Part 8 (1/2)
One thing was clear. The man was a h.e.l.l of a chef. Tonight's coq au vin was so good Mr. Little had sent his regards to the chef. The man had actually been smiling with satisfaction as he'd pushed back his chair at the end of the meal. Even his wife seemed to relax as if the pin was back in the grenade.
Their other diners had similar reactions. Mr. and Mrs. Barclay came in from town for their anniversary dinner and commented that Chuck's skills had dramatically improved. When Frankie told them there was a new chef who'd come from New York, they'd been suitably impressed. And given Mrs. Barclay's penchant for talking, it was a good bet phones would be ringing all around Saranac Lake with the news. Thank G.o.d.
As she got to the head of the stairs, Frankie was wis.h.i.+ng that someone else could floss and brush her teeth for her when Nate stepped out of the bathroom.
Not exactly the someone she was looking for, she thought.
He'd changed into a Boston Red Sox T-s.h.i.+rt and had a towel draped around his neck. His smile was casual. His eyes were not.
”I thought you'd never come upstairs,” he said, as if he'd been waiting for her.
She began to struggle for words, especially as his smile widened. Being tongue-tied was a new one for her, but around him, she was getting used to it. Tragically.
”You work too hard, Frances. Good night.” He turned away and went down to his room.
She felt as if she'd been left behind, somehow.
Which was crazy, she told herself. You couldn't be left if you were in your own home. And the person in question was just across the hall. And you didn't want to be with him, anyway.
Oh, h.e.l.l, she thought, shutting herself in the bathroom. She was still muttering under her breath when she came back out, turned off the hall light, and headed for her room.
Nate's door was open and she paused in front of it. To do otherwise would have required a disciplined purpose she seemed to have left downstairs in her office.
He was sitting up in bed, back against the wall, legs kicked out. A book was open on his lap and he looked up from it with a grin as if he'd set a trap that had worked. That spider/fly parlor saying flared in her head and she was about to mutter a quick good-night when his hand crept to the side of his neck and he scratched.
”Didn't you put calamine on that?” She looked over at the bag that she'd put on his dresser. It was unopened.
”No. I forgot.”
Frankie went over and took out the pink bottle. ”Put this on and the itching won't keep you up all night.”
But when she held the lotion out to him, he merely tilted his neck.
”Would you mind doing the honors? I have a feeling you'll do a better job.”
”I'm not a nurse.”
”And we're not really talking about brain surgery here, are we?” He smiled more widely and she noticed that one of his front teeth had a very good cap on it. ”Please?”
Grabbing a couple of tissues from a box, she cracked open the bottle and tipped it over. Gently, she dabbed his skin with the chalky pink lotion.
”Mmm.” The sound he made was something between a moan and a sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned towards her. ”That feels great.”
She paused, thinking she wished he wouldn't say anything. And no more noises, either, please.
”Are you finished already?” he asked. His voice was a low growl, husky and deep. She imagined what it would sound like in her ear when he kissed her on the neck.
”Ah, no.”
Frankie snapped into action, going back and forth between the bottle and the inflamed blisters until the job was done. When she pulled away, he opened his eyes.
”Thanks.”
”It doesn't look like it's spreading.” She tossed the tissue into the trash can across the room and put the cap on the bottle.
”Good shot.” He was looking at her, with speculation in his eyes. ”You mind if I ask how old you are?”
”Yes, but I have nothing to hide. I'm thirty-one.”
”And how long have you been running this place?”
She hesitated, not wanting to get into particulars with him. His questions about her past had disturbed her earlier in the day. At night, alone with him, they felt even more intrusive.
She turned away and headed for the hall, thinking there was no way the conversation could continue with her out of the room.
”Good night, Nate.”
”Wait-”
She shut her door on his question and the searching look on his handsome face but a moment later, she heard a soft knock. Pivoting around, she grabbed the k.n.o.b and opened wide, shooting him the level stare that usually got her what she wanted from people.
Which was to be left alone.
”Yes?”
He smiled, utterly impervious to her warning signals. ”I don't mean to pry.”
”Yes, you do.”
Nate smiled. ”You're very blunt. I like that in a woman.”
”It's a handy trait to have. Especially if you're being hara.s.sed.”
”Is that really what you think I'm doing?”
She looked down. He put her on edge and she resented it, but not enough to keep up the lie she'd started.
”I just don't understand why,” she said softly. ”I'm not...”
She pushed her hair back as if the gesture of exposing her face would explain what she didn't want to put into words. It was hard to say she was plain, even though it was a truth she'd come to accept.
He reached out, cupping her chin gently. ”Not what?”
She felt him taking off her gla.s.ses. With nothing to hide her eyes, she felt as naked as if she'd left all her clothes in the bathroom.
”Not what?” he repeated.
”Like Joy.” It was as close as she could come.
”I know.” He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb.