakening, and something he hadn’t felt in too many years to count.
She’d taken him back to a point of vulnerability he’d escaped from. She could hurt him. They could hurt each other. That was something he would have to consider carefully.
But at the moment, the pressing question was who wanted to hurt them both. And why.
He was still gnawing at the problem when he took her hand, linked fingers, and let himself slide into sleep with her.
chapter fifteen
He was gone when she woke. It was better that way. Mornings after carried a casual intimacy that made her nervous. She was already more involved with him than she had ever been with anyone. That click between them had the potential, she knew, to reverberate through the rest of her life.
She took a quick shower, bundled into a robe, then headed into the kitchen. There was Roarke, in trousers and a shirt he’d yet to button, scanning the morning paper on her monitor.
Looking, she realized with a quick tug-of-war of delight and dismay, very much at home.
“What are you doing?”
“Hmmm?” He glanced up, reached behind him to open the AutoChef. “Making you coffee.”
“Making me coffee?”
“I heard you moving around.” He took the cups out, carried them to where she was still hovering in the doorway. “You don’t do that often enough.”
“Move around?”
“No.” He chuckled and touched her lips to hers. “Smile at me. Just smile at me.”
Was she smiling? She hadn’t realized. “I thought you’d left.” She walked around the small table, glanced at the monitor. The stock reports. Naturally. “You must have gotten up early.”
“I had some calls to make.” He watched her, enjoying the way she raked her fingers through her damp hair. A nervous habit he was certain she was unaware of. He picked up the portalink he’d left on the table, slipped it back into his pocket. “I had a conference call scheduled with the station—five A.M. our time.”
“Oh.” She sipped her coffee, wondering how she had ever lived without the zip of the real thing in the morning. “I know those meetings were important. I’m sorry.”
“We’d managed to hammer down most of the details. I can handle the rest from here.”
“You’re not going back?”
“No.”
She turned to the AutoChef, fiddled with her rather limited menu. “I’m out of most everything. Want a bagel or something?”
“Eve.” Roarke set his coffee down, laid his hands on her shoulders. “Why don’t you want me to know you’re pleased I’m staying?”