before she began to purr and scrape her cheeks against it.
“Yes,” Madeline replied, setting a cup of coffee and a slice of pie in front of him at the table. “Her name’s really Sultana, but I call her Cabbage.”
He scratched the cat’s ears. “Do you show her?”
She shook her head. “Those lovely crossed eyes would disqualify her in any real competition, she’s little more than breeding stock. But I liked her because she wasn’t perfect.”
He took a bite of pie and nodded. “It tastes better than it felt,” he said with a glance in her direction.
She grinned self-consciously. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, you didn’t do my ears much good.”
“I never pretended to be a saint.”
“God knows, you’d never be accused of it.”
He finished the pie and leaned back, satisfied, to sip his coffee, taking it black, as she had half expected. He set the mug on the table and pulled a cigarette from the package in his pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked formally.
She shook her head.
“Want one?”
“I don’t smoke.” She got up to get him an ashtray from the counter and set it in front of him.
“No lecture?” he asked with deliberate mockery.
“I live my life as I please,” she told him. “I think other people have the right to do the same.”
He lit the cigarette and threw his arm over the back of the chair, watching her through a cloud of smoke. He seemed to fill the room, not only with his size, but with the raw force of his personality. His dark, masculine vitality clung like the cologne he wore.
“I think it’s time you and I did some straight talking,” he said finally. His eyes narrowed, glittering across at her. “How would you feel about having an affair with me?”
She could feel the blood draining out of her face, the astonishment making her eyes widen and darken with shock. Had she heard him right?
He chuckled softly. “Never mind, words couldn’t say it any better than the look on your face. All right, Burgundy, I get the message. As you said before, I’m years too old for you.”
She caught her breath, taking a sip of the hot coffee as she searched for something to say. “You say the most outrageous things,” she said breathlessly.
“The best defense is a good offense, didn’t you know that?” He sobered, setting the mug down and leaning forward. His forearms crossed on the table as his eyes met hers. “You need someone, little girl. You have a haunted look about you when you think no one’s watching. You’re years too young for that kind of ache, that kind of loneliness. All I can offer you is friendship, but I think it might help us both. In a real sense, I’m as alone as you are, Burgundy.”
She met his gaze levelly. “Are you?”
He studied her in silence for a long time. “I’ve had women, Burgundy. I think you knew that already. And I’ll still have them. I’m a man, with all a man’s needs, I can’t live like a monk.”
She felt the flush returning. Even with Phillip, there hadn’t been this kind of adult conversation, this frankness . . . even their kisses had been gentle, undemanding
“That’s none of my business,” she managed in what she hoped was a calm voice.
“No, it isn’t. No more than your sex life is any business of mine . . . if you even have one.” He took a deep breath. “The only way a relationship between us is going to work is if we keep it on a non-physical level. Men and women aren’t usually friends,” he added, stressing the last word just enough to make his meaning clear.
“I know that.” She studied her hands on her lap. “You didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’ve never had a lover, and I don’t want one. But I do, very badly, need a friend. Some one to . . . hold onto, who won’t make demands I can’t meet. Someone just to talk to and do things with….”
“My God, maybe I ought to just adopt you!”
She jerked her eyes up to his, puzzled at the anger there. “But you just said. . . .”
“Never mind. Never mind, I said,” he growled as she opened her mouth. He gulped down his coffee. “Thanks for the pie. I’ve got a few phone calls to make.”
She bent her head, staring down into the black, glimmering liquid in her coffee cup, stung almost to tears by the whip in his voice, the anger that she couldn’t understand. She couldn’t answer him, not without having him hear the tears in her voice.
“Burgundy?” he asked gruffly.
She shook her head, trying to convey in that non-verbal message that there was nothing wrong.
She heard his footsteps move closer, until he was standing beside her, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets.
He sighed deeply, and one big hand came out of the pocket to tip her face up, very gently, to his view.
“I’m forty years old,” he said tightly.
She forced a tremulous smile to her lips. “I won’t kick your crutches out from under you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she whispered.
His eyes closed, and an involuntary deep chuckle shook his chest. “Oh, my God, what am I letting myself in for? Eat your pie, you impudent little upstart. I’ll see you later.”
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