proud of their cuisine, as well as their hospitality.”
Her smile flickered and finally went out. Her gaze wandered away from his face and was jerked back, like a restive horse fighting the reins, to meet his, this time with defiance.
“Well?” he said. Gently rather than with impatience.
He heard the slight catch in her breathing. “Well, what?”
“I know you’ve been wanting to ask questions. So—ask.”
Chapter 4
S he stared at him a long moment more, and this time when her gaze slid away she didn’t force it back. He saw the muscles in her face flinch and her mouth quirk with an attempt at a smile. As he watched the emotional struggle play across her familiar features, it came to him that this was a Yancy Malone he’d never seen before. Jolted, he realized in all the times he’d shared her bed, as intimately as he’d known the secrets of her body, he’d never once seen her angry. Or wounded. Afraid or sad.
Or if she had been, he’d been too selfishly involved with his own needs to notice.
She shrugged finally and shook her head. But still no words came.
Out of sheer self-preservation, Hunt did what he’d always done when unwanted emotions threatened to pierce his armor. He turned on the charm. He put on a smile, one that was just a bit crooked. “Don’t tell me Yancy Malone doesn’t have questions to ask, because I won’t believe it.”
She made a sound that might have passed for a laugh if the light had been poorer. If he hadn’t been able to see that unfamiliar pain in her face. “I’d think you’d be happy about that.”
“Come on. I always loved your questions.” He paused and added with another wry smile, “It was so much fun to shut you up.”
For Yancy, the unmistakable growl of intimacy in his voice brought a fresh flood of memories... A face, a voice, a body...the sound of a laugh, a remembered look, the shape of a mouth.
Almost in a panic, she thought, But I can’t remember the feel of that body...can’t remember what that mouth tasted like .
Her memories were like recalling a movie or a television show she’d seen. She couldn’t seem to bring them into focus with her own reality or with the man standing before her now.
Strange to think I once shared a bed with this man—more than once. So many times...and yet I don’t think I know him at all.
What was it that was so different about him?
Oh, certainly he looked different, with the full beard, the turban, the Afghan tunic, vest and loose-fitting trousers—though here in the privacy of his home he’d shed the turban and vest. But it was more than that. It was, she realized in a late flash of insight, not what he looked like, but the way she saw him.
When she’d first met him he’d seemed to her like an invincible man-machine, a superhero, a life-size action figure. Later he was her shadow lover who came and went in the night like a ghost. But something had happened since the last time she’d seen him, the night he’d brought Laila to her and then disappeared without a trace.
Something’s changed.
Maybe I’ve changed.
Older now, perhaps wiser, and from the perspective of motherhood, she saw him as a mere human being, a man, one with flaws, one who’d loved a woman, fathered and then abandoned a child.
Though, oddly, he seemed no less imposing because of that.
If anything, even more so.
Yes, definitely more so.
I don’t know how to talk to him now. We never talked much before. Never had to. Meaningless love-words, whispered in the darkness...laughter and sighs...forbidden thoughts and questions never voiced. It was enough then.
Not now, though. Now the reality was, they shared a child. Like it or not, difficult as it might be, she would have to learn new ways to communicate with the man who was her adopted daughter’s biological father.
Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Communicating is what I do.
But it was he who spoke first.
While she was still thinking how to begin, he said hoarsely, “You
Her smile flickered and finally went out. Her gaze wandered away from his face and was jerked back, like a restive horse fighting the reins, to meet his, this time with defiance.
“Well?” he said. Gently rather than with impatience.
He heard the slight catch in her breathing. “Well, what?”
“I know you’ve been wanting to ask questions. So—ask.”
Chapter 4
S he stared at him a long moment more, and this time when her gaze slid away she didn’t force it back. He saw the muscles in her face flinch and her mouth quirk with an attempt at a smile. As he watched the emotional struggle play across her familiar features, it came to him that this was a Yancy Malone he’d never seen before. Jolted, he realized in all the times he’d shared her bed, as intimately as he’d known the secrets of her body, he’d never once seen her angry. Or wounded. Afraid or sad.
Or if she had been, he’d been too selfishly involved with his own needs to notice.
She shrugged finally and shook her head. But still no words came.
Out of sheer self-preservation, Hunt did what he’d always done when unwanted emotions threatened to pierce his armor. He turned on the charm. He put on a smile, one that was just a bit crooked. “Don’t tell me Yancy Malone doesn’t have questions to ask, because I won’t believe it.”
She made a sound that might have passed for a laugh if the light had been poorer. If he hadn’t been able to see that unfamiliar pain in her face. “I’d think you’d be happy about that.”
“Come on. I always loved your questions.” He paused and added with another wry smile, “It was so much fun to shut you up.”
For Yancy, the unmistakable growl of intimacy in his voice brought a fresh flood of memories... A face, a voice, a body...the sound of a laugh, a remembered look, the shape of a mouth.
Almost in a panic, she thought, But I can’t remember the feel of that body...can’t remember what that mouth tasted like .
Her memories were like recalling a movie or a television show she’d seen. She couldn’t seem to bring them into focus with her own reality or with the man standing before her now.
Strange to think I once shared a bed with this man—more than once. So many times...and yet I don’t think I know him at all.
What was it that was so different about him?
Oh, certainly he looked different, with the full beard, the turban, the Afghan tunic, vest and loose-fitting trousers—though here in the privacy of his home he’d shed the turban and vest. But it was more than that. It was, she realized in a late flash of insight, not what he looked like, but the way she saw him.
When she’d first met him he’d seemed to her like an invincible man-machine, a superhero, a life-size action figure. Later he was her shadow lover who came and went in the night like a ghost. But something had happened since the last time she’d seen him, the night he’d brought Laila to her and then disappeared without a trace.
Something’s changed.
Maybe I’ve changed.
Older now, perhaps wiser, and from the perspective of motherhood, she saw him as a mere human being, a man, one with flaws, one who’d loved a woman, fathered and then abandoned a child.
Though, oddly, he seemed no less imposing because of that.
If anything, even more so.
Yes, definitely more so.
I don’t know how to talk to him now. We never talked much before. Never had to. Meaningless love-words, whispered in the darkness...laughter and sighs...forbidden thoughts and questions never voiced. It was enough then.
Not now, though. Now the reality was, they shared a child. Like it or not, difficult as it might be, she would have to learn new ways to communicate with the man who was her adopted daughter’s biological father.
Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Communicating is what I do.
But it was he who spoke first.
While she was still thinking how to begin, he said hoarsely, “You
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