“Shh, Lenka. Shh,” Dani whispered, embarrassed but pleased.
“Did I not tell you there was a man for you?” Lenka said, not altering her voice at all.
“Aunt. Stop.”
“Do not be shy with him, darling. Sometimes we women must be very direct.”
“Zuzana clearly does not think so.”
“I know. Funny that. She is so direct in every other way. But Zu didn’t speak up when she should have. Now she lives with that regret.”
Dani knew this story, though she was not certain Lenka’s version was the truth. Perception was everything. Zuzana had never expressed regret.
“She was in love once with a man named Viktor,” Lenka continued. “A long time ago. I think Viktor loved her too. But she was coy. And cold. And he never knew how she felt.” She was silent for a moment, studying the past like it hovered in the corner of the room.
“Mr. Malone does not know how you feel, Daniela,” she warned.
“Yes he does,” Dani muttered.
Lenka’s brows rose and she blinked, surprised. “I doubt very much that’s true. I wasn’t certain, darling, and I know you very well. Sometimes you assume the world can see you as clearly as you see it. But you are a lovely mystery to most. Don’t be mysterious with Mr. Malone.” Lenka rose and stayed bent for a minute, letting her back catch up.
“Are you going to wake him?” she asked Dani.
“No. He will wake when he’s ready. He can’t be very comfortable there on the floor, so I doubt it will be long. Go on, now. I’ll finish up here and get the lights when I’m through.”
Lenka blew her a kiss from the ends of her fingertips and hobbled down the hallway to her room. Dani kept working, her eyes on the wide lace collar she was adding to the bodice of a client’s dress. But she was listening to Malone’s breaths.
Malone had been relaxed at dinner, more so than she’d ever seen him, as if he too had been burdened by the strain between them and felt the relief of reconciliation. But she was afraid if she went to bed, he would leave her behind and explore the apartment in Peterka’s upstairs without her.
She finished the blouse and set it aside. He had not moved, not even to shift his hands from beneath his head. His arms were going to fall asleep, and the night was cold and the floor hard.
A soft snore escaped his lips, signaling he was well and truly out.
She turned off two of the lamps nearest her but left the light glowing on the side table. She took a throw pillow from the sofa and made sure there were no stray pins or needles jabbed into it, a hazard when three seamstresses lived together, and crouched beside him, trying to decide whether she could ease the cushion beneath his head. He would sleep much more comfortably if she did.
Lifting his head with her right hand, she shoved the cushion under his head with her left. His arms, now free, unfurled at his sides, and she thought for sure he would wake. But he didn’t.
She went to her room and drew a blanket from the end of her bed and lay down beside him, not too close, but close enough that she could share the edge of her blanket with him. This way, if he woke up she would hear him, and he wouldn’t go without her.
He rolled away from her, burrowing down in her blanket and gathering it around him. She moved a little closer, just to stay under the covers. He rolled again, this time toward her, and her half of the blanket became his too. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and deep or she might have thought he was playing possum. She didn’t think Malone capable of that kind of silliness.
She inched her pillow closer and tried to free enough of her blanket to just put it around her shoulders, but it brought her so close that she could count his eyelashes, and his exhalations tickled her lips. She lay beside him for several deep breaths, too out of her element to know what to do, or even if she was allowed to enjoy it.
She should just wake him up. She couldn’t sleep on the floor, and he shouldn’t sleep on the floor. She put her hand on his cheek, not wanting to startle him . . . and not really wanting to wake him either.
His skin was warmer than hers. Considerably warmer. Her skin was always cool. He kept his face and neck clean-shaven, but the sandpaper roughness of his skin tickled her palm and made her fingers long to explore. His ears were small and the lobes oddly silky compared to the sharp stubble of his squared-off sideburns and the shortly cropped hair at the base of his neck. Like most men, he wore the top longer, but slicked it back from his brow. A vein snaked from his hairline to the deep groove between his brows.