Not Even for Love(6)

“Yes … I mean no! By all means. You must be uncomfortable.”

“I’ll go down and change in the bookstore—”

“No. Use the bathroom. Here, take a candle down to get your bags.”

She hurried past him and got another candle from the living room.

“Thanks,” he said as he took it from her and loped down the stairs. He had certainly gained confidence since he had stumbled up behind her only moments before, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. He was back within a minute and she directed him through her bedroom to the bathroom, hoping that it was halfway presentable. She knew there was at least one damp towel lying on the floor. When one lived alone, one didn’t give more than rudimentary attention to orderliness.

By the time the coffee was done he was back, wearing another pair of jeans, another casual shirt—this one soft yellow—and socks. No shoes.

“The coffee smells good,” he said from the door.

“Have a seat. I’ll bring it in there. This kitchen is barely large enough for one person.”

He was sprawled on the sofa, ensconced in the deep cushions of one corner, when she came in carrying the tray with the coffee, cream, sugar, and two spoons, cups, and saucers.

She set the tray on the low table in front of the couch. Actually, it was two ceramic elephants with a piece of glass suspended between them. She poured the steaming, aromatic coffee into one cup and asked, “Anything in it?”

“No. I’ve learned to do without luxuries in some of the places I’ve been, so I’ve grown accustomed to drinking whatever is available.” He sipped the scalding liquid. “Unless my sense of taste fails me, this is American coffee.”

She laughed. “I have my parents send it over every few months.”

“Ah, delicious.” He smacked his lips.

She poured her own coffee and settled into the opposite corner of the sofa. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. In contrast, she tucked her feet under her legs.

“What else do you miss from home?” His question was casual—almost too casual. Did it portend more than surface curiosity?

“Conveniences. Fast-food restaurants. My soap opera.” He laughed. “Not much else. I miss my parents, though they came over last year to visit. Lucerne is a charming place. The Swiss are an intelligent, industrious, and gracious people. I’ve traveled extensively in Europe. One day I aspire to write about it. You’re rarely in the States, Reeves. What do you miss?”

Not a woman, she thought as he began to rattle off inconsequential things. He would never be without a woman. In the soft flickering firelight of the candles his hair took on an auburn cast as it tumbled riotously around his head. Just under his eyes, sprinkling his cheekbones, was a collection of freckles, which had been washed out by the harsh fluorescent lighting in the bookshop.

Taken apart, his features weren’t classically handsome. His nose was a bit too slender. His mouth was almost too wide. The chin was a little too stubborn. But his eyes were fabulously green and well fringed by thick, spiky lashes. All put together, he was rakishly attractive. His virility was threatening—a threat no woman could resist.

He wore his clothes negligently. The fresh shirt he hadn’t bothered to button even as much as the one he had taken off, and the curling mat of hair revealed beneath its folds was most appealing.

Jordan realized that he had stopped talking. “More coffee?” she asked, trying to draw enough air in her lungs to articulate the offer.

“No thank you.”

Another silence descended. He stared at her from a distance the width of one cushion of the sofa. Unintentionally, but quite automatically, he reached across the cushion and captured her hand, which lay on her thigh. She didn’t take it away.

The candles cast gigantic shadows against the walls of the cozy room. The eggshell-white plaster had been chiseled off one wall, baring the ancient bricks behind it and adding character to the room. Tasteful graphics advertising concerts, ballets, and art shows had been sealed in thin brass frames and mounted on the walls.

The tall, wide windows of one wall were draped in a paisley print in tones of gold and brown. The fabric was repeated on the sofa and on the pillows tossed into one brown club chair. The hardwood floor, which shone with a patina only age can provide, was unrelieved by rugs that would have detracted from its beauty.

“I like your apartment.” His thumb rotated hypnotically over her wrist, then slipped lower to explore the center of her palm. He wasn’t looking at her apartment. He was looking at her mouth.

“Thank you,” she said thickly. “I … decorated it myself. I re-covered the cushions of the couch.”