“Whaaat?” Two o’clock in the afternoon? She glanced at the pool. “Do you have a regular shower? With a door?”
“The pool has a handheld nozzle.” He unbuttoned a shirt cuff, grinning in a way that implied plans to use the shower nozzle for purposes not listed in the manufacturer’s instructions. “You can use it while I cook.”
She couldn’t look away from his forearms. He took his time rolling his sleeves, folding one cuff over itself twice before starting the other. She wanted to lay her arm next to his and stare at them, comparing the textures and shapes, the way his veins and bulges declared he was a man and her wrists could belong to no one but a woman. If she wanted to keep any backbone whatsoever, she would study the bed drapes or the walls instead of him, but he had the chiseled lines of a Michelangelo. She hoped she wasn’t panting.
“If you hurry, I won’t have time to peek.” He pointed at the pool.
“You’ve admitted to being a habitual liar.” She was no longer nervous, or not about the same things. These flutters stirred lower than her stomach and carried a deeper rhythm.
The moment he turned his back, she slipped from the covers. Sharing a shower unit with sixteen women had taught her speed, and she was toweling dry before he finished cracking eggs. The sundress and white sweater mimicked the Audrey Hepburn look her mother had chosen, which had proven its impracticality yesterday. If he thought she’d actually wear the black dress with the Versace label, last night in the pool must have been as boiling hot for him as it had been for her, because he’d purchased a complete man-fantasy outfit. Unfortunately she didn’t know how to sit, walk or bend in a dress that stopped that close to her belly button. When she considered the third outfit, a pink polo and cropped pants, what he’d done clicked.
He’d purchased three costumes for her: a lady, a hot babe and a slightly fashionable nerd. Which way did he see her? Or as a bit of all three?
Then the realization that none of the outfits included underwear made her snort.
“On the table by the bed,” he said without turning around.
“You should cook.” She glared at his back. “Not eaves-look.”
“Your huff was easy to interpret.”
The table held a glossy black box tied with silver ribbon embossed with the name La Bellezza. She’d passed the flagship store on Via Condotti but hadn’t needed to check prices to recognize a shop out of her league. Beneath tissue paper nestled two sets of lingerie, one fuchsia and the other black. Lace cups connected with a tiny bow and matching lace evoked orchids twining across the sides of the boy shorts. Only a tiny panel between the legs had any substance.
As she stared into the box, the desire to try on something so beautiful fought with the knowledge that she couldn’t accept hundreds of dollars of lingerie from him.
“I pictured your skin under the lace.” His silent appearance behind her made her jump. He pulled her into his embrace until his body cupped hers like a ball-and-socket joint.
If she shifted an inch, the ridge in his pants rubbed through her thin robe. Some traitorous part of her wanted to push and polish in the crudest way her Jersey-girl imagination could supply. Her skin had already warmed as heat crept up her body to her throat and cheeks. Now his scent, something manly and clean like trees after a rain, beckoned.
Move away, her brain cautioned her rebellious body, don’t repeat last night’s screwup.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you were asleep, with your hair spread across my pillow?” He lifted the strands trapped between their bodies.
Her brain gave up, shut down, rolled over and begged as her Viking locked her in his arms. They’d make love on the bed and in the pool and in the chair and he’d never let her go.
Never let her go.
“Stop!” She twisted her head and brought her arms up to break his hold. Sidestepping his embrace, she retreated until the backs of her thighs bumped the mattress.
“Finished with me after one night?” His white teeth flashed as he advanced.
Given that her body wouldn’t listen to her rules, she had to cross her arms to hide the obvious points of her nipples under the silky robe. She couldn’t force herself to say words to send him away, but they needed to discuss precautions before they collapsed onto that giant bed. Ruining her career was one thing—and she had no clue how to salvage this situation when they returned to Camp Caddie—but ruining her life was not debatable.
“Right.” His smile fell away and he stepped back. “Maybe you are.” He gestured at the table and chairs with one hand, a wave that dismissed his breakfast efforts as unimportant. “I came to tell you brunch is served. Ma’am.” Her title sounded flat and hard.
“Don’t...” Before she could complete her thought, he turned away and left her to dress. The lacy underwear barely concealed the parts worth covering, and now she couldn’t enjoy them. Wearing the pink polo and khakis, which magically reshaped her butt more effectively than twelve months of power lunges, she crossed the room to where he’d assembled pastries, fresh coffee, individual pitchers of steaming milk and poached eggs.
He waited for her to sit before taking a chair, his manners as agonizingly perfect as everything else about him.
She hadn’t thanked him for the clothes, which left her feeling like a jerk as she picked up her fork and knife. Setting them down next to her untouched food, she tackled her explanation.
“I’m sorry about—” she waved her hand in the direction of the bed, “—that. I wanted to, but I was...uncomfortable.”
“Why’d you push me away?” He crunched his toast without looking at her.
This was the moment to discuss responsibility. “Last night we didn’t use birth control.”
Still avoiding eye contact, he reached for his coffee.
“I’m not—” She’d advised nineteen-year-old privates to have frank discussions about sex and Plan B, but couldn’t spit the words out when it was her turn.
“Don’t worry.” He stared into the cup. “There won’t—can’t—be consequences.”
The hollow tone of his voice warned her she was about to push on a bruise, but she had a right to ask after the previous night. “What do you mean?”
“Fifteen hundred years. I wasn’t a monk, but I never fathered a child. Neither has my brother.” One corner of his mouth twisted, but it wasn’t a smile. No lines appeared around his eyes. “Ivar certainly tried during an Ottoman Vizier phase. He grew a bit obsessed.”
Her hands felt frozen to her cup. Should she reach across the table to him?
“Modern science eventually let us look. It’s extraordinary.” He took a deep breath and blinked rapidly but never raised his gaze from his empty coffee. “Little guys have too many tails. Some have five or six.” His words bumped into each other. “They don’t swim well, not well at all, mostly circles. They get all tangled up. So you don’t—” he swallowed, “—you don’t need to worry.”
In the silence, she knew her face must reflect her shock.
Wulf shoved to his feet. “Would you like more coffee? I’m—I’m getting some.” He left before she could answer.
Nobody could be as alone as the man hunched over the sink. No wonder he sometimes had that devastated look in his eyes. Deavers and Kahananui and the rest of his team had families to send emails and packages and pictures. They had two lives, the army and home, but Wulf had only one. What was it like for him, back at Fort Campbell, when the other men went home? Where did he go?
He returned with fresh coffee.
I’m sorry felt completely inadequate, so she kept her mouth closed and tried to think of something else. Hey, now that you’ve resolved my pregnancy fears, let’s—Uh, no. What shall we do today— After yesterday, she wasn’t sure she wanted that answer.