Chapter 88

"I hope so." Aldara took Marc's outstretched hand and let him help her to her feet. His socks flopped loosely around her toes, tripping her up until she bent and pulled them up on her ankles.
Marc tried not to ogle her ass as she bent over but he was only a guy, after all. He looked. It was truly a world-class butt. Then he groaned as his cock hardened painfully against the fly of his jeans.
"I have a feeling that there is something I'm supposed to do, somewhere I'm supposed to go, but the harder I try to remember it, the further away it slips." She nibbled on her lower lip as she fretted.
"Don't push it," he told her as he led her out of the master bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. "I'm sure it will come back to you in time. You've only been here a few hours. The fact that you didn't drown is enough of a miracle for one night."
"You're right." She looked around the kitchen with its sleek maple cabinets, black granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and grinned. "I love this place. Your wife must be quite a chef."
"No wife, little blackbird." He grinned at her obvious fishing. "Otherwise I could have probably found you some pajamas that aren't a foot too long."
"Well, I had wondered. So the gourmet kitchen is all yours?"
Marc laughed. "I can hold my own. I won't burn the steaks, if that's what you're worried about."
"I love to cook," she told him as she climbed up onto one of the chrome and black leather barstools at the work island. "Baking, especially. I have a horrible sweet tooth."
"More memories? See, I told you they'd come back." He opened the fridge and took out a couple of steaks and a bunch of fresh salad greens. Tomatoes and bell peppers sat in wire baskets on the counter so he handed her a cutting board and a medium-sized knife. "If you're up to it, dice a couple of those for the salad."
"You're right," she cried happily. "When I'm not trying, things seem to just float to the surface." She took a tomato and an orange pepper over to the sink to rinse then settled back on her stool and began to mince like a pro. Marc pulled a jar of his own seasoning rub out of a cupboard and sprinkled it on both sides of the meat. Then he turned on the ventilation hood over the range and fired up the indoor grill.
"Nice," she approved. "Always wanted one of those babies but my father..." She dropped the knife with a clatter and tears filled her eyes.
"What's wrong, cherie?" Marc rinsed his hands then strode around the island to put his hands on her shoulders.
"I don't know," she said, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "As soon as I said the word f-father, I just suddenly felt so sad."
"Pauvre petite oiseau." Poor little bird. Sitting on the stool put her head on level with his shoulder and he stepped up to cradle her face against his chest. "You've been through so much."
Her arms looped around his waist as her shoulders shook with sobs. She had this coming, he thought, after nearly drowning this evening, if for no other reason. But when he added together her grief and her earlier statement that she didn't think she had a family, he wondered if she'd recently lost her father. Poor little bird, indeed.
He let her cry as long as she needed to, which wasn't all that long. When her sobs finally trailed off into sniffles a few minutes later, he handed her a clean dishtowel and stepped back, though he kept one hand on her waist. Then she snuggled up against his chest again and he knew he was a goner. He leaned his butt up against the counter and cradled her against him, burying his face in her tousled curls.
"I'm sorry," she repeated into the cable knit of his Irish fisherman's sweater. "I wish I knew what that was all about."
Somehow her hands had landed on the small of his back, just up under the hem of his sweater and the room went suddenly hot.
"I just wish we knew if you were involved with anyone," he muttered then squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. "And I can't believe I said that out loud."
Her laugh was shaky but it was a laugh and that was better than more tears. "Don't worry. I was thinking it too. I don't think there's anyone but, no, I can't be sure."
"Got it." He gently disengaged himself and stepped back, dropping a chaste kiss on her forehead as he did. "Now back to this whole food concept."
They didn't speak as he put the steaks on the grill then just for the hell of it scrubbed a couple of potatoes and popped them into the microwave. He was a big guy and he'd had a rough night. He was hungry.
She slipped off the stool and into the small lavatory that was clearly visible off the kitchen. He heard water run and splash before she returned with a determined smile on her face.
"So we know I'm a harpy," she said. "And you're a gargoyle. Do the two species overlap very much?"
Marc shrugged and rinsed the salad greens, turning his back to her tempting beauty. "Not at all as far as I know. Your first words were in English but I'm guessing by your accent you're not American, Canadian or even British. That leaves somewhere with a mixed European population - maybe in the Mediterranean? Your clothes were expensive so I'd assume your family has some money. The Riviera might be a likely starting point if we're going to search. Gargoyles, on the other hand, are a very contained population. I don't know of any in Europe and I thought I knew our entire community."
"Weird." She shook her head and began to toss the salad. "I remember things like novels, television and that I love fish but hate lobster. I like to read and am not good at math."