but she managed to whisper, “Oh, yes. It is a very good morning. I could wake up that way every morning.”
The words should have had panic racing through Marcus. The last thing he wanted to hear was a woman including him in her everyday life. Instead, he found himself warming to the idea of waking her that way each day. Doubtless because any man who started his day knowing he’d brought a woman to climax took with him a sense of power and well-being. Not to mention smugness. It made a man feel as if he could do just about anything.
It had nothing to do with simply enjoying an intimate moment with an exceptional woman.
“There’s coffee,” he said. “And breakfast. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ordered some of everything.”
“Coffee,” she said, still a little breathless. “Black,” she added as he was about to ask how she took it—almost as if she were reading his mind.
That, too, should have made him bristle. He didn’t want women understanding the workings of his brain. Mostly because few of them would approve of his thoughts, since they generally consisted of: A) women other than the one he was with, B) work, C) women other than the one he was with, D) how well the Cubs, Bears or Blackhawks were performing, depending on the season or E) women other than the one he was with.
But he kind of liked the connection with Della and, strangely, didn’t want to think of anyone or anything other than her. So he only said, “Coming right up.”
By the time he finished pouring two cups and removing the lids from the cold dishes the steward had brought up, Della was out of bed and wrapped in a robe identical to his own—except that hers swallowed her—and was standing at the window the same way he had been earlier. The snow was still coming down as opaquely as it had been then, and he thought he saw her shake her head.
“It’s like a blizzard out there,” she murmured incredulously.
“No, it is a blizzard out there,” Marcus corrected as he came to a halt beside her and extended a cup of coffee, black like his own, toward her.
She took it automatically with one hand, still holding open the curtain with the other. “How are we going to get … home?”
He noted her hesitation on the last word, as if home for her were a somewhat tentative state. Another clue that she really was only visiting here. Nevertheless, she’d assured Marcus that no one would miss her—at least not until today. Both thoughts bothered him a lot more than they should. For one thing, it shouldn’t matter if Della was tied to another man, since Marcus didn’t want to stake a claim on her anyway. For another thing, they’d both only wanted and promised one night, that should have been more than enough to satisfy their desire to enjoy each other for a little while. The fact that she was only in Chicago temporarily or might be involved with someone else should be of no consequence. In fact, it should reassure him that there would indeed be no strings attached.
For some reason, though, Marcus didn’t like the idea of her being only a visitor to Chicago. He liked even less that she might be involved with someone else.
Too much thinking, he told himself, and way too early in the day for it. It was the weekend. He was snowbound with a gorgeous, incredibly sexy woman. Why was he thinking at all?
“No one is going anywhere today,” he said before sipping his coffee. “Not even the snowplows will be able to get out until this lets up.”
Della turned to look at him, and that strange, panicked look he’d seen for a few moments last night was back in her eyes. “But I can’t stay here all day,” she told him, the panic present in her voice now, too. “I have to get … home.”
Again the hesitation before the final word, he noted. Again, he didn’t like it.
“Is there someplace you absolutely have to be today?” When she didn’t reply right away, only arrowed her eyebrows in even more concern, he amended, “Or should I ask, is there someone who’s expecting you to be someplace today?”
She dropped her gaze at that. Pretty much the only reaction he needed. So there was indeed someone else in her life. Someone she’d have to answer to for any kind of prolonged absence.
“Is it a husband?” he asked, amazed at how casual the question sounded, when he was suddenly feeling anything but.
Her gaze snapped up to his, flashing with anger. Good. Anger was better than panic. Anger stemmed from passion, not fear. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I had a husband waiting for me.”
Marcus had no idea why he liked that answer so much.
“What about you?” she countered. “Is there a wife somewhere waiting for you? Or has she come to expect this kind of behavior from you? ”
He chuckled 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.