He smiled.
Something soft touched his cheek. Instinctively, he turned, wanting more of whatever that was, but it was too late. Exhaustion claimed him and the opportunity was lost.
Chapter Three
Paige fingered the worn pages, studying the stamps. So many different countries, she thought. Some were from places she’d never even heard of.
“Going through my things?”
She looked up and saw that Alistair was awake again. He looked better than he had. More rested, with normal coloring.
Over the past couple of days, much of his rash had faded. He’d basically been eating and sleeping, the latter more than the former.
She held up his passport. “Of course. What else was I going to do to pass the time? You’ve been to very interesting places. I don’t suppose you’d tell me about them?”
“I’d love to, but on the condition that I get to eat.”
“Done.”
“At a table. Like a real person.”
She stood and looked down at him. “Seriously? You want to come downstairs?”
“Yes, but first I want to take a shower.”
“You are kind of stinky,” she agreed. “You also need a shave. I didn’t think viscounts were supposed to be scruffy.”
“Scruffy is our best look.”
It was a good look for him, she was willing to admit. The dark stubble contrasted with his blue eyes. The man had the bone structure of a god, and while he wasn’t the least bit smelly, it made her feel better to tease him. After all, he was titled, smart, well-educated and well-traveled and, hey, a gifted surgeon. While she was a small-town girl with many jobs but no career. Someone who had always planned to make something of her life, but so far hadn’t.
“A shower it is,” she said. “But be careful. I’m not in the mood to come rescue you, so if you fall you’ll just be lying there, naked and shivering.”
“An unattractive visual. I will be careful.”
She collected clean clothes for him and put out fresh towels, then waited while he stood. He was a little weak, but seemed to have rediscovered his balance. She hovered until he made it into the bathroom, then went downstairs to prepare lunch.
There were dozens of choices from all the food people had dropped off. In the end she decided on a spring vegetable soup with a second course of pesto and cheese ravioli. She cut up some fruit for dessert. Somehow, in the past couple of days, the cupcakes had mysteriously disappeared.
“Not my fault,” she said aloud. “I’ve had company.”
“Anyone I know?”
“A couple of my friends stopped by and—”
She turned and saw Alistair standing in the doorway to the small kitchen. He was showered and shaved, wearing a shirt and jeans. His feet were bare and he looked pale and thin, but still handsome. And as if he were going to fall over any second.
“Did you walk or slide down the stairs?” she asked, crossing to him.
“A little of both.”
She put her arm around his waist and led him through the kitchen and out the back door. She’d quickly set the table with place mats and napkins. Now she led Alistair over to a chair.
He sank onto the seat and smiled at her.
“Beautiful.”
For a second she found herself lost in his blue eyes. There was an odd sensation in her chest—like a fluttering that had her wondering if she could actually speak or only stammer.
“The yard,” she managed.
“That, too.”
Flustered, she smoothed the front of her shirt. “Let me, um, get you something to drink.”
She bolted for the kitchen and poured a glass of water and a sports drink. Before carrying them outside, she drew in a breath and told herself not to be an idiot. Yes, Alistair was a good-looking man who made her heart beat faster. But not only did she know absolutely nothing about him, he was only in town for a few days. She had to get a grip.
She carried out the drinks, then the soup. When she was seated across from him, he spoke.
“More offerings from chefs other than you?” he asked.
“You remembered.”
“I did. Although I am curious how long I was out this time.”
“Two days of impressive sleep. Did you notice—the rash is nearly gone?”
“I did notice. You’ve been very good to me.”
“I am a saint. Besides, it wasn’t so bad. You’re an interesting talker.”
He paused in the act of carrying a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “I was talking?”
“In your sleep? Yes.” She cleared her throat and went for what she hoped was a casual tone. “So, um, who is Sara?”
“My wife.”
Paige’s stomach sank to her toes and then went looking for lower ground. She felt herself flushing as she remembered all the silly, romantic thoughts she’d had about the man.
“So you’re—”
“A widower. Sara and our baby daughter were killed a few years ago. A car accident.” His eyes darkened, as if he’d emotionally retreated to a difficult memory. “It was horribly sad.”