up on some reading for business projects. Come in.” He grabbed his T-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it on. “Have a seat on the sofa. Uh, unless you prefer under the coffee table?”
She gaped at him, then shook her head and nodded a grinning acknowledgment to the dig.
Ry took in her gorgeous pale skin, which was exposed from shoulder to neck to cleavage, and then her pretty knees and down to those very sexy sandals that wrapped thin leather straps up to her knees. Up along the soft blue dress. Her breasts rose from the low-cut top in a sensual yet not-too-blatant invitation. And he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, pursed and the palest pink. And were those lashes for real? So thick and black and...
She paused and looked over the coffee table. Offering him a smirking grin, she sat on the sofa. “I can’t believe I slept under your table.”
“Me, either. Couldn’t have been too comfy. You look like you’re feeling one hundred percent better,” he said as he wandered into the kitchen to peek into the oven. Another ten minutes and the cheese would be melted. “How are you feeling?”
She turned and looked over the back of the sofa. “Good. Not quite a hundred percent. Still a bit tired. I guess I went on a crazy bender. Slept on my floor when I got home, too. Apparently, when drunk, I’m a floor sleeper.”
“Does that happen often?”
“The drunk?” Her laugh was soft but she waved off the levity with a gesture. “Not usually. But champagne goes straight to my head. I shouldn’t have had that fifth goblet.”
Ry whistled and wandered over to sit on the arm of the couch. “Believe it or not, wine is my bête noire. I can’t handle the vino.”
“Really? A big guy like you? It must take quite a few bottles to get you wasted.”
“Try one glass. I’m not sure what it is, but it lays me flat. And I can drink vodka and whiskey like it’s juice. Weird.”
He didn’t normally reveal himself so boldly like that, but he’d sensed her need for reassurance. The woman had lain under his coffee table all night.
“You must have thought I was a case,” she said. “And when I got a look at what I looked like when I got home? I can’t believe you didn’t think I was a homeless person.”
“Wearing a designer gown and diamonds? The homeless are never so stylish.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I guess. But they weren’t diamonds. I never go for the splash when rhinestones will do.” She leaned an elbow on the back of the sofa and pulled up a knee, catching it with a palm. “I needed to come see you because I don’t think I ever thanked you. You were so kind to make sure I didn’t lie abandoned in some dark alleyway. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if you’d walked away. So, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m not much for leaving a helpless woman in a dangerous situation. I hope you weren’t too freaked to wake here in the morning.”
“I was, but that’s to be expected. And speaking of dangerous situations, I do have questions.”
This was the part Ry should have foreseen, but still it had snuck up on him. Questions. Always questions. And they were never easy to answer. “Like what?”
The oven timer went off and, thankful for a moment of respite, he rushed over to pull out the nachos. He’d made a whole pan of chips with jalapeños, tomatoes, onions, shredded chicken, black beans and heaps of cheese. His favorite comfort food. A guy could never find good nachos in Paris.
“You have to share these with me,” he called over his shoulder, and was surprised when she answered from close by.
Indigo leaned over the pan of steaming nachos and inhaled. “That smells heavenly. Last time I had something like this was when I visited a girlfriend in the States. You can’t find good nachos in Paris.”
“Exactly. I use pickled jalapeños on them. That’s the secret recipe.”
She rubbed her palms together. “Dish me up!”
Could he get so lucky that she’d forget she’d come here with questions? With hope, maybe she would.
It had been a while since Ry enjoyed the company of a woman so much. And since he’d felt so comfortable with one. Usually his dates were high-maintenance, slipping into the bathroom every half hour to check their makeup, texting or doing God knew what on their ever-present cell phones. He had yet to see Indigo glance at her phone.
They both sat on the sofa, facing the slanted windows that lined the east side of his flat from the floor, where they rose vertically about six feet up the wall, then angled at forty-five degrees to the top of the high ceiling.
Indi’s hand rested on her stomach and she’d slouched down and declared, “You’ve ruined me for any other kind of nachos. I am your servant for life. Pay me with melty cheese and those fabulous pickled jalapeños.”
“I have never seen such a pretty, petite woman put down the cheese and chips with such gusto. I promise to call you next time I have a nacho craving.”
She met his fist with her own. And Ry tilted his head against the back of the sofa and slouched down as well. He’d had a couple of beers in the fridge, and the now empty bottles sat on the coffee table. An evening sharing brews and junk food with a pretty woman? This was a hell of a lot easier than doing the fancy-restaurant thing and then trying to figure out if he should suggest a museum or a boring concert. And how to read a woman regarding whether she was on board for sex or if she was the sort who had a three-date minimum or even longer.
But he reminded himself this wasn’t a date. The woman had been dumped by her boyfriend. And Ry did not do the rebound-guy thing. No way. He didn’t need that kind of baggage to sort through.
He wasn’t sure what was going on besides that he was warming to Indi fast and hoped they could get to know each other better. As more than friends, if that appealed to her. It did to him. When she decided to start dating again, he wanted to be tops on her list of potential dates.
Indi suddenly sat upright, turned to face him and asked, “Now about what I really came here for.”
Ah, hell. The fun couldn’t have lasted forever. Ry sat up and set the empty plate on the table, then prepared to face the tough questions.
“This is going to sound strange,” she began, “but...why do I feel as if I was drugged the other night?”
Because she had been. “You did say champagne goes straight to your head.”
“True, but I’ve been on a champagne bender once before. This was different. The aftereffects have been exhausting. I’ve slept like Sleeping Beauty minus the beauty part. I didn’t even get up until three today. It’s like I’m fighting to come back from an illness, or something. And I still don’t feel right. Tired and achy. Usually after a bender I puke, pass out, then wake with a headache. But a few hours later, I’m good to go. You didn’t... I mean, I don’t think you would. You seem like a nice man. But... I have to ask.”
He
