at that. “The day I have a wife waiting for me somewhere is the day they put me in a padded cell.” When she still didn’t seem satisfied by the answer—he couldn’t imagine why not—he told her bluntly, “I’m not married, Della.” Not sure why he bothered to add it, he said, “There’s no one waiting anywhere for me.” Then, after only a small hesitation, he added, “But there is someone who will be worried about you if you don’t come … home … today, isn’t there?” He deliberately paused before the word home, too, to let her know he’d noticed her own hesitation.
She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, then dropped the curtain and curled both hands around the white china coffee cup. She gazed into its depths instead of at Marcus when she spoke. “Home is something of a fluid concept for me at the moment.”
Fluid. Interesting word choice. “And by that you mean …?”
Still staring at her coffee, she said, “I can’t really explain it to you.” “Can’t or won’t?”
Now she did meet his gaze. But her expression was void of anything. No panic, no anger, nothing.
“Both.”
“Why?”
She only shook her head. She brought the cup to her mouth, blew softly on its surface and enjoyed a careful sip. Then she strode to the breakfast cart to inspect its choices. But he couldn’t help noting how she looked at the clock as she went, or how her eyes went wide in surprise when she saw the time. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. On a Sunday, no less. It seemed too early for anyone to have missed her if she had been able to surrender an entire night.
“You really did order a little of everything,” she said as she began lifting lids. “Pastries, bacon, sausage, eggs, fruit …”
He thought about saying something about how they both needed to regain their strength after last night, but for some reason, it felt crass to make a comment like that. Another strange turn of events, since Marcus had never worried about being crass before. Besides, what else was there for the two of them to talk about after the kind of night they’d had? Their response to each other had been sexual from the get-go. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words between the time they left the club and awoke this morning—save the earthy, arousing ones they’d uttered about what they wanted done and were going to do to each other. Ninety percent of their time together had been spent copulating. Nine percent had been spent flirting and making known the fact that they wanted to copulate. What were they supposed to say to each other that didn’t involve sex? Other than, how do you take your coffee or what did you think of La Bohème? And they’d already covered both.
She plucked a sticky pastry from the pile and set it on one of the empty plates. Then, after a small pause, she added another. Then a third. Then she added some strawberries and a couple of slices of cantaloupe. Guess she, too, thought they needed to rebuild their strength after the night they’d had. But, like him, she didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Sweet tooth, huh?” he asked as she licked a bit of frosting from the pad of her thumb.
“Just a little,” she agreed. Balancing both the plate and cup, she moved to the bed and set them on the nightstand beside it. Then she climbed into bed.
Well, that was certainly promising.
Marcus filled the other plate with eggs, bacon and a bagel, then retrieved his coffee and joined her, placing his breakfast on the opposite nightstand. Where she had seated herself with her legs crossed pretzel-fashion facing him, he leaned against the headboard with his legs extended before him. Noting the way her robe gaped open enough to reveal the upper swells of her breasts, it occurred to him that neither of them had a stitch of clothing to wear except for last night’s evening attire, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing a person wanted to wear during the day when a person was trying to make him- or herself comfortable.
Oh, well.
He watched her nibble a strawberry and wondered how he could find such an innocent action so arousing. Then he wondered why he was even asking himself that. Della could make changing a tire arousing.
“Well, since you won’t tell me why home is so fluid,” he said, “will you at least tell me where you’re making it at the moment?”
“No,” she replied immediately.
He thought about pressing her on the matter, then decided to try a different tack. “Then will you tell me what brings you to Chicago?”
“No,” she responded as quickly.
He tried again. “Will you tell me where you’re from originally?”
“No.”
“How long you’re going to be here?”
“No.”
“Where you’re going next?”
“No.”
“How old you are?” “Certainly not.”
“Do you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain?”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought she may have smiled at that. “Not particularly.”
“How about fuzzy gray kittens, volunteering for public television, long walks on the beach, cuddling by firelight and the novels of Philip Roth?”
At that, she only arrowed her eyebrows down in confusion.
“Oh, right. Sorry. That was Miss November. My bad.”
Her expression cleared, but she said nothing.
“What’s your sign?” Marcus tried again.
That, finally, did make her smile. It wasn’t a big smile, but it wasn’t bad. It was something they could work on.
“Sagittarius,” she told him.
Now that said a lot about her, Marcus thought. Or, at least, it would. If he knew a damned thing about astrology. Still, it was something. Sagittariuses were born in June, weren’t they? Or was it October? March?
All right, all right. So he knew as much about her now as he had when he started his interrogation. Which was nothing. Hell, he didn’t even know if she was telling the truth about being a Sagittarius or not liking pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.
Immediately, however, he knew she was telling the truth about those things. He had no idea why, but he was confident Della wasn’t a liar. She was just a woman who wouldn’t reveal anything meaningful about herself and who was sneaking around on a lover. Had she been a liar, she would have had a phony answer for every question he asked, and she would have painted herself as someone she wasn’t. Instead, he was left with a blank slate of a woman who could be anyone.
But that, too, wasn’t right, he thought. There were a lot of things he knew about Della. He knew she loved an esoteric art form that most people her age had never even tried to expose themselves to. He knew she cried at all the sad parts of an opera, and that she was awed by the intricacies of the music. He’d seen all those reactions on her face when he’d watched her last night instead of La Bohème. He knew she liked champagne. He knew she was enchanted by a snowfall. He knew she laughed
