Graveyard Shifts: A Pat Wyatt Novel Read Online Free Page A

large hand. A man hadn’t been that close to me in a while. “I also see you like my hair.”
    “It smells of lavender and vanilla.” He placed the strand behind my ear, brushing his fingers along my jaw. “Is it naturally curly and brown?” he asked, sounding interested. A little too interested, if you ask me.
    I shifted uncomfortably, overheated by his touch. “Yes, it is,” I said. “Both.”
    He leered at me. “So what do you wish to eat?” he asked. Somehow I think he knew I had forgotten that I was hungry.
    “Bread,” I breathed. The only thing I could think of that would fill me and not give me bad breath.
    He slithered away from me, going behind the marble counter. Then he jarred a pantry door open, taking out a bag of rolls. “Potato, right?” he asked as he walked back to me.
    “That’s my favorite. How did you know?” I asked, confused. No man had ever known what I had wanted. All around, they did not understand me, and I can’t say that I understood them either.
    He handed me a roll, his hands cold and strong as they touched mine. “I pride myself on being able to read women,” he winked, which made me twinge a little somewhere south.
    “Oh,” I said, taking the roll and chewing it slowly. I had to think about what I needed to say before I just blurted it out as always. “So,” I paused, swallowing, “how many have you known intimately?”
    “Thirty.” He smirked, and I choked. “Give or take,” he amended. “What about you?”
    I looked down at my feet, my mind still reeling over the fact that he had said thirty. “Three,” I managed to mumble, feeling my face grow hot with embarrassment.
    He cleared his throat. “You are joking?” I shook my head, taking another bite of my roll. “You’re not joking.” It wasn’t a question, but I shook my head anyway. He rubbed my arms comfortingly. “That is all right, my love.” He sounded amused.
    “Your love?” I looked up, raising an eyebrow.
    He shrugged. “You are my wife.”
    I narrowed my eyes at him. “And yet I don’t know your name.” He had cleverly eluded the name exchange. Even when we had to sign the marriage certificate, he covered the signature line with his hand.
    “I apologize for that.” He didn’t sound apologetic. Then he bowed his head, straightening himself up to his full height. “I am Samuel Satané,” he bellowed.
    My mouth became a tight line. “Satan?” I asked, not believing that I had married a man named after the devil himself.
    “Satané.” He winked, and I swallowed. Somehow when he looked at me with those passion-filled eyes, he made me feel exposed.
    “Mine’s Patricia Anne Wyatt,” I said, holding my hand out for him to shake. “But please, call me Pat.”
    “You may call me Samuel, if you please,” he said, bowing with a flourish, which made me drop my hand and curtsy in response. That made him chuckle, and as he stood he said, “And I know who you are.”
    I straightened up. “You do not.” I was indignant and skeptical about that. In all my years of being a writer, no one had ever recognized me, even when I had gotten my picture above my columns.
    He smirked, looking down at me from his full height. “I have everything you have ever written from every magazine you have ever been published in.”
    “That’s…” I paused, telling myself to be cautious. “Disturbing.”
    That was not as cautious as I would have liked.
    He leaned against the counter provocatively. “Not at all,” he said matter-of-factly, “considering you are now my wife.”
    I grimaced. “That’s what is so disturbing about it.” And I had to admit it was, in a very sexy sort of way. But sexy was too dull a word for this man. A better word would have been erotic.
    He chuckled again, adding that painful smirk. Then he came closer to me, cupping my face in his hands as he gently brushed his lips against mine. The rest of the roll dropped to the floor as I moved closer to him, and then our lips met. I