Delilah's Weakness Read Online Free PDF Page B

that there was more than one kind of hunger.
    There was a sound—or maybe just a subtle alteration in the room’s vibrations sensed on another level entirely. Delilah turned to find her houseguest standing in the bedroom doorway, tucking in the shirttail of his blue pullover and watching her quizzically.
    "I wish I could say I’m sorry about that." His husky voice touched the back of her neck as she hastily returned to the steaming pot. "But I’m not. That’s just about the best way I can think of to start a new day." His voice gave away his smile. "In fact, I think I’d like to try to arrange it as often as possible."
    "Like room service?" Delilah said brightly, removing the pot from the stove and clapping a lid on it with unnecessary force.
    "Why not?" He was smiling—not that sweet, beautiful smile that had the power to knock her silly, but a crooked grin holding more than a touch of Puckish mischief. "What’s the matter—never tried it? Or didn’t like it?"
    "Both," she said firmly if irrationally, "with strangers."
    "Ah, but I’m not a stranger." His eyes twinkled at her through a fringe of black. Delilah had an idea those eyes were probably registered somewhere as lethal weapons. "You saved my life. Well, sewed up my head, anyway." His voice softened. "I just spent the night in your bed. And––" he paused to look around the room and back to her "––someone undressed me." He came toward her, and she eyed him the way a rabbit watches a fox. "And you know my name. I heard you."
    "You
heard
me? I thought you were asleep!"
    His only answer was a soft chuckle.
    Glowering furiously, deliberately avoiding both him and his gaze, Delilah fetched and bustled and slammed, moving back and forth from counter and stove to table, setting out bowls, cups, spoons, milk, sugar, instant coffee, and last, on a hot plate to protect the oilcloth, the pot of oatmeal.
    "Breakfast," she announced, wondering why she felt so surly and ungracious this morning. "If you want it."
    He lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed as if intrigued. "Oatmeal. Haven’t had that since I was a kid. Used to eat it with raisins," he added hopefully.
    "Raisins are expensive." He was standing close to her, blocking her way to the table. Her breath was short and her stomach was growling. Hungry again, she thought. "Please," she said, almost desperately, "sit down."
    "You don’t like to kiss a stranger; I don’t like to eat with one," he said softly. "Tell me who you are."
    "What?" She stared at him, unaccountably confused. That simple question, in that curiously husky murmur, seemed to carry a much, much more complex command. A command to strip herself naked for him, figuratively speaking; to bare her very soul.
Tell me who you are.
Instinctively she drew her natural reserve around her like a cloak.
A cloak of invisibility.
    He laughed. "Your name. Tell me your name. It’s only fair—you know mine."
    "Um, sure. It’s Delilah. Delilah Beaumont."
    "Delilah…" He rolled the name around on his tongue, and then seemed to do a double take on her last name. "Beaumont?" he asked sharply, and when she nodded he muttered something under his breath and shook his head, then added in a new and guarded tone, "How did you know my name, by the way? Run through my pockets while I was out cold?"
    She studied him with distaste. "Your wallet and the other contents of your jacket are over there." She pointed to the counter. "I washed the blood out of your jacket. I didn’t think you’d want it ruined. It looked expensive. For your information," she went on, rather enjoying the mild chagrin that flickered across his face, "the sheriff came by last night, looking for you. He has notified your next of kin, Mr. MacGregor."
    Luke puffed out his cheeks and blew a gust of self– reproach. Shaking his head and hooking his hand on the back of his neck, he murmured, "Sorry, that was uncalled–for. Thank you. Belatedly, wholeheartedly…thank you. For everything. For having