He gave her a sideways look. “Hey, it’s not so bad. And it was a long time ago. I rarely see either of my parents; the war’s pretty much over. Very little radioactive fallout.” But the faint bitterness in his voice was apparent.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” Something tightened in his jaw, then he raised one of his heart-stopping smiles and held out his hand. “Come on, baby, you’re here, so I don’t think about any of that shit. Tell me one of your stories about growing up with Gramps and Nana. Tell me something good.”
Her hand in his, she began talking, chattering, rambling on, making jokes, telling him about Nana’s vodka still with the detail of a scientist because he seemed interested. Then about Gramps’s gun collection, which had him asking questions. After that, stories about her dog and cat, about summer camps. Wanting to make him happy, wanting him to forget the frightened six-year-old at the psychiatrist, wanting him to smile and lose that strained look he’d had talking about his childhood.
Before long, the furrow between his brows disappeared and he seemed relaxed, almost content. He half lifted his head on the pillow, then sat up in the graceful flow of muscle that never ceased to electrify her senses, took her by the shoulders, dropped back down, and pulled her into the warmth of his body. “You’re helping me more than you know, Katherine.” There was no sharpness to his voice now, no edge, just a quiet softness. “You’ll have to send me a bill for therapy services,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
She inhaled the scent of him, the sweet musk and cedar, took pleasure in the warmth of his skin under her cheek, the taut, supple muscle beneath the bronzed flesh—a body disciplined by a hard, disciplined mind. And she felt like crying for the little boy who hadn’t swallowed all those pills, for the child victimized by the cruelty of adults who owed him love and failed him. Who hadn’t just failed him but mistreated him.
They slept for a time and when they woke, they indulged their senses in amorous play, then, prompted by a jet-lag lethargy, napped again. Eventually, Dominic coaxed Kate into the shower with promises of sex, then afterward, driven by hunger, he found them robes so they could go downstairs. Dominic, Kate at his side, peered into a commercial-size fridge, contemplating the provisions within. Four of the shelves held covered dishes, each labeled with instructions for heating or not.
Kate pointed at a Saran-wrapped salad that was marked: Do Not Microwave. “She’s not sure you know not to heat a salad?”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “I did once and Patty’s never forgotten. That I was stoned out of my mind at the time apparently wasn’t excuse enough for her.” He pulled out a dish of enchiladas, one of Mongolian beef, and then the salad. “Take out that rice pudding, will you?” He pointed with the enchilada dish. “You have to taste the best pudding in the world.”
“There’s modest praise,” she teased.
“I kid you not, baby. It’s world class. Patty flew to New York and coaxed the recipe from a chef who’d refused my request. It’s an Afghani recipe with pistachios, cardamom, and some other stuff. Anyway, I’m eternally grateful to Patty. And for those less enthusiastic,” he said with a smile, nodding at a ceramic cookie jar in the shape of Darth Vader, “cookies?” His smile widened. “Silly question. I ordered chocolate milk too. Unless you want a beer or a drink.”
After heating up the dishes in the microwave, they carried their smorgasbord upstairs and spread it out on the bed, along with beer for Dominic and chocolate milk for Kate. Then they fed each other Patty’s best efforts like lovers do.
It was a day of pleasure, of small bewitchments, and of off-the-charts rapture. But Dominic kept an eye on the clock and the time finally arrived when he gave Kate a kiss, climbed out of bed, and said over his shoulder as he walked away, “We have to get dressed for Melanie’s party. I had some clothes delivered for you. So don’t sulk, okay?”
Kate gave him a dirty look anyway—or tried to at least. She mostly just stared at him, because he was standing splendidly nude across the room at the entrance to his walk-in closet and looking incredibly yummy. Damn, if she was going to make a reasonable case for her independence, she really had to ignore all that stunning maleness.
“You never quit, do you,” she said. Then sighed. “Am I some toy for you to dress? Or are you ashamed to be seen with me in my ordinary clothes?”
He swung around to face her in a torque of sleek, tensile muscle and restive impatience. “Neither. Come on, baby” he grumbled. “Didn’t anyone ever give you presents? Maybe we should see some crazy therapist so he can tell you to knock it off.”
“Or she could tell you to knock it off. Cuz I’m right,” she said, keeping her voice light.
His eyes suddenly creased with amusement.
“What?”
“Therapists don’t use words like right and wrong. They prefer gray, equivocal words. Repeat-what-you-just-heard-me-say compromises that aren’t really compromises but a form of apathy. Obviously, you’ve never been to one.”
“No. Although I’d like someone to tell you that you can’t order people around twenty-four/seven.”
“You may have noticed I’m having a little trouble with you,” he said drily.
She slid down lower on the pillows, made a motorboat sound with her lips, studied her painted toenails. “I’m probably overreacting to your gifts,” she said evenly, still looking at her toes. “So I give up. Happy now?”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” Something tightened in his jaw, then he raised one of his heart-stopping smiles and held out his hand. “Come on, baby, you’re here, so I don’t think about any of that shit. Tell me one of your stories about growing up with Gramps and Nana. Tell me something good.”
Her hand in his, she began talking, chattering, rambling on, making jokes, telling him about Nana’s vodka still with the detail of a scientist because he seemed interested. Then about Gramps’s gun collection, which had him asking questions. After that, stories about her dog and cat, about summer camps. Wanting to make him happy, wanting him to forget the frightened six-year-old at the psychiatrist, wanting him to smile and lose that strained look he’d had talking about his childhood.
Before long, the furrow between his brows disappeared and he seemed relaxed, almost content. He half lifted his head on the pillow, then sat up in the graceful flow of muscle that never ceased to electrify her senses, took her by the shoulders, dropped back down, and pulled her into the warmth of his body. “You’re helping me more than you know, Katherine.” There was no sharpness to his voice now, no edge, just a quiet softness. “You’ll have to send me a bill for therapy services,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
She inhaled the scent of him, the sweet musk and cedar, took pleasure in the warmth of his skin under her cheek, the taut, supple muscle beneath the bronzed flesh—a body disciplined by a hard, disciplined mind. And she felt like crying for the little boy who hadn’t swallowed all those pills, for the child victimized by the cruelty of adults who owed him love and failed him. Who hadn’t just failed him but mistreated him.
They slept for a time and when they woke, they indulged their senses in amorous play, then, prompted by a jet-lag lethargy, napped again. Eventually, Dominic coaxed Kate into the shower with promises of sex, then afterward, driven by hunger, he found them robes so they could go downstairs. Dominic, Kate at his side, peered into a commercial-size fridge, contemplating the provisions within. Four of the shelves held covered dishes, each labeled with instructions for heating or not.
Kate pointed at a Saran-wrapped salad that was marked: Do Not Microwave. “She’s not sure you know not to heat a salad?”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “I did once and Patty’s never forgotten. That I was stoned out of my mind at the time apparently wasn’t excuse enough for her.” He pulled out a dish of enchiladas, one of Mongolian beef, and then the salad. “Take out that rice pudding, will you?” He pointed with the enchilada dish. “You have to taste the best pudding in the world.”
“There’s modest praise,” she teased.
“I kid you not, baby. It’s world class. Patty flew to New York and coaxed the recipe from a chef who’d refused my request. It’s an Afghani recipe with pistachios, cardamom, and some other stuff. Anyway, I’m eternally grateful to Patty. And for those less enthusiastic,” he said with a smile, nodding at a ceramic cookie jar in the shape of Darth Vader, “cookies?” His smile widened. “Silly question. I ordered chocolate milk too. Unless you want a beer or a drink.”
After heating up the dishes in the microwave, they carried their smorgasbord upstairs and spread it out on the bed, along with beer for Dominic and chocolate milk for Kate. Then they fed each other Patty’s best efforts like lovers do.
It was a day of pleasure, of small bewitchments, and of off-the-charts rapture. But Dominic kept an eye on the clock and the time finally arrived when he gave Kate a kiss, climbed out of bed, and said over his shoulder as he walked away, “We have to get dressed for Melanie’s party. I had some clothes delivered for you. So don’t sulk, okay?”
Kate gave him a dirty look anyway—or tried to at least. She mostly just stared at him, because he was standing splendidly nude across the room at the entrance to his walk-in closet and looking incredibly yummy. Damn, if she was going to make a reasonable case for her independence, she really had to ignore all that stunning maleness.
“You never quit, do you,” she said. Then sighed. “Am I some toy for you to dress? Or are you ashamed to be seen with me in my ordinary clothes?”
He swung around to face her in a torque of sleek, tensile muscle and restive impatience. “Neither. Come on, baby” he grumbled. “Didn’t anyone ever give you presents? Maybe we should see some crazy therapist so he can tell you to knock it off.”
“Or she could tell you to knock it off. Cuz I’m right,” she said, keeping her voice light.
His eyes suddenly creased with amusement.
“What?”
“Therapists don’t use words like right and wrong. They prefer gray, equivocal words. Repeat-what-you-just-heard-me-say compromises that aren’t really compromises but a form of apathy. Obviously, you’ve never been to one.”
“No. Although I’d like someone to tell you that you can’t order people around twenty-four/seven.”
“You may have noticed I’m having a little trouble with you,” he said drily.
She slid down lower on the pillows, made a motorboat sound with her lips, studied her painted toenails. “I’m probably overreacting to your gifts,” she said evenly, still looking at her toes. “So I give up. Happy now?”
