she handed him one of the glasses. He took it, careful not to touch her. It was against all reason that he was drawn to the sound of her voice. He looked at the tractor instead of at her, wishing she’d leave. He wasn’t going to be here long. It was best not to form a friendship with her. They had no need to talk to each other.
He dragged his gaze up to look at her face. It was a nice, open, American kind of face. She wore little makeup; nothing hid the freckles on her nose and cheeks. His gaze lowered to her chin and her long, thin neck, stopping at her collarbone. He forced himself to look lower, at the rest of her body. She wore a green tank top that clung to her body like a second skin. Rocco felt the heat of a blush warm his face as he looked at her body, a body she so carelessly exposed for his perusal.
He lifted his gaze to hers again. She gave him a tentative smile, her eyes wary. He glared at her. He didn’t want to talk to her. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted the silence to return. He needed to think. He stared at his glass, then took a sip. It was cold and sweet. Tea with big chunks of ice. Such an American drink, he thought, struck by another wave of homesickness.
He stared absently into the amber liquid, wondering what he missed, exactly? Living in a lean-to in the bombed-out skeleton of a building? A Bedouin tent? The beige, stucco walls and great arches that had been Kadisha’s home?
His son.
He missed his son. Kit and Blade had said Zaviyar was dead. Dead . He couldn’t fucking remember. And since he couldn’t, he had to believe his son lived. Surely, one of the villagers who’d survived the explosion had taken him in. Rocco still felt a connection to him. A father would know if his son was dead.
Wouldn’t he?
“When did you do all of this, Rocco?” Mandy’s soft voice brought him back to the present. She was looking around the shed with an awed expression.
“Last night. It was too cluttered to work in. I hope you don’t mind, but I took some lumber from a pile in the old barn for the shelves. The implements that don’t fit the tractor are over there. You can decide what you want to do with them. If you don’t want the furniture, I can take it down to the dump.”
“I was keeping the attachments until I knew if that tractor would ever be functional again. Neighbors and people from town have been donating bits and pieces of equipment, hoping to help out.”
“They’re supportive of what you’re doing here?”
Mandy frowned at him. “Why wouldn’t they be? Wolf Valley has the potential to be a successful business, a good addition to the town.”
“Just curious. Trying to make sense of what’s happening.”
Mandy looked at him with an assessing gaze. He doubted she liked what she saw. “Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich for you,” she offered, gesturing toward the main house.
He shook his head. “I want to get the mowing done before I take a break.”
“You are eating, aren’t you?”
Rocco leveled a hard glare at her. “Kit tell you to babysit me? ‘Cause I don’t need a woman to look after me.”
She took a step nearer to him. And another. The hairs rose on his arms, his neck. Was she as soft as she appeared? He ached to discover the feel of her. That very thought cooled his reaction. If he touched her, she would see, feel, wear the blight that infected him. He’ll have made a leper of her, all for the fleeting relief touching her would provide.
Mandy stood barely a hand’s breath away. Her voice, her scent, those were the only things he would ever know of her. Yet he couldn’t resist taunting her, himself. He leaned closer, sucked in more of her lush scent. He did not touch her with his hands or his body or his face, just held himself close to her warmth. She should know what danger she was in if she tried to break through to him with food, or kindness, or laughter.
“Where I come from, Rocco, people treat each other with respect and