utensils. She didn’t actually smack her lips, but she did lick her fingertips discreetly from time to time. Once, she looked up and found Chance watching her.
“The next time we have lobster,” he said, “we’re going to be alone.”
“Are my table manners that bad?” she asked, only half joking.
“No”—softly—“it’s just that I’d like to lick your fingers for you.”
Reba felt the new yet increasingly familiar sensation of heat and wires tightening inside her body. “Chance Walker,” she breathed, “you are the most incredibly unbridled male.”
His laugh did nothing to deny her words. “Finish your lobster. I enjoy watching an unbridled female eat.”
“I’m not unbridled,” she muttered, “and you haven’t answered all of my first question.”
“Peru, Venezuela, Alaska, Madagascar, Chile, Australia, Brazil, Northwest Territories, Sri Lanka, Burma, Colorado, California, Africa, Montana, Japan, Afghanistan, Nevada, St. John’s Island, Columbia, Finland and the Veil of Kashmir. Some of them more than once and not necessarily in that order.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed cinnamon glare. He smiled and took a sip of the pale gold wine.
“You asked where I’ve lived since I was born,” he said reasonably, setting down his wine glass. “I admit I might have left out a place or two.” He shrugged. “A few weeks here and there hardly count.”
“What did you do after you left Lightning Ridge?”
“Which time? Seems like I’ve been leaving Lightning Ridge as long as I can remember.”
“The time your sister took you out of the jungle.”
“I gouged opals for a while. Glory worked and tried to teach me that there was more to life than fighting and drinking and whores.”
“You weren’t even fifteen!” said Reba, appalled.
“I’d been doing a man’s work since I was ten. I’d been man-sized since I was thirteen. But I grew up long before then,” Chance said, his voice quiet and hard. “There’s no such thing as a child in the jungle. Only survivors.”
“Where is your family now?”
“Glory is married.” He smiled slightly. “A prospector came to Lightning Ridge, took one look at her, and swore he’d found the only woman he’d spend his life with. She laughed the first time he said it. Then she walked out with him into the desert. When they came back she was his woman. It was that fast”—he snapped his fingers—“and as permanent as the mountains. I never understood what came over either one of them, until ten days ago.”
Reba looked up from her lobster suddenly, but Chance’s face was turned so that shadows from the tabletop light concealed his eyes.
“My father,” continued Chance, his eyes still hooded by shadows, “is somewhere in Africa, I think, looking for blue garnets.”
“There’s no such thing,” said Reba, wiping her fingers on a napkin and pushing aside her plate. Not a scrap of lobster remained.
“You know that and I know that, but Dad? No way. He’s got a map.” Chance laughed harshly.
“Is your mother with him?”
Chance signaled the waiter to remove their plates. Reba waited for Chance to answer, then realized that he wasn’t going to. “Is that one of the things you don’t talk about?” she asked quietly.
Chance paid the check in silence. When they reached her car all he said was, “Do you have to go back right away?”
Reba thought of what waited for her at the Objet d’Art—phone calls from museums and collectors and reporters hungry for a new lead on an old scandal—Jeremy and a woman fifty years younger. The thought made her mouth flatten and turn down. She had worked relentlessly in the weeks since Jeremy’s death, weeks when Tim and Gina had urged her to take time off. Now, all Reba cared about was doing Jeremy’s book and learning more about the baffling, fascinating man who stood very close to her, not quite touching her, waiting for her answer.
At the moment, there was nothing more she could do with the
“The next time we have lobster,” he said, “we’re going to be alone.”
“Are my table manners that bad?” she asked, only half joking.
“No”—softly—“it’s just that I’d like to lick your fingers for you.”
Reba felt the new yet increasingly familiar sensation of heat and wires tightening inside her body. “Chance Walker,” she breathed, “you are the most incredibly unbridled male.”
His laugh did nothing to deny her words. “Finish your lobster. I enjoy watching an unbridled female eat.”
“I’m not unbridled,” she muttered, “and you haven’t answered all of my first question.”
“Peru, Venezuela, Alaska, Madagascar, Chile, Australia, Brazil, Northwest Territories, Sri Lanka, Burma, Colorado, California, Africa, Montana, Japan, Afghanistan, Nevada, St. John’s Island, Columbia, Finland and the Veil of Kashmir. Some of them more than once and not necessarily in that order.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed cinnamon glare. He smiled and took a sip of the pale gold wine.
“You asked where I’ve lived since I was born,” he said reasonably, setting down his wine glass. “I admit I might have left out a place or two.” He shrugged. “A few weeks here and there hardly count.”
“What did you do after you left Lightning Ridge?”
“Which time? Seems like I’ve been leaving Lightning Ridge as long as I can remember.”
“The time your sister took you out of the jungle.”
“I gouged opals for a while. Glory worked and tried to teach me that there was more to life than fighting and drinking and whores.”
“You weren’t even fifteen!” said Reba, appalled.
“I’d been doing a man’s work since I was ten. I’d been man-sized since I was thirteen. But I grew up long before then,” Chance said, his voice quiet and hard. “There’s no such thing as a child in the jungle. Only survivors.”
“Where is your family now?”
“Glory is married.” He smiled slightly. “A prospector came to Lightning Ridge, took one look at her, and swore he’d found the only woman he’d spend his life with. She laughed the first time he said it. Then she walked out with him into the desert. When they came back she was his woman. It was that fast”—he snapped his fingers—“and as permanent as the mountains. I never understood what came over either one of them, until ten days ago.”
Reba looked up from her lobster suddenly, but Chance’s face was turned so that shadows from the tabletop light concealed his eyes.
“My father,” continued Chance, his eyes still hooded by shadows, “is somewhere in Africa, I think, looking for blue garnets.”
“There’s no such thing,” said Reba, wiping her fingers on a napkin and pushing aside her plate. Not a scrap of lobster remained.
“You know that and I know that, but Dad? No way. He’s got a map.” Chance laughed harshly.
“Is your mother with him?”
Chance signaled the waiter to remove their plates. Reba waited for Chance to answer, then realized that he wasn’t going to. “Is that one of the things you don’t talk about?” she asked quietly.
Chance paid the check in silence. When they reached her car all he said was, “Do you have to go back right away?”
Reba thought of what waited for her at the Objet d’Art—phone calls from museums and collectors and reporters hungry for a new lead on an old scandal—Jeremy and a woman fifty years younger. The thought made her mouth flatten and turn down. She had worked relentlessly in the weeks since Jeremy’s death, weeks when Tim and Gina had urged her to take time off. Now, all Reba cared about was doing Jeremy’s book and learning more about the baffling, fascinating man who stood very close to her, not quite touching her, waiting for her answer.
At the moment, there was nothing more she could do with the
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