“Maggie, I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t. But Baron will want you alive.”
“Give me a hand, will you?”
The next thing she knew, he’d slung an arm over her shoulders and was leaning against her—all six-foot-one inches of warm male pressed to her side. Margaret was a tall woman at five-feet-nine inches, but she always felt short next to Holyoake. She tried to think where to place her arm and realized she had no choice but to wrap it about his waist. She could feel the warmth of his bare back as she led him to the bed.
“It smells like you brought breakfast.”
“I didn’t know if you’d be up to solid food.”
“I haven’t cast up my accounts yet. Let me try a few bites, and we’ll see how I feel.”
How could he converse so easily when they were pressed together like this? She could barely think, and he was chatting away as though she helped his half-naked body back to bed every day.
At the bed, he removed his arm from her shoulders and sat. In the maneuvering, he accidentally dislodged her spectacles. They fell into his lap. She reached for them then paused, realizing she probably shouldn’t be grabbing at things so close to his genitals.
Holyoake caught them, and she withdrew her hand. She thought he would hold them out for her to take, but instead, he inspected them, then moved to place them back on her face himself.
“I can do it,” she said, reaching for the spectacles.
“Allow me.” He moved them out of her reach. She might have grasped at them anyway, but she didn’t want a scramble for her spectacles. So she stilled as he slid the spectacles’ temples on top of her ears and placed the bridge on her nose. Slowly, he pushed the spectacles into place. “Now, you look like yourself.”
“Who do I look like without them?”
He considered. “Still Maggie, but naked and vulnerable.”
She swallowed. Because she didn’t know what else to say, she murmured, “Don’t call me that.”
“No, I forgot, Maggie is the name I call you in the dark, when we’re lying in bed together and I reach over and pull you—”
“Holyoake.”
He raised his brows.
“Don’t.”
“Why not? You are my wife, at least you were until you ran off.”
“Iran off? You were not even home. You were never home. It’s hard to run away from someone who is not there.”
“Maggie—”
She gave him a look.
“Margaret, I tried to take you with me, when I could.”
“As though I were some child to be shown the amusements of the world but never allowed to live in it fully.”
“Well, I hope you are living as fully as you like now. For three years, I haven’t known if you were alive or dead.”
“You are a superior agent. You could have found me if you tried.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to be found.”
“I didn’t think I did either.” She realized what she said a moment too late. But in that moment, she gave Holyoake a small opening. He was never one to waver, and he jumped through. He took her hand in his and pulled her body between his legs. She could feel the newly formed calluses on that hand, rubbing against her palm in the most delicious manner. He lifted his other hand and slid it along her cheek. She closed her eyes at the contrast between the softness of his touch and the roughness of his palm. His fingers curled around the back of her neck and pulled her face to his.
Neither of them moved for a long, long moment. Their eyes had locked, and their breaths rose and fell in unison. Both anticipated the kiss, but neither acted to close the whisper of a gap between their mouths.
