Page 13 of Donovan Blake: Adrenalin

“Sit here,” he said, leading her to a table next to a window overlooking a natural wood patio with a hot tub. But she barely glanced at the view. She was more interested in him. He was opening an eye-level oven door and removing two plates with stainless steel covers.

“What started out as a nightmare has turned into a fun dream. I just hope I never wake up,” she declared as he set a dish in front of her and lifted the cloche. “Thanks, it smells delicious.”

”It should be,” he replied, returning to the counter and picking up a carafe of coffee.

“Because…?”

“Because food after great sex always is,” he replied with a wink. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

She laughed as he poured the coffee, then took a bite of the omelet.

“You must be right. This is fantastic, but, Donovan, those paintings in the den…”

“Are you an art lover?”

“You’re very observant.”

“So…tell me.”

“Very much so. I used to dream of working in one of the great galleries in Europe. I even have a degree in art history.”

“Why didn’t you end up there?”

“Finding a job is really difficult. Impossible, actually. Nursing was my second choice. But where did you find such fantastic pieces?”

He didn’t respond, but she noticed the hint of a frown cross his forehead.

“Donovan? Did I say something wrong?”

“Not at all. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

She chose not to push, and he chatted about the wildlife in the forest as they devoured the delicious omelette, but as they drank the smooth, rich coffee, his frown returned.

“Phoebe, we need to talk,” he abruptly exclaimed. “This is all too coincidental.”

“What is?”

“You!” he exclaimed. “How you showed up out of the blue in a deserted back street just as those thugs threw me out of that van. It was the middle of the night in torrential rain. Not to mention risking your neck to rescue me then taking me to your home. And now you claim to share my passion for art.”

A chill pricked her skin.

“Donovan, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but—“

“But nothing. Who are you?” he demanded gruffly, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward. “Who do you work for?”

“I…uh…I work in the trauma center at Methodist General Hospital,” she stammered. “And you know my name. It’s Phoebe Beaumont. Who do you think I am?”

“Those facts may be true, but you’d better start talking. Who approached you? What did they promise you? Tell me, Phoebe, and tell me now.”

“What the hell, Donovan? Why don’t you tell me who you are? You were attacked by two thugs, but you fought them off. Where did you learn how to defend yourself like that?”

“I told you, martial arts.”

“Okay, but why were you in that creepy area in the first place? What about that weird parking garage and picking up that tricked out SUV? Strange how it was just sitting there waiting for you. Then you bring me up here to this luxury mountain retreat!”

“Are you quite finished?” he demanded, glaring at her.

“Probably not. I’m sure there’s more I just haven’t thought of yet.”

---