distorted by proximity to the wide-angle lens. “Dr. Merritt?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been sent by—” She consulted a piece of paper. “By a Mr. Montgomery. May we come up?”
Ah. The makeover team, here to transform the captain. Big, sinewy, with rough features and rough hands. Longhaired, bearded, smelling of woodsmoke and sweat and . . . the wild. So Uncle Edwin’s team was supposed to turn him into an investment banker?
Good luck with that.
“Come on up,” she said. “You’ve got quite a job in front of you.”
They trooped up, filling her entire living room, which was large. She settled them all, told them to prepare their work tools, and closed the living room door firmly behind her.
She went to meet the captain outside the bathroom, enveloped in her father’s terry-cloth robe. The hot shower had brought a little red to his swarthy cheeks. His ratty, filthy hair now hung clean and wet almost down to his shoulders.
He had an amazing physique—absurdly broad through the shoulders, unusually lean in the waist and hips. His shoulders strained her father’s robe, and her father had not been a small man.
Lucy had no intention of tipping him into the maw of the people camping out in her living room without feeding him first. She knew what the military was like. No one would have thought to feed the man. He was probably going on twenty-four hours without food and without sleep. She couldn’t do anything about the sleep, but by God she could do something about the food.
He raised his thick black eyebrows at the noises coming from her living room. The clanking of tools, excited voices. Even a squeal or two.
Lucy smiled up at him. “I’m afraid some hard things await you, Captain, but first I’m going to feed you. A few minutes more won’t affect anything either way. No man should have to face what’s in my living room on an empty stomach.”
He didn’t move, just looked down at her. He was very close to her, so close she could smell her own soap and shampoo on him. So close she could feel his body heat. He was very tall. She hadn’t appreciated how very tall he was before. As always, she’d slipped off her heels coming into the house and was in flats. He was almost a whole head taller than she was.
“Mike.”
His eyes were very dark, with small yellow streaks. So dark they reflected the light of her wall sconces.
“What?” She should step back, she was way too close. If she took in a deep breath, her breasts would brush against his chest. She should step back.
“Mike. My name’s Mike.” He smiled, the first smile she’d seen from him, besides that feral baring of teeth she’d glimpsed in the corridor outside the briefing room. “Call me Mike. Besides—aren’t we engaged?”
Lucy stepped back. It wasn’t easy. The man might be whipcord thin, but he exerted a force field around him, like gravity.
“Yes. We are. Follow me.” She rolled her eyes. “Honey.”
A couple of minutes later she seated him at her pretty cherrywood Shaker kitchen table and watched, amazed, as he ate everything in her refrigerator and started emptying her freezer. The microwave was working overtime. His manners were fine, but he tucked away an astonishing amount of food in an astonishingly short amount of time.
Two bowls of soup, a bowl of leftover tabbouleh, all the rosemary focaccia, a small loaf of whole wheat bread, half a round of brie, a huge slice of pecorino romano, a large bowl of sliced tomatoes, a portion of eggplant parmesan, the half bottle of Sauvignon blanc, some homemade biscotti and her two perfect peaches. The only thing he turned his nose up at was her array of deli yogurts. He drank two cups of fresh coffee, saying that he could sleep anywhere, anytime, even if he had a gallon of coffee in him.
Lucy was amazed, but grateful that he’d cleaned her fridge out. She hated leaving food behind when going away. She’d grown up in some very poor parts of the world, where food was precious.
“Yes.”
“We’ve been sent by—” She consulted a piece of paper. “By a Mr. Montgomery. May we come up?”
Ah. The makeover team, here to transform the captain. Big, sinewy, with rough features and rough hands. Longhaired, bearded, smelling of woodsmoke and sweat and . . . the wild. So Uncle Edwin’s team was supposed to turn him into an investment banker?
Good luck with that.
“Come on up,” she said. “You’ve got quite a job in front of you.”
They trooped up, filling her entire living room, which was large. She settled them all, told them to prepare their work tools, and closed the living room door firmly behind her.
She went to meet the captain outside the bathroom, enveloped in her father’s terry-cloth robe. The hot shower had brought a little red to his swarthy cheeks. His ratty, filthy hair now hung clean and wet almost down to his shoulders.
He had an amazing physique—absurdly broad through the shoulders, unusually lean in the waist and hips. His shoulders strained her father’s robe, and her father had not been a small man.
Lucy had no intention of tipping him into the maw of the people camping out in her living room without feeding him first. She knew what the military was like. No one would have thought to feed the man. He was probably going on twenty-four hours without food and without sleep. She couldn’t do anything about the sleep, but by God she could do something about the food.
He raised his thick black eyebrows at the noises coming from her living room. The clanking of tools, excited voices. Even a squeal or two.
Lucy smiled up at him. “I’m afraid some hard things await you, Captain, but first I’m going to feed you. A few minutes more won’t affect anything either way. No man should have to face what’s in my living room on an empty stomach.”
He didn’t move, just looked down at her. He was very close to her, so close she could smell her own soap and shampoo on him. So close she could feel his body heat. He was very tall. She hadn’t appreciated how very tall he was before. As always, she’d slipped off her heels coming into the house and was in flats. He was almost a whole head taller than she was.
“Mike.”
His eyes were very dark, with small yellow streaks. So dark they reflected the light of her wall sconces.
“What?” She should step back, she was way too close. If she took in a deep breath, her breasts would brush against his chest. She should step back.
“Mike. My name’s Mike.” He smiled, the first smile she’d seen from him, besides that feral baring of teeth she’d glimpsed in the corridor outside the briefing room. “Call me Mike. Besides—aren’t we engaged?”
Lucy stepped back. It wasn’t easy. The man might be whipcord thin, but he exerted a force field around him, like gravity.
“Yes. We are. Follow me.” She rolled her eyes. “Honey.”
A couple of minutes later she seated him at her pretty cherrywood Shaker kitchen table and watched, amazed, as he ate everything in her refrigerator and started emptying her freezer. The microwave was working overtime. His manners were fine, but he tucked away an astonishing amount of food in an astonishingly short amount of time.
Two bowls of soup, a bowl of leftover tabbouleh, all the rosemary focaccia, a small loaf of whole wheat bread, half a round of brie, a huge slice of pecorino romano, a large bowl of sliced tomatoes, a portion of eggplant parmesan, the half bottle of Sauvignon blanc, some homemade biscotti and her two perfect peaches. The only thing he turned his nose up at was her array of deli yogurts. He drank two cups of fresh coffee, saying that he could sleep anywhere, anytime, even if he had a gallon of coffee in him.
Lucy was amazed, but grateful that he’d cleaned her fridge out. She hated leaving food behind when going away. She’d grown up in some very poor parts of the world, where food was precious.
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