The Getaway Bride

His breath caught in his throat. Page had once loved his omelets. He’d made them for her at least once a week during the short time they’d been together. “The Omelet King,” she’d called him—and then she’d always thanked him very fervently for his efforts.

Assaulted by sensual memories of their passionate play, he closed his eyes and tightened his hand around the dented fork. And then he shot a look over his shoulder at Page, who was watching him without expression.

“I guess I should have asked if an omelet’s okay with you,” he said, his voice gruff.

She nodded coolly. “An omelet is fine.”

If she was bothered by nostalgia, she didn’t allow him to see it.

Suddenly angry again, Gabe turned back to his cooking.

“There are plates in that cabinet,” he said, nodding toward the door to his immediate right. “Hand me one, will you?”

She rose and opened the cabinet door, pulling down two dusty, brown stoneware plates. Without a word, she rinsed them, dried them with a paper towel and set one beside Gabe, ready for his use.

He concentrating on folding the omelet, and tried not to let the faint scent of strawberry shampoo get to him while she stood so close by. She didn’t immediately move away, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

He went very still.

He’d carelessly left the sharp knife lying on the counter. Page’s hand hovered an inch above it.

There was no way he could reach it before she did.

He set the skillet off the heat, turned very slowly and looked her straight in the eye. Her hand remained above the knife, but her face had gone extremely pale.

Staring at him, she moistened her lips.

He lifted a hand to tap his chest, just left of center. “Here’s my heart,” he said simply. “You might as well finish it off.”

A shudder ran through her. She jerked her hand away from the knife and turned toward the table. “Don’t burn the omelet,” she ordered brusquely. “I’m hungry.”

He exhaled very slowly. “I have never burned an omelet,” he said, and turned his back to her to finish preparing the meal,

THEY ATE IN SILENCE. Page was aware that Gabe watched her throughout the meal, but she kept her eyes trained on her plate. She was still too shaken to look at him.

She had to get away from him. The thought replayed itself in her mind, building in intensity as her desperation mounted. Every minute she spent with him, she could almost feel danger creeping closer.

She could not allow it to reach them. No matter what she had to do.

The omelet was good. His omelets always were. It was the first omelet she’d had since she’d left Austin.

Memories threatened, but she pushed them b

ack. She couldn’t allow herself that weakness now.

Refusing her assistance, Gabe rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink. He poured fresh cups of coffee and nodded toward the living room.

“Let’s drink this in there,” he said.

In silence and dread of what was to come, she followed him out of the kitchen.

Gabe settled on one end of the lumpy-looking brown plaid couch. Ignoring the space beside him, Page perched on the edge of an uncomfortable burnt-orange armchair.

Watching her over the rim of his cup, Gabe sipped his coffee. She waited for him to question her again, but he remained quiet. Either he knew she would continue to lie, or he was trying to wear down her resistance with this unnerving silence. And it was starting to get to her.

As she watched him drink, the glint of gold on his left hand caught her attention, disturbing her even further. Even though she’d recovered from the original shock of seeing him again, she was still surprised to discover that he hadn’t taken the ring off in all this time.

She resisted an urge to lift a hand to the chain at her neck.