definitely not maternal.
With a sigh she put down the book. She felt restless and keyed up. Maybe she should go out. But she no sooner had the idea than she abandoned it. She’d have to remember too many codes.
With a sigh, she hauled herself off the bed and went to stare out the window. She saw what any prisoner must see—a fence and a gate. Heavily secured. She felt what many prisoners must feel—a sense of claustrophobia and an almost irresistible urge to escape.
“What have I done?” she asked the moon that taunted her from its position of utter freedom outside the gates.
She was going to go bananas if she stayed cooped up in this room all night. He’d mentioned old movies. Maybe she could go out and rent one, or better still, maybe he had a movie station or satellite dish.
If she was very quiet and kept the sound down, he need never know she was there. With that in mind, she crept down the stairs. As she made her way to the family room, she passed the kitchen and caught Mark in the act of building himself a very large sandwich.
Mayonnaise and mustard jars, a package of what looked like luncheon meat, a block of cheese, a pickle jar and a decimated loaf of bread were lined up neatly in front of him. As she watched, he cut the triple-decker sandwich with the precision of a surgeon and chomped into it.
She let him chew unobserved for a moment, frankly enjoying the sight of his enjoyment. A little daub of mayonnaise spotted his upper lip, and she watched, mesmerized, as it rode up and down with his rhythmic chewing.
Did she move? She didn’t think so, but suddenly the chewing stopped and he turned his gaze her way.
She had to laugh. His expression was exactly that of a little boy caught redhanded in some mischief. “My cooking’s not enough for you?”
“No. I mean…” He replied thickly, then swallowed and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. Without the mayonnaise on his lip he appeared all grown up again. “I, uh, get hungry sometimes in the evenings.” Sheepishly, he gestured to the sandwich fixings.
“Want one? I do a terrific club sandwich.”
Affecting an air of virtue, she shook her head. “I never snack.”
“Most important meal of the day.” He stood there, too polite to take another bite, and she stood there, watching him.
A
moment
passed.
“Did you want to make some tea or something?”
She started. “No. I, uh, just came down to watch a movie. If you have anything good.”
“I’ve got the best DVD collection in town. Schwarzenegger or Van Damme, take your pick.”
She smiled politely. “Do you have anything else?”
“I’ve probably got some Stallone somewhere.”
If she hadn’t witnessed him make a joke earlier, she might have fallen for it. But his expression was too innocent.
“I’ll just look under that pile of Sports Illustrated and Muscle Car magazines and see what I find,” she replied.
He chuckled. “The movies are in the bookcase. If you need help give me a shout.”
“Thanks.”
When she got to the family room she discovered he hadn’t lied. He did have a good representation of the three actors he’d cited. But he also had a wide range of titles from sappy romantic comedies to intellectual European cinematic statements.
Gleefully, she pored through the romantic comedies, pulling out several of her favorites. She loved everything about old movies, especially those with cover pictures of the stars. Clark Gable, William Holden, Cary Grant all grinned at her, vying for her attention. What bliss.
“Find anything you like?” a much more contemporary but equally sexy man asked from the doorway.
“So many men, so little time,” she replied dreamily.
“Well, you’ve got all night.”
Was there a hidden message? Was he suggesting she could move on from celluloid men to the real flesh-and-blood thing if she wanted? Was the ex-Mountie coming on to her?
Hard to say. When she turned to see, he was gone.
She curled up
With a sigh she put down the book. She felt restless and keyed up. Maybe she should go out. But she no sooner had the idea than she abandoned it. She’d have to remember too many codes.
With a sigh, she hauled herself off the bed and went to stare out the window. She saw what any prisoner must see—a fence and a gate. Heavily secured. She felt what many prisoners must feel—a sense of claustrophobia and an almost irresistible urge to escape.
“What have I done?” she asked the moon that taunted her from its position of utter freedom outside the gates.
She was going to go bananas if she stayed cooped up in this room all night. He’d mentioned old movies. Maybe she could go out and rent one, or better still, maybe he had a movie station or satellite dish.
If she was very quiet and kept the sound down, he need never know she was there. With that in mind, she crept down the stairs. As she made her way to the family room, she passed the kitchen and caught Mark in the act of building himself a very large sandwich.
Mayonnaise and mustard jars, a package of what looked like luncheon meat, a block of cheese, a pickle jar and a decimated loaf of bread were lined up neatly in front of him. As she watched, he cut the triple-decker sandwich with the precision of a surgeon and chomped into it.
She let him chew unobserved for a moment, frankly enjoying the sight of his enjoyment. A little daub of mayonnaise spotted his upper lip, and she watched, mesmerized, as it rode up and down with his rhythmic chewing.
Did she move? She didn’t think so, but suddenly the chewing stopped and he turned his gaze her way.
She had to laugh. His expression was exactly that of a little boy caught redhanded in some mischief. “My cooking’s not enough for you?”
“No. I mean…” He replied thickly, then swallowed and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. Without the mayonnaise on his lip he appeared all grown up again. “I, uh, get hungry sometimes in the evenings.” Sheepishly, he gestured to the sandwich fixings.
“Want one? I do a terrific club sandwich.”
Affecting an air of virtue, she shook her head. “I never snack.”
“Most important meal of the day.” He stood there, too polite to take another bite, and she stood there, watching him.
A
moment
passed.
“Did you want to make some tea or something?”
She started. “No. I, uh, just came down to watch a movie. If you have anything good.”
“I’ve got the best DVD collection in town. Schwarzenegger or Van Damme, take your pick.”
She smiled politely. “Do you have anything else?”
“I’ve probably got some Stallone somewhere.”
If she hadn’t witnessed him make a joke earlier, she might have fallen for it. But his expression was too innocent.
“I’ll just look under that pile of Sports Illustrated and Muscle Car magazines and see what I find,” she replied.
He chuckled. “The movies are in the bookcase. If you need help give me a shout.”
“Thanks.”
When she got to the family room she discovered he hadn’t lied. He did have a good representation of the three actors he’d cited. But he also had a wide range of titles from sappy romantic comedies to intellectual European cinematic statements.
Gleefully, she pored through the romantic comedies, pulling out several of her favorites. She loved everything about old movies, especially those with cover pictures of the stars. Clark Gable, William Holden, Cary Grant all grinned at her, vying for her attention. What bliss.
“Find anything you like?” a much more contemporary but equally sexy man asked from the doorway.
“So many men, so little time,” she replied dreamily.
“Well, you’ve got all night.”
Was there a hidden message? Was he suggesting she could move on from celluloid men to the real flesh-and-blood thing if she wanted? Was the ex-Mountie coming on to her?
Hard to say. When she turned to see, he was gone.
She curled up
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