Free True Vision by Joyce Lamb Page A

worshipped the ridges, valleys and flat, smooth plains of his chest. One big hand splayed over his lower belly, his fingers relaxed in sleep. The back of his other hand rested over his eyes, as though he’d had to block the moonlight to sleep.
    Was it warm in here?
    It must be. Why else would he take off his shirt?
    It hit her then that he had stayed here all day while she’d slept. What had he done for all those hours? And why? He could easily have called Logan and let him deal with getting someone to stay with her. Not that she’d needed a babysitter, but still.
    Hunger nudged her, and she reluctantly turned away from Noah’s naked chest. Not that kind of hunger, she told herself as she padded into the kitchen and debated turning on the light. Not wanting to wake him, she left the light off and pulled open the refrigerator. A few pieces of cheese and some crackers, and she’d be good to go. But she paused, block of cheese in hand, surprised to see something unfamiliar in her fridge. A casserole dish covered in foil.
    She flicked the foil aside, and her mouth immediately began to water.
    “It’s spinach lasagna.”
    She jerked in surprise, barely missing ramming her head into the freezer door as she pulled her head out and turned.
    Noah leaned in the kitchen doorway, his thumb hooked in the waistband of his jeans, still beautifully shirtless.
    Charlie swallowed as she deposited the cheese she’d liberated from the fridge on the counter. “Uh, hi.”
    He smiled, cocked his head. “Hello to you. Feeling better?”
    She swallowed again, told herself she was drooling because of the lasagna, not because he looked so absolutely freaking hot in the moonlight. Glittery green eyes, shaggy hair and cut chest. Gulp. “Yes, thank you. Uh, you cooked?”
    He padded across the tile, and she glanced down, surprised that he was barefoot. Something in her stomach clutched hard. A beautiful man barefoot in her kitchen . . . how odd.
    She stepped back, out of his way, as he slid the casserole dish out of the fridge and set it on the counter. “It’s not cooked yet,” he said. “I didn’t want the smell to disturb you. Migraines and food smells don’t mix.” He reached over and cranked the dial on the oven. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
    She didn’t mention that it was the middle of the night. She was busy looking at the lasagna’s evenly sprinkled mozzarella and parmesan and thinking, The man cooks . Can I keep him?
    A moment later, he flicked on the overhead light. Charlie blinked at him, belatedly realizing she wore no makeup and looked like hell.
    He gazed at her with a weird, half smile as he went to work on the cork of a bottle of red wine that she knew for a fact he hadn’t found in her house. In fact, she’d had no lasagna ingredients, either.
    “You went shopping?” she asked. Nice throaty growl there, Chuck, she thought, as her cheeks flooded with heat.
    His half grin turned full. “Did you miss me?”
    She shrugged. “Hardly knew you were gone.”
    He opened a cupboard door and retrieved wineglasses. He already knew his way around her kitchen. The clutch in her gut did its thing again, and she cleared her throat. “So, you didn’t have to stay.”
    “I didn’t have anywhere else to be.” He splashed wine into the glasses, set aside the bottle and handed her one of the glasses. Then he clinked his own against hers. “Here’s to lasagna at two A.M.”
    The wine tasted tart and earthy, and she savored that first tingle. As warmth spread through her stomach, she remembered how empty it was. She should probably have an appetizer, she thought.
    As if reading her mind, Noah reached for the hunk of cheese at the same time, and their hands connected.
    Shock zings through me like a head rush as I stare down at the photo. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck . Someone hit Charlie. More than once. With fists. That son of a bitch. Son of a bitch . I flip through the other Polaroids, nausea growing with each new