Slightly Imperfect Read Online Free Page B

twins wake up and want me." She smiled, scraping her chair backward on the battered tile floor, then leaned onto the table, her folded arms forming a cradle for her breasts. "If Marcus wakes up, he reads. He learned to read at missionary school by the time he was four. He reads Hindi, too, and speaks it. I get up and find him reading in the mornings and...." She seemed to leave Zac for a moment.
    She hadn't stood, so he sat back down while she traveled to some far plane of remembrance, a devout quality back in her tone when she disclosed, "Tommy spoke six languages—and read like Marcus. Sometimes I would wake up, and Tommy—"
    She caught herself, embarrassed by her intimate disclosure. Her pale cheeks glowed feverishly. She appeared to be a thoroughly bedded, married virgin. Her reserved demeanor moved him to amusement. And something close to tenderness.
    "I inhale books like that." Was he identifying with Tomas Cordera? If so, good luck, Zaccheus. "I'm sure you encourage Marcus to read. He can live many lives that way. I do."
    "Yes." Her reply floated ungrounded as she stood and led the way out of the restaurant.

    They strolled along the deserted dock. Some of the yachts had lights. Music or voices drifted out from a few. Others were vaporously, eerily dark. He pictured the Irish Lady again in his mind's eye, the docks in Ramona. Cast into retrospect, he floated in memory and conjecture, watching heat lightning rip the placid horizon.
    "This was good for us," she said conclusively. "It's just what we needed. To talk."
    It felt natural to take her hand. She appeared satisfied to have him do so. Her hand was as cool and delicate as he'd remembered, her nails pronounced against his skin.
    Talking helped for sure, but he knew she really needed to be held and made to believe it all didn't matter. She needed to have the bad memories excised, even if only for a whisper of time. She needed what he needed: immediate gratification. But their brief time frame in Portofino and their dissimilar agendas would leave them vulnerable to recurring reality. And its pain. He thought of all the ports he had seen in the year past, the women of every size, shape, shade and flavor. He hadn't touched one of them, hadn't wanted to. He wasn't going to touch Victoria Chandler Michaels, but he was sure as hell moved by her, a kind of salvation. He was beginning to heal, to scab over, and he hadn't known if he ever would.
    "Andrea is back," Victoria announced when the Andrea Elena came into view. A Bell helicopter nested on the dockside landing pad. "You have to meet her."
    Zac stopped walking. "I want to, but let's say our goodbyes here first."
    She turned her hand in his, changed their union into a handshake. "Thank you for the evening, Zac. Thank you for being so kind—listening."
    "Thanks for sharing. I'll think of you and Marcus and the twins. I'll pray for your strength."
    Some unknown current jerked her hand within his grasp. Toying with a smile, she cocked her head and eyed him, assurance that prayer was a brand new concept. Or a discarded one. He should let it go, but what the hell did he have to lose?
    "There's something you should remember. Only God has the power to heal. We judge ourselves, but only He can grant absolution."
    She squared her shoulders, stood a little straighter in the light filtering from the Andrea Elena II . But she was captive, and he wasn't stopping there.
    "The only real power we have is love. If you can impart that to Marcus—and don't forget the twins—it's the best heritage they could ever hope for."
    "Thank you." She slipped her hand from his, then moved into him slightly and tilted her head to touch her lips to his. Her mouth was warm, full. She tasted of Chianti.
    He steadied her, briefly prolonging the moment, his hands on her waist, fingers almost joining at her slender spine. Her vulnerability appealed to his decency. He had visions of feeding her, bringing her coffee in bed, pampering her. Making it all