Coffee. Right. She had to hold the cup with both hands, otherwise she’d spill the hot coffee all over herself and all over this beautiful bed. She tipped her head back against the headboard and sipped.

God, it was delicious. Sharp, yet with a smooth smoky taste. Some outrageously expensive blend, no doubt. She took another sip. Perfect.

His hand continued stroking her breast, movements lazy. “Good?” he asked.

“Wonderful.”

“Give me a taste,” he said suddenly, stretching over to cover her mouth with his. Oh lord, she could simply sink into his kisses. This one was long, languid, the strokes of his hand on her breast echoed by his tongue in her mouth. He lifted his head for a second, then moved in more closely, tongue deeper in her mouth. He lifted his head again and smiled down at her. “It is delicious.”

“Mmm.” Grace was too shaken to talk. It was the first time she’d seen a full-fledged smile from him. She’d made a study of faces and knew by the lines in his that he rarely smiled. Perhaps it was for the best, because he became frighteningly attractive when he did. She drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves. His hand was caressing her left breast, and she was certain he could feel her heart thumping away, as if she’d been running.

Drake’s hand left her breast to run down her side. He frowned as he felt along her rib cage. “But you must eat. You are too thin. I’ll take care of that.”

He sounded like an imperious third-world dictator and she had to work to suppress a nervous laugh. “Ah, Drake, I hate to break this to you, but I am not considered too thin here. If anything, I’ve been told I could stand to lose some weight.”

The frown deepened. “Fools, such fools here in America. American men like their women with their ribs sticking out. They have never known hunger, known women whose ribs are visible because they are starving, otherwise they wouldn’t be so foolish. Healthy flesh is a blessing and relatively rare in this world. So here, open wide.”

He was perfectly right. Grace obediently opened her mouth then moaned. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back. Oh God, there was a little explosion of pastry softer than an angel’s wing, butter and sugar on her tongue. The faintest hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Heaven.

“Again.” Drake’s imperious voice.

She opened wide and the second bite was even better. She washed it down with some more of that ambrosial coffee. Drake didn’t give her any relief. The instant she swallowed a bite of the pastry, he had another piece ready for her, watching carefully. As if she were fool enough to spit out the best pastry she’d ever eaten in her life.

His mouth was on hers again, tongue licking deep in her mouth, his taste better than that of the pastry.

After that, it was two perfect soft-boiled eggs, brown-shelled, with the rich yellow yolk of very fresh eggs. Whole wheat toast with salted, freshly churned butter and homemade black-currant jam.

“Open,” Drake said, again and again. And she did.

More was opening than just her mouth. It was like being a pampered princess, sitting naked, cross-legged on a fur blanket, fed from the fingers of a man who looked like a conquering warrior from some primeval steppe.

Every time her lips closed over his fingers, he stared directly into her eyes, the gaze hot and direct. Pure, unadulterated sex. And then when she swallowed, he’d allow that small smile to crease his face.

“And now,” he announced, whipping the silver cover off a huge porcelain plate, “voilà!” Slices of cooked ham and lean grilled sausage. “Le petit dèjeuner à l’anglaise. Enjoy.”

Grace propped her chin on her fist and observed him. “How many languages do you speak, Drake?” To her ears, admittedly not expert, the short French phrase had sounded perfect.

“A few. Some better than others. My business dealings are with the world, and I’ve learned at my expense not to depend on interpreters.”

She imagined that he spoke them perfectly. His English was nearly perfect, with only a faint accent. He looked like the kind of man who did things well or didn’t do them at all.

“I’ve always wanted to see Paris,” she said dreamily, opening her mouth for a bite of the sausage. It was delicious, with fennel seed and pepper. She waved away another bite.

“Have you now?” Drake narrowed his eyes. “Open up.” Sighing, she took in another bite of pure, lip-smacking cholesterol.

“Mm-mm. But my real dream is to see Rome. The Caravaggio, the Titians. The Sistine Chapel.” She watched his face as she recited the sights she’d always dreamed of seeing. “But you know Rome, don’t you? You’ve been there.”

“I know Rome very well, yes. Another bite, that’s a good girl. I lived in Rome very briefly some years back. But the Rome I know has nothing whatsoever to do with Titian or the Vatican. So why haven’t you been to Rome? It’s only about a six-hour flight.”

“I know.” She sighed. “It’s my fault. It never seemed to be the right time. And I only finished paying off the last of my college debts two years ago. And of course, over the past year I’ve been busy working hard for a patron who never seemed to have enough of my work and never gave me any respite.”

Drake’s hard mouth lifted in a half smile. Her heart skipped a beat. God, he was attractive when he lost that hard, harsh look.

“I had no idea I was keeping you from your dreams.”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” This was serious. Grace put her hand on his arm and dropped the teasing note. “You weren’t keeping me from anything, Drake. You were…you were saving my life. I’d tried so hard to earn my living from my art, but it wasn’t working. So I tried everything else. Waitressing, temping. None of it worked. I’d do my damndest, but somehow I always came up short. I don’t seem to be programmed for the world, only for painting. So the fact that you were buying me up meant that I could do the one thing in the world I loved.”

He dipped his head. “Delighted to be of service.”

Speaking of service…“You need to eat, too. You’ve done nothing but feed me. Now it’s my turn. In the meantime, drink your coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sipped obediently, watching her carefully out of dark eyes.

She clambered over him to get a croissant, trying to ignore the large hand that briefly cupped her bottom. The warmth of his hand jolted her. Somehow, once she was perched on the side of the bed, she was in his embrace, one long arm around her waist, a big hand resting at her hip.

The embrace brought her close to him, so close her breasts touched his chest. There was absolutely no need for the pajamas, his body emanated as much heat as a blanket. He took another sip of coffee. “Aren’t you curious?” he asked, voice low.

“Curious about what?”

“Whether the coffee tastes just as good from my mouth. Why don’t you try it?”

Curious wasn’t quite the word. Fascinated was. Everything about the man was fascinating, mysterious. Enticing.

Another long sip and he put the coffee cup on the tray, bringing her closer to him with one huge hand to the back of her head.

Grace had been on literally hundreds of dates in her lifetime. She was pretty, she got asked out on a lot of first dates. Not so many second dates. There was always something wrong. Sometimes something big, like a total inability to relate to any of the man’s interests, sometimes something small, like being made to feel she was a raging eccentric because there was a music group she hadn’t heard of or a TV show she didn’t watch.

Most of the time, there was a great deal of physical incompatibility. The man made all the wrong moves, touched her wrong, at times hurt her. More times than she could count she wished she were a lesbian, because at least then she might be able to work up some kind of a love life. But no, darn it, she wasn’t a lesbian. She liked men. In theory anyway.