“It smells good,” she says from behind me. She moves to a cabinet and pulls out a couple of glasses. “Want some wine?”
Her movements are hesitant and awkward, as if she isn’t sure how to handle someone being here with her. For some reason, that makes me feel good. I like the thought that she hasn’t shared this place with everyone. So will Jamison and the others.
I pour the dressing into a bottle and set it aside. “I didn’t pick up any wine.”
For the first time since she walked in the door, her eyes twinkle. “Good thing I’ve got a cellar.”
She quickly pivots on her heel and walks over to the door leading to the basement. Curious, I follow. I’ve been in the basement a couple of times and never saw a cellar. Once we reach the bottom step, she flips on the light and walks over to a built-in bookshelf full of dusty books along the back wall.
With a laugh, she taps on a book, and I peer closer. “The Winemaker’s Delight?” She nods and pulls the book out of its slot. Reaching in, she twists a handle in the back and pulls the entire bookshelf away from the wall. “Voilà!”
The cellar is full of bottles, rack after rack of them. “Sometimes it’s nice to be alive for thousands of years. Pick whatever you like.” She grabs a couple of bottles from a shelf on the right.
Intrigued, I head toward the dustiest bottles. Brushing off the dirt, I whistle when I see a 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild. She comes up beside me and peers over my shoulder, bringing the sweet scent of jasmine and vanilla with her. I can’t help but breathe in deeply. My body stirs as she invades my senses.
“Mathias will love this,” I tell her, my voice husky with need.
She looks up at me but only to ask, “Is that the one you want?” She reaches around me for the bottle, her body brushing against mine, and I quickly grab her hand.
“No,” I say, internally wincing at the abruptness of my tone. I swallow and shake my head. “Let’s save that one for when we vanquish our enemies.” Scanning the bottles of Bourdeaux, I land on a nice, but less prestigious, bottle. “I’ll take this one.”
“Deal,” she replies, her voice lighter than it was earlier. “I like your confidence.”
She sashays out the door, bottles in both hands, and motions to the door with her chin. “Just push the shelf back into place and replace the book. It will automatically lock.”
Once it’s closed, we make our way back upstairs. “Thanks.” When she turns and looks at me with a question in her eyes, I continue. “For showing me your cellar. I know it’s not easy letting someone in your space. It wasn’t for me. When you were looking around my loft.”
My voice is tight, and the words stilted. An uncomfortable thought occurs. Clearly, I suck at sharing my feelings too. Even with Jamison and the others, I keep a lot to myself.Damn it.If I want her to be more open, I’m going to have to do the same which isn’t going to be easy for either of us. Almost like two porcupines trying to dance.
Her smile widens, and suddenly, I feel like sharing more.
“If you like my cellar, you’re going to love my library. I seem to remember a lot of books in your room.” She sets the bottles on the counter and grabs a towel to wipe the dust off her shirt. “Let’s open your Bourdeaux tonight. If dinner is almost ready, I’ll set the table?”
Bright blue eyes meet mine, and the tiny sparkle in them tempts me to step closer.
Instead, I motion to the stove. “That sounds good. How do you like your steak?”
“Medium rare,” she answers, walking over to the cabinet to grab dishes.
As she reaches up, her shirt slides up, revealing the tiniest bit of tanned skin. My eyes linger on the way her waist curves before sliding over the rest of her. I quickly swivel toward the stove, hiding my response, and concentrate on dinner.
“Five minutes,” I say gruffly, annoyed at myself.
War is coming, and I need a clear head, not a woman full of complications. It would be so easy to get tangled in her. Before I start the steaks, I pour myself a glass of wine and take a large drink, trying to douse the flame that’s flared to life within me.
Seated in front of her five minutes later, I realize it didn’t do much good. Her natural olive skin glows in the soft chandelier light, tempting me to reach out and skim a finger down her face and neck.
She groans, and my hand tightens on the stem of my glass. “This is so good. I’ve been living off granola bars for the last few weeks.”
My desire turns to irritation, and I glare at her. “There is plenty of food in Greece and Italy. Why didn’t you take better care of yourself?”
She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “Too busy.” She pauses for a long second. “Damn. I really do avoid the truth.” She takes adeep breath and raises her head to look me in the eye. “Despite what you may think, I was hurting too. I tried to protect myself, but it didn’t work. My heart was broken. For the last three weeks, all I thought about was the four of you. I had no appetite.” She falls silent and returns to her plate.
The thought of her not eating because of me is a punch to the gut. I lean forward and lay my hand on hers. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Eat. We have a new quest to take on. Together.”
She studies me for a second before her lips curve in a smile. “Together.”
5
