It was wonderful.
She was where she’d dreamed of being.
There was no sense in denying it now.
The only question was… What happened next?
Instinct told her he wasn’t a man who’d stay for breakfast.
He lived hard. Lived in the present. Tomorrow didn’t exist for someone like him. He would take one day, one experience at a time. She knew that. She even understood it.
How else could he deal with the existence he’d chosen? Half the time, he was a guy who knew the right wine to order; the other half, he risked his life doing things he couldn’t talk about, in places most people couldn’t locate on a map.
She knew that much from Alessandra.
Tanner had settled down.
Maybe Tanner was the exception to the rule.
Chay would never settle down. Live a normal life.
And really, that was none of her business.
This was a fling. A weekend at most. Maybe not even that. For all she knew, he was flying back to California tonight—and what did it matter? She certainly wasn’t looking for anything permanent. Not now, not for the foreseeable future, not with a man who would surely see a suit and a desk as a prison…
“Hey.” Chay’s voice was low. Husky. He lifted his head, gave her a long, slow kiss, then rolled onto his side. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He smiled as he propped his head on his hand and looked at her. “Are you cold? We never did get around to drying off.” He leaned towards her, brushed his mouth over hers, stroked his free hand lightly over her throat, then her breasts. “Are you sure you’re all right, sweetheart?”
“Yes. Really, I’m fine.”
“I’d say you were perfect.” He gathered her close, kissed her again. “For a minute there, you looked so serious. Want to tell me what you were thinking?”
What she’d been thinking were the dumbest possible things. Postcoital blues? No, not blues. Postcoital nonsense. If the term didn’t exist, it should.
“Baby?”
Bianca touched the tip of her finger to his chin.
“Lots of different things.”
“For instance.”
“Well, I was wondering where you got this dimple.”
He laughed softly. “It’s a cleft.”
“It’s a dimple,” she said, “and where did you get it?”
He paused, but so briefly that she figured maybe she’d imagined it.
“From my father.”
“And this?” She ran her finger lightly over the bump in his nose. “I bet you weren’t born with it.”
“Nope. That bump is strictly man-made.’