Royally Claimed - By Marie Donovan Page 0,9
him a partial truth. “I was hurt at work and needed to take some time off to recover.”
“What?” He stopped in his tracks. “But you should be at home resting.” He took her hand and tucked it into the bend of his elbow.
She automatically tightened her grip on his bicep. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”
He covered her hand with his. “I work with the men on the estate back home. We still have the big vineyard, several orchards, and we raise cattle, horses and sheep. After college in New York, I apprenticed myself to Benedito and learned as many of the jobs as I could.”
“Which is your favorite part?”
He gave her a startled look, as if he’d never considered that. “My favorite part is making sure my people have steady jobs and can provide for their families.” He smiled down at her. “Although I admit I like working with the bulls. Matching my strength and wits against them keeps me on my toes.”
Frank had always reminded her of a bull—strong, stubborn and sexually insatiable. Memories of his stamina and endurance made her catch her breath and stumble on a loose cobblestone. He steadied her instantly, his arm flexing. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, just the uneven street.” And she was tiring. The emotional expense of meeting Frank again and trying to stay on guard with him during lunch had sapped her strength. And thinking about how they’d spent the majority of their time together having the hottest sex of her life was not exactly keeping her mind on difficult things. Like walking.
Did he remember much about their summer together? He was a rich, famous nobleman, so undoubtedly he’d had plenty of hot sex since then. Probably had women throwing themselves at him every other week. Super-models, princesses, gold-diggers…and probably very nice ladies who would be thrilled to marry a handsome, sexy man like Franco Duarte das Aguas Santas.
“Come on, Julia.” For a second she thought he was reading her mind. “Let’s go sit in the park.” He deposited her at a bench and disappeared into a nearby café, returning with two paper cups of coffee. “Two creams, two sugars.” He handed her one.
At her surprised look, he stopped. “Or do you drink it differently now?”
“No, that’s just fine.” On her night shifts in the E.R., she’d been teased for putting so much cream and sweetener in her coffee. “And you still drink it black?”
“Of course. It is a sign of extreme manliness.” He laughed and opened the pastry box. “Here are some pastéis de nata.”
“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I haven’t had one in…”
“Eleven years?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes.” She stared at the small round egg custard tarts, almost afraid to take a bite. Why had she ever thought coming back to the Azores was a good idea? These tarts were the apple in her Garden of Eden.
Frank closed the box, and she looked into his sad eyes. “Was it really so terrible, Julia?”
“What?” she asked, startled. How did he know about her accident in the hospital? Not an accident, she mentally corrected herself. It hadn’t been an accident.
“You loved Portuguese food and cooked it every day for us, but you haven’t touched it since we parted, did you? Did our time together give you such terrible memories?”
“Never!” she blurted and then sipped her coffee to look away from him.
He didn’t say anything, only opened the pastry box again. “Open your mouth, my sweet Julia.”
She did open her mouth, but only to tell him she wasn’t his sweet Julia anymore, but he took advantage of it to brush a tart across her lips.
A flaky crumb stuck to her bottom lip and she automatically licked it off.
He inhaled sharply. “That’s it. Now take a bite.”
She clamped her mouth tight and he had the nerve to laugh. “Oh, Julia, you wish to see which one of us is more stubborn? Or are you afraid of a little sweetness?”
She snorted in derision. He pulled the tart away from her and bit into it with his straight white teeth that had never required fillings or braces, she remembered. “Mmm. Oh, so good. Imagine how good it would be after such a long, dry spell.”
Julia had the sneaking suspicion they weren’t discussing tarts anymore. Unless it was her. Hell, she was feeling like a tart now, watching his strong lips nibbling at the crispy pastry crust. He darted his tongue out to lick the soft, creamy egg filling and she wanted those lips, that