"Looks like Mike's got a little crush on you," Seth commented as he booted the door closed.
"I'd say Mike's double-timing it back to Village Pizza so he can spread the word that the artist and the florist are having hot pizza and hot sex."
"I hope he's right. If we're going to make the first part come true, we'd better dig into this." He dropped the box on the bed. "You need a plate?"
Her heart had given a little lurch, but she nodded. "Yes, I need a plate."
"Now, now, don't get twitchy. I'll get you a glass of very nice Chianti instead of the beer."
"I can drink the beer."
"You could," he commented as he headed into the kitchen again. "But you'd rather have the wine. I'll drink the beer. And, sugar, if you don't like people talking about you, you shouldn't live in a tight-knit little community."
"I don't mind people talking about me so much." Not the way they did here, she thought, that was different, so much less bitchy than the way they gossiped in Washington. "I just don't care for them talking about me doing something before I have a chance to do it."
"Would that be the pizza or the sex?" he asked as he came back with paper plates.
"I haven't decided." She pushed through the clothes in his packing box until she found a denim work shirt. "Put this on."
"Yes 'm. Can you handle sitting on the bed to eat if I promise not to jump you?"
She sat and, using one of the white plastic forks Mike's grandmother had put into the bag, worked a slice free. She plopped it on her plate, then using the same method, lifted a piece of his half. "You know, we've been dating for a while now—"
"We are not dating. This is not a date. This is a pizza."
"Right. Anyway." He sat down, cross-legged, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned.
It was worse, she realized than no shirt at all. "We haven't asked some of the essential questions to make sure this relationship has a chance."
"Such as?"
"Vacation weekend. The mountains or the shore?"
"Mountains. We live at the shore."
"Agreed." He bit into the pizza. "Favorite guitar player. Eric Clapton or Chet Atkins?"
"Chet who?"
He actually went pale. "Oh God." With a wince, he rubbed his heart. "Let's skip that one. It's too painful. Scariest movie ever—classic category, Psycho or Jaws?" "Neither. The Exorcist."
"Good one. Who would you trust, with your life, against the forces of evil? Superman or Batman?"
"Buffy—the vampire slayer."
"Get out." He swigged beer. "Superman. It has to be Superman."
"One whiff of kryptonite and he's down for the count. Besides"—she polished off her slice and went for another—"Buffy has a much more interesting wardrobe."
He shook his head in disgust. "Let's move on. Shower or bath?"
"It would depend on—"
"No, no, no." He snagged more pizza. "No depends. Pick."
"Bath." She licked sauce off her finger. "Long, hot and full of bubbles."
"Just as I suspected. Dog or cat."
"Cat."
He set the slice down. "That is just so wrong."
"I work all day. Cats are self-reliant, and they don't chew your shoes."
He shook his head in deep regret. "This might be the end of things between us. Can this relationship be saved? Quick. French fries or caviar?"
"Really, that's ridiculous. French fries, of course."
"Do you mean it?" As if hope had sprung giddily into his heart, he grabbed her hand in a tight grip. "You're not just saying that to string me along so you can have your way with me?"
"Caviar is fine on occasion, but it's hardly an essential element of life."
"Thank God." He gave her hand a loud kiss, then went back to eating. "Other than a woeful ignorance of music and poor judgment over pets, you did really well. I'll sleep with you."
"I don't know what to say. I'm so touched. Tell me about the woman in the painting—the brunette sitting in front of the window in Rome."
"Bella? Want some more wine?"
She lifted that eyebrow in the way that stirred his blood. "Are you stalling?"
"Yeah, but do you want some more wine anyway?"
"All right."
He got up to get the bottle, topped off Dru's glass before sitting down again. "You want to know if I slept with her?"
"Amazing. I'm transparent as glass to you." She took another bite of pizza. "You could tell me it's none of my business."
"I could. Or I could lie to you. She's a tour guide. I'd see her now and then when I was out and around. We got to know each other. I liked her. I painted her, and I slept with her. We enjoyed each other. It never got any deeper or more complicated than that. I don't sleep with every woman who models for me. And I don't paint every woman I sleep with."
"I wondered. And I wondered if you'd lie to me. That's a habit of mine, assuming someone will give the handy lie instead of the more complicated truth. You're not the kind of man I'm used to."
"Drusilla—" He broke off with a muttered oath when his cell phone rang.
"Go ahead. I'll put this away for you."
She eased from the bed, gathered the pizza box, the plates, while he flipped on the phone. "Yeah? No, I'm okay. I was distracted. Anna, I'm fine. I finished the painting I was working on. As I matter of fact I'm not starving myself to death. I just had pizza with Dru. Uh-huh. Sure. I'll be home tomorrow. Absolutely. I love you, too."
He hung up as Dru came back in. "Anna."
"Yes, I heard." She picked up the phone, set it on a nearby table.
"Do you know you have beer, wine, a month's supply of soft drinks and now leftover pizza as the total contents of your refrigerator?"
"There used to be half a meatball sub, but I ate it."
"Oh, well then." She walked to the door. Locked it. The sound of that turning lock might have echoed in her head, but it wasn't going to stop her.
She crossed to him.
"The last time I went to bed with a man it was a humiliating experience for me. That's been nearly two years ago now. I haven't particularly missed sex. It's very possible, on some level, I'm using you to take back something I feel someone else took from me."
Since he was still sitting cross-legged on the bed, she slid onto his lap, hooked her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. "Do you mind?"
"I can't say I do." He ran his hands up her back. "But here's the thing. You may get more than you bargained for."
"Calculated risk," she murmured and brought her mouth to his.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
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HIS HANDS GLIDED over her skin, and nerves sparked under it. She wanted this, wanted him. The decision to come to his bed had been her own. But she knew the pounding of her heart was as much from panic as from desire.
And so, she realized as those wonderful hands rubbed up and down her back, did he.
"Relax." He whispered it as his lips trailed over her cheek. "It's not brain surgery."
"I don't think I want to relax." Those nerves were a separate kind of thrill, running fast along the tingle of needs. "I don't think I can."
"Okay." And still he stroked, easy hands, easy lips. "Then just be sure."
"I'm sure. I am sure." She eased back. She wanted to see his face. "I never seem to do anything unless I am." She brushed at the strands of hair that fell over his forehead. "It's just… been a while."
How could she tell him she'd lost her confidence in this area?
If she told him, she'd never be sure that whatever happened between them now was as much her doing as his. "So we'll take it slow."
She steadied herself. Intimacy, she'd always believed, took courage as well as desire. She'd taken the step. She'd locked the door. She'd come to his bed. Now she'd take another.
"Maybe." Watching him, she unbuttoned her shirt, saw his gaze drift down. Saw the blue of his eyes deepen as she parted the cotton, let it fall off her shoulders. "Maybe not."