He had no idea what to say to this. Screaming was right out. He shifted a bit closer to her, instead.
She eyed him thoughtfully. "Some fellows, when I tell them this, get spooked and veer off. It's not contagious."
Roic swallowed, hard. "I'm not running away."
"I see that." She rubbed her neck with her free hand; an orchid petal parted from her hair and caught upon her velvet-clad shoulder. "Part of me wishes the medics would get it settled. Part of me says, the hell with it. Every day is a gift. Me, I rip open the package and wolf it down on the spot."
He looked up at her in wonder. His grip tightened, as though she might be pulled from him as they sat, right now, if he didn't hold hard enough. He leaned over, reached across and picked off the fragile petal, touched it to his lips. He took a deep, scared breath. "Can you teach me how to do that?"
Her fantastic gold eyes widened. "Why, Roic! I think that's the most delicately-worded proposition I've ever received. S' beautiful." An uncertain pause. "Um, that was a proposition, wasn't it? I'm not always sure I parlay Barrayaran."
Desperately terrified now, he blurted in what he imagined to be merc-speak, "Ma'am, yes, ma'am!"
This won an immense fanged smile—not in a version he'd ever seen before. It made him, too, want to fall over backwards, though preferably not into a snow bank. He glanced around. The softly-lit room was littered with abandoned plates and wineglasses, detritus of pleasure and good company. Low voices chatted idly in the next chamber. Somewhere in another room, softened by the distance, a clock was chiming the hour. Roic declined to count the beats.
They floated in a bubble of fleeting time, live heat in the heart of a bitter winter. He leaned forward, raised his face, slid his hand around her warm neck, drew her face down to his. It wasn't hard. Their lips brushed, locked.
Several minutes later, in a shaken, hushed voice, he breathed, "...wow..."
Several minutes after that, they went upstairs, hand in hand.
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Winterfair Gifts Page 8
