Wings of Fire
And there it was, the truth about existence as she saw it, that yes life was difficult but there were always pleasures, many pleasures to balance the hardships.
The smell of sautéing vegetables and meat, especially since it didn’t smell of Burmese ginger and turmeric, was one of those pleasures.
She brushed the tangles out of her wet hair then fluffed it a little with her fingers. She put lip gloss on then peered at herself in the mirror. With everything she’d been through in the past forty-eight hours, she was certain she’d look hollow-eyed, her nose swollen from crying, her eyes red. But that was so not the case.
She sucked in a breath.
She had ascension skin and health. She actually looked good. Well, damn.
She heard a rap on the bedroom door. She hugged the towel around her body then laughed at herself. Antony had seen her naked … more than once. Still, she felt embarrassed. “Yes?”
“The pasta is almost ready,” he said. “Shall I put it in the warmer?”
“I’ll be there in two minutes. Promise.”
“Good. Okay. See you in two.”
She hurried into a black lace thong, a pair of jeans, a black lace bra, and a loose purple T-shirt. Well, it was loose everywhere except across her chest.
She left the odd sense of security she’d had during this time in the guest room, and raced for the kitchen. The aroma made her mouth water. But when she did the little zigzag through the dining room to the doorway of the kitchen, what stopped her wasn’t the candlelight on the island, or the sparkling glasses of dark red wine, or the sight of steaming pasta being gently coaxed into a white bowl from an oversized sauté pan. All that was amazing, but what brought her to a full halt was Antony standing shirtless, his chest beautifully on display, his button-down jeans loose below his belly button, and his hair hanging damp almost to his navel.
Oh. Dear. God.
She could almost forget entirely about her empty, growling stomach at the sight of so much exotic masculine beauty. He looked up at her with the sauté pan still at an angle and the last bit of pasta tumbling onto the plate and he smiled, that smile of his loaded with teeth and confidence. His eyes glittered in the candlelight.
“See something you like?”
Yes. God. Yes.
***
Medichi nearly dropped the sauté pan at the wave of tangerine that suddenly hit him. He did take a step back to steady himself. Yeah, his woman liked what she saw.
He settled the pan and large spoon in the oversized sink, picked up both bowls of pasta, and moved around the island. She came forward at the same time and took the seat on the right.
She didn’t meet his gaze but leaned over her plate. Holding her damp hair back, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Heaven,” she whispered.
He looked at her, at the delicate fingers on her hair, at the profile that seemed carved from ivory, at that which had become most precious in these few short months. His heart swelled when it shouldn’t have.
She was here.
She was safe.
She was right. This was heaven.
Spearing a slice of sausage, she sank in her teeth and moaned.
Okay, that reminded him of a different kind of meal. He faced forward, grabbed his own fork and spoon, and began spearing and twirling. The moment he did, his hunger roared at him. One thing battling required was a solid, heavy intake of calories.
He avoided speaking to her because he knew what would happen. He’d get lost in her voice, or the color of her eyes, or her scent, and he’d start nuzzling her neck. Besides, the way she had launched into her pasta told him she was just as starved.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being rude. I’m slaughtering this meal and not saying one word to you.”
He glanced at her, smiled, then gestured with his fork to her bowl. “Eat. We both need it.”
She nodded, smiled in return, and reapplied her efforts. When the contents of her bowl were about half demolished, she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about how to locate the women.”
He put his hand on her arm and said, “You don’t have to do this right now. We just got back from a tough situation. You can take a break, breathe. It’s important.”
She huffed a sigh and twirled her pasta slowly around her spoon. “How about just a couple of points and then I’ll let it drop, okay?”
“Okay, but just a couple.”
“Good. Okay.” She nodded. “First, have you already contacted Carla?”
“Yes, before I started cooking. She’s opened up the grid in France even though Rith could have taken the slaves anywhere. But she had to start somewhere.”
“Good. That’s point one. The grid is already in place and searching. I was concerned about that.” She shifted slightly and met his gaze. “You know how the earth rotates on its axis?”
He laughed. “Yep, twenty-four hours a day.”
“Yeah. If I voyeur Fiona and can find a window near her, we can help pinpoint her location by a sunrise or sunset. Yes?”
He stared at her. “You realize, Parisa, that you’ve just cut the hunt time down by anywhere from one hour to twelve.”
Parisa smiled. “That’s what I thought. I think we have work to do.”
“What about the headaches?”
“Guess I’m going to have to suck it up, but I also thought if I can just swing in, take a snapshot, and get out, maybe the headaches won’t be so bad. In fact, I want to give it a try right now.”
“Why don’t you wait until you’re done eating?”
But she’d already set her fork down. She’d already opened the window.
She blinked. “Well, that was easy. And no headache.”
“Good. What did you see?”
“She’s asleep on a cot in a long room with several other cots. There was a bank of windows, and it’s full light outside.”
“No window coverings?”
“None. Just a lot of deep blue sky.” She smiled. “I could open my window every half hour and check the sky. That would be a good start, right?”
Medichi whipped his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and thumbed.
“Carla here, how can I serve?”
“We’ve had a little brainstorm.” He explained their new plan.
“Wow. I should have thought of that. Tell Parisa we just cut the search area by a lot.”
Medichi laughed. “I will.”
He thumbed his phone and relayed Carla’s part of the conversation. Once more, he gestured with his fork to Parisa’s bowl. “Now eat. And no more discussion.”
She grinned at him over a lump of sausage. When she’d taken another sip of wine, she said, “You’re a wonderful cook and this is just heaven. Fresh basil?”
He nodded. “I grow it in the herb garden.” He gestured to the west wall. “I have a garden back there.”
She held her wineglass by the stem and swirled. “You’re a renaissance man.”
He shrugged. “I like to cook. We had good food on our farm in Italy all those years ago. We had a vineyard and an olive grove as well, like I do here. I’m thinking about having a wood-fire oven put in.”
She glanced around the space. “Where?”
He waved a hand to his left. “I’d like to take out this entire bank of cupboards and counter and start over. I want to push this wall out, add French doors that will open onto the garden. I made the mistake of planting the garden out there, where the only access is going through the foyer doors to the back terrace. It’s not that far but it’s not convenient either. Besides, I’d like to have a view of the White Tanks from this room.”
She nodded and sighed. “Sounds like a good plan.” Her shoulders looked a little slumped. Well, a good meal, red wine, and trauma would do that to a body.
He shifted his gaze away from her. She needed to get some rest, he could see that. He felt uneasy because he was torn down the middle. The breh-hedden wasn’t just a sexual entity but demanded that he think of his woman in all respects, one of them being that she needed her rest. But the other half of him was a long drive of need that he’d been keeping a lid on, oh, hell, from the last time she’d left his bed.
Dammit.
He pushed his empty bowl away and planted his elbows on the soapstone. “You probably could use some rest right now,” he suggested, still not looking at her. He cleared his throat. “If you want to sleep in the guest room, I really would understand.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything.
***
Parisa tried to interpret this suggestion, but her mind had switched from alertness to one big mud slide of lethargy. The meal, as wonderful as it was, had acted on her like a sedative.
She released a heavy sigh and put her wineglass back on the soapstone. “I can’t believe how tired I am.”
He glanced at her, his gaze open, speculative, wary.
She frowned a little. “Are you mad at me?”
His eyebrows shot up. “No. Never.”
She smiled at that. “Never? You’ll never be mad at me, ever?”
“Well, not right now.” He smiled as well.
“Do you want me to sleep in the guest room?”
“Honest?”
“Yeah. Honest.”
“Hell, no.”
At that she laughed. “Why did you suggest it then?”
He looked away almost like he was embarrassed. But by what?
She put her hand on his forearm—and the moment she touched him a soft buzzing sensation, a delicate vibration, ran through her hand. She stared at her hand and his skin, at the fine black hair. Her fingers drifted over his arm, savoring the muscle beneath and the texture of the hairs above.
He was so masculine, every bit of him, every line of him, and the hardened feel of his warrior muscles started waking her up but this time in an entirely different way.
She lifted her gaze to his and caught the roll of his scent, sage and all his wonderful maleness. She started sliding off the stool without even realizing she was moving, until she stood with her hips against the side of his. With her hand she started low at his waist and climbed, beneath his long hair, feeling both the gentle dips and swells of the scar tissue on his back as well as the larger, harder mounds of muscle.