She nodded, flushing hard at what she was divulging. “I watched you over here, doing everything on your own. You had workers when you pruned and picked the grapes, but…you were mostly alone, and you were strong and bent on getting things done. I admired that.”
Another sip, a smile, as she thought about the truth. He’d been driven and strong and able. For over two years, she’d watched him and wanted to see him close up, fantasized about the possibilities.
Reality, of course, had taught her not to dwell, but… Well, those dreams had gotten her through the hardest of times. And it had gotten her here, which wasn’t all that bad, actually. Not bad at all.
He seemed shy as they got up, and he sent her to sit in front of the fire while he did the dishes. The lights flickered, and Abby shivered.
After a bit, he joined her, wine bottle and two glasses in hand. “Want to help me kill this?”
“I’m sorry?”
He looked away, boyish and cute again. “It doesn’t work, does it? When I try the very American expressions? It means would you like to help me finish the wine?”
“Oh.”
She mulled over the question. The wine felt good—it had loosened her joints, softened her muscles, dulled the pain to a throb. But it also made her say things she normally wouldn’t say, and that might not be wise, given…everything.
But I want to say those things. I want to drink and kiss, ask questions and live.
“Yes. I’d like that,” she finally said, knowing she was agreeing to more than the drink.
18
Abby took her glass, her hand brushing Luc’s in the process. It sent a zing of awareness down her arm, reminding her of how little she knew about life out here, about men and women and reality.
About seduction.
Was this man a seducer? No. No, he was too gruff, too straightforward, all matter-of-fact with no frills. She quelled a tremor with a warming sip from her glass, but deep inside, something raw and uncontrollable reared its head, trying hard to burst free.
Another sip, and Abby rolled her head on her neck. She sucked in a long, shaky breath to relieve the nerves that bubbled up, reveling in the feel of this shirt she had on—big and soft, like the pants, and brazenly open at the back. She’d wear men’s clothes all the time, she decided. No starch, lace, or modest undergarments. No struggling with too many buttons and ties.
“How do you feel?” Luc asked, shifting the sofa cushions as he sat down beside her, close enough to feel his warmth. It took Abby a moment to understand he meant her burns and not the cotton rubbing her breasts into achy points.
She blushed and coughed, but her nipples didn’t go down.
“Much better, thank you.” She lifted the glass and sipped again, glancing sideways at his profile. “This seems to be helping.”
He smiled—oh, goodness, he was lovely—and she squeezed her legs together, hard.
“It’s been known to do the trick.” He turned the glass to the single lamp in the room and eyed its burgundy glow.
“Would this be different if I were a normal woman?”
He stilled, looking slightly suspicious, before lifting the glass higher and asking, “This?”
She pointed toward him with her wine. “Sitting with me. Having a drink.”
After another brief silence, he set down his glass and shifted beside her, suddenly seeming too big for the sofa. “I’m not exactly anormalsort of man.”
“I figured as much,” she said with a smile of her own. “But what if…what if we’d met in town? At the market, maybe. What would it be like?” She took another swallow of wine, and it lit her right up. Or maybe that was his interested gaze.
“Strange.”
She sputtered, nearly losing half her sip in the process. “Well, thank you very much.”
“No, not you. I mean me. I’m not good at being natural.”
“Okay. When you meet someone usually, what’s it like? You go out to dinner? To see a movie?”
