|
|
|
|
|
|
body, she opened the door a crack and called, "Mike, do you . . . ?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
A large, fuzzy robe was thrust at her. She grabbed it and closed the door again, then put it on, tying its belt about her waist. She felt warm and comfortable in it, even though it dragged on the floor. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
When she came out, her damp hair tumbling about her shoulders, Mike said, "Dinner's ready." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Dinner? It was late enough to be supper, but that did not matter. He showed her into another room. It did not contain a fireplace nor even a wood-burning stove but instead held several large contraptions she did not even try to figure out. It was filled with a pleasant odor of cooked meat, and Abby realized then how hungry she was. Without saying a word, she sat at the place at the table that Mike designated. At least the fork and knife looked familiar. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Mike's dark hair was dry. It hung in thick waves nearly to his shoulders. He had changed into another pair of denim pants and a shirt of that same clingy material that molded tightly to his muscular chest and arms. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He had prepared beefsteaks, and the juicy flavor was delicious. There was wine, and a green salad. Before Abby could consider the consequences, she blurted, "How on earth did you get fresh vegetables on the desert? And isn't it too early in the season for a harvest?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
His dark brows knitted in a scowl. "All right, Abby Wynne. Tell me exactly where you are from." |
|
|
|
|
|