makes sense.”
“Terrific.” He reached across the table, brushing away a bit of cream from the corner of her lips. It was a good thing she was sitting down, because that light touch had her knees weakening even before he’d licked the sweet cream off his thumb. “You are planning to stay here?”
“I was hoping to,” she admitted. “Thanks to all the Lady seekers, according to all the hotel and bed and breakfast websites, there’s not another room within thirty miles of here.” Which, given the narrow hedgerow-lined roads, could take as long as an hour if you got caught in a traffic jam. From past trips to this emerald-green country, Cassandra remembered such jams usually involved a herd of dairy cows or sheep moving pastures. “But now I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”
“If you’re worried that I’m going to make a move—”
“What was that, with the cream, if it wasn’t a move?”
“Okay. You caught me. I plead guilty to an impulsive slip.” He lifted his hands and flashed that rogue alpha male smile she’d always suspected had panties dropping all over the globe. “But I promise to be on my best behavior from now on. And you won’t have to worry about having to hang a Wall of Jericho between us, because the cottage has two bedrooms.”
His reference to the classic Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert’s It Happened One Night , one of her favorite old movies, was edging toward a move since it brought both their minds back to having watched it—in bed—on their honeymoon when it had shown up on RTÉ.
“Thank you.”
Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she lowered her eyes in an attempt to prevent him from seeing the sensual yearnings that had begun to break through emotional walls she’d spent months building.
6
D espite Duncan’s wild, admittedly unrealistic hopes that perhaps Cass had been coming here to initiate a reunion, things were going better than he’d expected. Although it was impossible to ignore the strain hovering in the air like the morning fog blowing in from the sea, they were talking. And she was eating the food, which, if he did say so himself, was pretty damn good. Thanks to Mrs. Monohan’s excellent advice.
And speaking of good…
The moment he’d opened the door, Duncan had felt his heart stop. Unlike the wounded, ghostlike woman he’d unwillingly left behind, Cass looked good. Better than good. She looked as beautiful as ever. And, thank you, God, healthy.
She’d always been slender, which, he’d realized soon after they’d met during that firefight, was deceptive, because people didn’t tend to realize how tough she was. A misconception he’d watched her use to her advantage on more than one occasion.
The world of international journalism wasn’t for the weak of heart. It was a tough, balls-to-the-wall, testosterone-driven environment where women admittedly had to work at least twice as hard as men to be taken seriously. Cass had not only been as tough as any male journalist he’d ever worked with, she was smart as a whip and could hold her own in any situation.
But, as he’d told her during that argument on their honeymoon, that didn’t mean that she was bulletproof. Or invincible. Too many journalists had already died covering wars, and new names continued to be added to the glass-walled Journalists Memorial at the national Newseum in Washington, D.C.
Given her toughness, Cass had never been a woman to blush easily. Duncan had always enjoyed being able to bring that soft color into her cheeks.
They’d met during a street firefight in Kabul. When the bullets had started flying, he’d reacted on instinct. After dragging her into a nearby alley behind a pizza joint, he’d pulled her down behind a pile of wooden crates and thrown his body on top of her.
Time had ceased to have meaning. The shooting could’ve lasted a minute. An hour. An eternity. But when the bullets finally stopped flying and he’d helped her back to her feet, she’d
“Terrific.” He reached across the table, brushing away a bit of cream from the corner of her lips. It was a good thing she was sitting down, because that light touch had her knees weakening even before he’d licked the sweet cream off his thumb. “You are planning to stay here?”
“I was hoping to,” she admitted. “Thanks to all the Lady seekers, according to all the hotel and bed and breakfast websites, there’s not another room within thirty miles of here.” Which, given the narrow hedgerow-lined roads, could take as long as an hour if you got caught in a traffic jam. From past trips to this emerald-green country, Cassandra remembered such jams usually involved a herd of dairy cows or sheep moving pastures. “But now I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”
“If you’re worried that I’m going to make a move—”
“What was that, with the cream, if it wasn’t a move?”
“Okay. You caught me. I plead guilty to an impulsive slip.” He lifted his hands and flashed that rogue alpha male smile she’d always suspected had panties dropping all over the globe. “But I promise to be on my best behavior from now on. And you won’t have to worry about having to hang a Wall of Jericho between us, because the cottage has two bedrooms.”
His reference to the classic Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert’s It Happened One Night , one of her favorite old movies, was edging toward a move since it brought both their minds back to having watched it—in bed—on their honeymoon when it had shown up on RTÉ.
“Thank you.”
Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she lowered her eyes in an attempt to prevent him from seeing the sensual yearnings that had begun to break through emotional walls she’d spent months building.
6
D espite Duncan’s wild, admittedly unrealistic hopes that perhaps Cass had been coming here to initiate a reunion, things were going better than he’d expected. Although it was impossible to ignore the strain hovering in the air like the morning fog blowing in from the sea, they were talking. And she was eating the food, which, if he did say so himself, was pretty damn good. Thanks to Mrs. Monohan’s excellent advice.
And speaking of good…
The moment he’d opened the door, Duncan had felt his heart stop. Unlike the wounded, ghostlike woman he’d unwillingly left behind, Cass looked good. Better than good. She looked as beautiful as ever. And, thank you, God, healthy.
She’d always been slender, which, he’d realized soon after they’d met during that firefight, was deceptive, because people didn’t tend to realize how tough she was. A misconception he’d watched her use to her advantage on more than one occasion.
The world of international journalism wasn’t for the weak of heart. It was a tough, balls-to-the-wall, testosterone-driven environment where women admittedly had to work at least twice as hard as men to be taken seriously. Cass had not only been as tough as any male journalist he’d ever worked with, she was smart as a whip and could hold her own in any situation.
But, as he’d told her during that argument on their honeymoon, that didn’t mean that she was bulletproof. Or invincible. Too many journalists had already died covering wars, and new names continued to be added to the glass-walled Journalists Memorial at the national Newseum in Washington, D.C.
Given her toughness, Cass had never been a woman to blush easily. Duncan had always enjoyed being able to bring that soft color into her cheeks.
They’d met during a street firefight in Kabul. When the bullets had started flying, he’d reacted on instinct. After dragging her into a nearby alley behind a pizza joint, he’d pulled her down behind a pile of wooden crates and thrown his body on top of her.
Time had ceased to have meaning. The shooting could’ve lasted a minute. An hour. An eternity. But when the bullets finally stopped flying and he’d helped her back to her feet, she’d
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