Free A Loving Man by Cait London

picket fence. “Heard you were rolling in the mud with Stefan Donatien,” Henry called. “Heard you pinned him in five seconds flat.”
    “Hi, Shirley. Keep on moving, Henry. No offense,” Rose answered and frowned as they moved off and Henry’s guffaws carried back on the sweet May air.
    From the other side of the hedge that Mrs. Wilkins was shearing, she called merrily, “I heard that, too, Rose. Zeb was thankful you’re such a good pig catcher, though.”
    “Next time he can catch them himself,” Rose muttered.
    “What was that you said? Yes, that Donatien man would be a good catch,” Mrs. Wilkins agreed. “But he’s not apt to let you roam free like those other boys. He’s the man-kind that would want a ring on your finger to brand you as his. He’s the real up-close-and-personal type.”
    “I’m going in the house, Mrs. Wilkins. Have a nice night.” Rose closed her eyes and tried not to think of Stefan, which was difficult since he was opening her front picket gate and walking through it. He had showered, shaved and she resented how delicious he looked—coming up the steps with that wildflower bouquet in one hand and a picnic basket in the other.
    “No more picnics with you,” she said bluntly and wished she were wearing underwear. When she shifted restlessly, Stefan’s dark eyes immediately locked on to her breasts; he had that hot, steaming look that both terrified and excited her. The evening air carried the scent of the flowers, the good food and Stefan, a heady combination. “I’m all done with erotic stuff and I’m on a diet,” she added, so that he wouldn’t mistake the way she couldn’t breathe or take her eyes off him.
    “Tell me about your mother, Rose,” Stefan said quietly as he began to unpack the picnic basket, in quick efficient motions.
    “You do that like you were a waiter,” she said, as he whipped out a linen tablecloth and smoothed it over the small, round table between the wicker chairs. She didn’t want to reveal her deeply hoarded feelings about her mother, the terrible pain of abandonment, the decline ofher father. She suspected that Stefan was very thorough and she didn’t want him prowling so close to pain she’d stuffed away for years.
    In a short time, she’d learned that Stefan was very likely to be efficient at everything he did—including kissing. She didn’t want to think about his lovemaking techniques.
    “I started waiting tables when I was very young. Before that, my father would tutor me as to the right wines, the right glasses, the right breads, cheeses and sauces. Your mother?” he repeated, as he poured red wine into a glass and handed it to her. He settled into the other wicker chair and spread paté on crackers, artistically arranging them on the plate before taking his own wineglass.
    “Your wife?” she countered, reaching for her second cracker and paté. She didn’t want him to know about the dark corners of her life; he knew enough already.
    “I loved her. Not a passionate love, but it was warm and soft and good. It was more than I had hoped for in a girl matching my background—”
    “Matching your money?” she asked, anxious to point out the differences between them.
    “Our families knew each other,” he returned quietly with a nod.
    “An arranged marriage?”
    Stefan looked out into the evening, as though settling into the past. “It happens, and I did love her. When she gave me Estelle, I thought we were complete. But Claire’s heart was delicate, and childbirth weakened her. Estelle was only ten when her mother gave up the struggle. I will always regret the time I spent away from them both, building the restaurant business. For a long time, Estelle blamed herself for her mother’s death—she may still—and I didn’t suspect until much later…I was too busy, you see.”
    Rose knew exactly how a child could blame herself forcircumstances she couldn’t control. On the porch, Stefan’s shadows surrounded him and Rose