He took that as a yes, pulling out of me slowly, his mouth moving from my cheek, down across my neck, along my shoulder, caressing down my spine.

And then I was up in his arms, cradled to his chest as he carried me to bed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Did we just have our first fight?” I asked him, much, much later.

I was lying in bed, naked, well-rested, and he’d stuck around for the night, for once, though he wasn’t in bed with me.

He was prowling around my room, fully dressed, like he’d just been waiting for me, instead of sleeping himself.

“If we did, I think I won.”  His tone was sardonic.

That irked me.  Arrogant bastard.  But it was true.

If we were going to fight in the bedroom, I was going to lose.

“You know, you can be a real pain in the ass?” My tone was not as scathing as it should have been.

He got a kick out of that.  I could tell by the unholy light in his eyes, and the tone of his voice when he said, “I think that’s understating things.  Honey, I’m your worst nightmare.”

Ha.  Wasn’t that the truth.

I got up, got dressed, and cooked us breakfast.

Heath paced around my dining room while he waited for the food.

I was trying to think back and recall if I’d ever seen him sit before.  Nothing came to mind.

“Did you sleep last night?” I called out to him.

He stopped pacing, coming to stand a few feet into the kitchen.  “Yes.  Everyone needs sleep, Lourdes.”

I shot him a look.  “Well, I slept for eight hours last night.  How long did you sleep?”  It was a pointed question.  I was pretty sure I had a clue about the answer.

“I didn’t keep track.”

“Guess,” I prodded.

“Maybe two hours.”

I wanted to scold him, but I was well aware that I was not his mother.  “That’s not enough sleep for anyone, Heath.”

“It’s enough for me.”

I mulled that over.  “Where did you sleep?”

“On your sofa.  In the living room.”

“Why didn’t you just sleep in the bed with me?”

“I was being considerate.  Trust me, I did you a favor.”

It was pretty obvious that this was a touchy subject for him, so I just said, “Let me know if you ever want to talk about it,” and then dropped it.

But while he seemed to be in a talkative mood (for him) I decided to pry further.

“Tell me about your family,” I tried.

He started pacing again.  “There’s not much to tell.  Not many of us left.  How about you?”

I sighed resignedly, though I’d fully expected him to turn the question on me.  Just not quite so quickly.  “I’m an only child, and my parents divorced when I was in my early twenties.  I have a big extended family, but most of them still live in Europe.”

“Where do your parents live?”

“My father lives in Lyon, France.  He’ll die there, too, I guarantee.  He runs a restaurant.  He’s a world-renowned chef, actually.  If you gave a damn about haute cuisine, you’d be impressed.  My mother lives in the states.  In Florida.  That’s a fairly recent development, though.  She grew up in Spain, and they both raised me in France.”

“How was that?”

“Growing up in Lyon?”

He nodded.

I thought about it.  “It was pretty amazing, actually.  There’s little I can complain about.  And I’m still close with both of them.  I take the boys to visit each of them at least twice a year.  What about your parents?  Where do they live?”

“They died when I was younger.”

“Any siblings?”

He didn’t answer for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to, but then, “One left.”

That sounded ominous.  “Brother or sister?  And are you close?”

He completely ignored the first question.  “We have a complex relationship.”

“Too complex to elaborate on?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I took the hint, and let yet another subject close.

I was plating up the eggs, sausage, and bacon before I tried another.

“Why don’t you ever let me touch you?” I asked him, tone neutral, almost off-hand.  I’d wanted to broach this topic with him from the beginning.

“Do you really want to know?  It’s fucked up.  It will probably just make you more scared of me.”

That did the opposite of what he thought it would.  Now I was more intrigued, with only the slightest touch of trepidation.

I put the plates down on the table, then headed back into the kitchen for drinks.

I grabbed two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice on the return trip, but he still hadn’t taken a seat.

I wondered if he’d eat standing up.

I took my own seat, poured us each a glass of juice, and looked up at him.

Finally, he sat, though he looked ill at ease, like he thought it was a mistake the second he did it.

“Tell me,” I urged softly.

Without a word he started eating.

I began to eat as well, resigned to the fact that this was yet another subject he wouldn’t be opening up about.

I was quickly distracted by the way he ate, as though this was his last meal on earth.  It was strange.  His manners were fine.  He used his utensils and closed his mouth when he chewed.  But his every movement was so economical and mechanical.