Free Captive Bride by Bonnie Dee Page A

studied the wood grain in the planks of the floor. She’d hoped to rise early and have his breakfast ready before he began his day. She’d never expected to walk in on him half-naked.
    “Pardon me, sir,” she apologized in Wu and started to retreat upstairs, but he called out a command that halted her.
    He crossed the room to stand before her. The heat of his body and the smell of soap and damp flesh aroused an answering heat in her belly. He touched her arm, and her skin burned at the pressure of his hand even through her long-sleeved blouse.
    Huiann was ashamed at the way her body responded to his nearness. Her sex tightened at the mere sound of his low voice. He led her to the stove, where he lifted a pot from the burner and poured dark brown liquid into the two mugs they’d drunk tea from yesterday. The rich aroma she’d smelled since she’d awakened came from the beverage. He offered her one of the steaming mugs.
    She took it carefully and inhaled the scent of the brew, then blew across the surface before sipping. The bitter taste took her by surprise.
    Alan Somma laughed at her expression of distaste.
    He took a tin of brown sugar from the cupboard and put a spoonful into her mug. Then he measured a portion of oatmeal into a pan of water which was also bubbling on the stove.

    Bonnie Dee
    71
    Huiann set the mug of black brew aside, picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the oatmeal. She would not have him cook for her. It was completely improper for their roles to be reversed in such a way. Even if she hadn’t been his housekeeper, as a woman it was her duty to cook and to serve him.
    Alan Somma stood too close. His shirt was on but still unbuttoned and, from the corner of her eye, she could see a slice of his naked torso. Shadows on his pale skin delineated muscles in his chest and stomach.
    The phoenix inside her ruffled its feathers and stretched, tickling her insides.
    As he fastened the shirt buttons, concealing this intriguing glimpse of his body, Huiann returned her attention to the boiling oatmeal. With any luck, he’d think her cheeks were pink from the rising steam.
    Alan Somma sipped his bitter drink without adding any sugar, leaning against the counter and continuing to talk to her as if she understood him. When the cereal was thickened, she spooned some into a bowl and carried it to the table for him. But before she could withdraw to a respectable distance as she’d done the previous evening, he shook his head and pulled out the chair across from his, demanding she eat with him.
    It was improper for her to share a meal with a man without a chaperone, especially a foreigner, but what did it matter if she completely broke convention? The life she’d known had been twisted beyond all recognition. What was this small impropriety compared to nearly being sold to a stranger for sex?
    She took the seat he offered, sitting up straight with her hands primly folded on her lap.

    72
    Captive Bride
    Alan Somma filled a second bowl with oatmeal and brought it to her. His act of service made her cheeks burn again. She waited for him to sit and begin to eat before she took tiny bites, keeping her face lowered, embarrassed to have him watch her chew and swallow.
    His table manners were confusing. He did not behave in the way either a guest or the host would at her father’s table and seemed to have no ritual about his eating at all.
    “The oatmeal is sticky. I apologize,” Huiann gave the obligatory apology for the quality of her cooking.
    But if Alan Somma responded with the customary assurance that it was the best food he’d ever eaten, she had no idea. And he didn’t tap his fingers on the table to signify that the food was to his liking. Either he hated it or Americans did not show their appreciation in the ways she was used to.
    Her stomach rebelled against the lump of oatmeal she swallowed. She was simply too nervous to eat. But perhaps Alan Somma was also nervous, because he continued talking between