A Touch of Heaven Read Free

grief, is he a gigolo? I dismiss that one immediately though, even though he’s got the looks and the body. A male escort would be around women all the time.
    Another frown pleats his flawless brow, and I shudder. I could swear he’s mind-reading me again.
    “Are you cold? I could get another blanket, if you like?”
    “No, I’m fine…just a funny feeling, you know?”
    He nods and his blond curls bob in the sunlight. It seems he does know, even if I’m not quite sure what the hell I’m talking about.
    “Did someone hurt you, Miranda? Was it a man?”
    Yes, a man hurt me. I turn away. Those clear blue eyes are too searching. And yet suddenly, against my natural inclination, I start to talk.
    “Yes, you could say that.” Both of his hands fold around mine again, encouraging and soothing. It feels wonderful, like a gentle glow of solace, and yet vaguely deliciously, sensual. “I’ve been married. Twice, actually. My first husband was wonderful, quite a bit older than me…but he died.”
    I choke up, and we sit in silence for a few moments. But I regain composure from the slow, rhythmic circling of Patrick’s thumb against the pulse point in my wrist.
    “I loved him, and he was a lovely man, but he’d have been the first to say I should remarry and be happy again. So I did, and I thought I was. Well, I was happy, for a while.”
    Isn’t life weird? Here I am, telling all my woes to a beautiful, naked and very young man. He’s probably younger than the man who caused the woes and infinitely better looking.
    “Steve, my second husband was quite a bit younger than me. We met through a dating web site. Sort of by mistake, when the search parameters were off. But we decided to give it a whirl anyway.” I squelch the what-if game. No use forever dwelling on bad choices. “We were great at first, and I was besotted with him because he was young and handsome and good in—”
    Oh God, I’m red in the face again. What is it about Patrick that makes me want to tell him every detail? Sex and all…
    “He was a good lover?”
    “Yes. He was. And I loved him.” There were good days, and I miss them. I miss the sex. But mostly, I miss having someone to love.
    He reaches up, brushes my hair behind my ears, obliquely urging me to go on, but in a way that allows me not to, if I don’t want.
    “But it didn’t last long. I went into a bad patch with my arthritis. I didn’t want to go out as much, or spend money, or have a good time.” I straighten my spine, angry suddenly, my ire mostly aimed at myself for being so gullible. “And he met someone else. A younger woman, who also had a bit of money…” my jaw locks, but I force it out “…they’d been fucking for months when I finally found out and asked him to leave.”
    As the words leave my lips, I experience the most peculiar phenomenon. It’s like a rushing wind on a still day, a whirl of something around us, furious and wild, my anger expressed as an external force.
    And yet the empty crisp bags remain motionless and the trees and the stems of the flowers are totally still.
    I look into Patrick’s eyes and they’re an inferno of blue, incandescent.
    “The man was an idiot. He was a fool to give up a woman like you.”
    Does he mean it? How can he mean it? He’s no idea what kind of a woman I am.
    “You mean a gullible middle-aged widow with a bit of money?” I blurt out, not really thinking, just letting rip with my fears and pain.
    The bizarre impression of a wind whirls up again, and Patrick’s eyes are searing. For a second his gentle fingers grip hard, tense and almost painful.
    “No, I mean a beautiful and gracious woman with a pure heart.”
    I laugh out loud again. He’s preposterous and crazy. A total stranger, potentially dangerous, but still irresistible.
    “Thank you, Patrick. You’re an angel. But I’m not pure. No way. I’m selfish and I’m always having horrible thoughts about people.”
    The whirlwind has died, and his blue eyes