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and fruit,” Damien said.

      “I’ll be right back. Coffee, tea?”

      Theresa ordered decaf coffee and Damien asked for the same. Then, when the two of them were alone again, he said, “Go on. Tell me what happened with your ex.”

      She took a drink of wine, another, then put the glass down decisively. “When we met, he was a tenured sociology professor at the University of Saskatchewan. With my brand-new PhD, specializing in indigenous studies, I’d just won an appointment in their native studies program. I had an idea for a research project, and went to him to get his opinion.”

      She grimaced. “He was enthusiastic. About not only the project, but me as well. We started dating and he helped me put together a grant application. We had a whirlwind courtship—in a way that would probably strike you as hopelessly dull and academic, but all the same it seemed romantic to me—and got married two months after we’d met.”

      “He swept you off your feet. I wouldn’t have taken you for the type.” Damien felt a twinge of jealousy, and also annoyance at the jerk who’d hurt Theresa and made her so cynical. He wanted to touch her, offer comfort, but her arms were wrapped protectively around her body and he sensed she wouldn’t welcome it.

      “I was young. Naïve. Dazzled by his interest,” she said grimly. “Stupid.”

      He tried to imagine Theresa as a girl who’d had the brains and drive to get her doctorate, yet been naïve enough to be swept up in a romance with a man who’d ended up hurting her. Now she was what? Thirtyish? And still bitter about her ex, and cynical about relationships. “So, what happened next?”

      “I’d almost finalized the grant application and was waiting for Jeffrey’s feedback. Then he proposed, wanted to get married right away, and everything else got shoved aside. Or so I thought. We had a civil ceremony and a brief honeymoon. When we got back to work, I pulled out the grant application and asked when he’d be able to review it. He said he’d forgotten to tell me, but he’d already revised and submitted it. We just needed to wait to hear back.”

      “And?”

      “When the grants were announced, my project had got funding. But Jeffrey had applied in his own name, listing me as a research assistant but not as coauthor.”

      “Wanker!”

      “When I asked what was going on, he said I must have misunderstood. It had always made sense for him to apply, because I was too much of an unknown to get the grant.”

      “But it was your idea and you did the work,” Damien said indignantly. “You deserved the credit.”

      “Wouldn’t you think? And instead, all I’d be was a researcher again, just like when I was a student at Harvard and the New School for Social Research in New York.”

      “Harvard?” The woman had a habit of dropping these amazing tidbits. “You went to Harvard?”

      “Yes. So did my dad. In medicine. And no,” she scowled at him, “I didn’t get in because I was a legacy, I had the marks.”

      She’d lost him. “What’s a legacy?”

      “At the Ivy League schools in the States, typically ten to fifteen percent of new admissions are the children of alumni.”

      Did the woman memorize statistics on everything?

      “Especially of distinguished alumni,” she went on. “The kind who make donations to their alma mater. The entrance qualifications for their children are often, shall we say, a trifle lighter. The kids are referred to as legacies.”

      “Well, that’s crap. Whatever happened to equal opportunity?”

      “Exactly. Anyhow, you wouldn’t believe the number of people—profs and students—who assumed I was a legacy.”

      “Until they saw your work.” He barely knew Theresa, but was sure she’d excel on her own merits.

      Her face lightened with pleased surprise. “Thank you.”

      He shrugged. “Welcome. And like I said, your ex is a wanker. If you didn’t yet have the reputation to get a grant, couldn’t he have sponsored you? Or at least listed you as coauthor?”

      “Of course. But he wanted the credit. And had no qualms about using me to get it. The whole thing—the seduction and marriage—were all about him. Him and his career.”

      “Ah, come on.” Not that he wanted to excuse the bastard, but how could the guy not have been attracted to Theresa? “He probably fell for you, then got greedy when he saw the chance for career glory.”

      “I doubt that very much.” She put down her now-empty glass. “Anyhow, after that betrayal, I couldn’t believe anything he said. I couldn’t work with him, got mad every time I saw him. I told him he could find another research assistant, and another wife. After I finished teaching that semester, I left Saskatchewan.”

      “That’s rough.” He squeezed her hand where it rested on her tray table.

      She freed her hand from under his and firmed her jaw. “I don’t need pity. I’m a loner. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s how I work best.”

      “It’s not pity, for God’s sake.” Didn’t she recognize sympathy? “I know what you mean about the loner thing, though.” Damien spent days on end writing, only breaking for a run or walk. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to socialize, just that he got so absorbed in the work. If Bry didn’t drag him out for a few beers or a backyard barbie, he could go weeks without talking to a soul other than a grocery store clerk.

      Theresa snorted. “You, a loner? Give me a break. You flirt with every female in sight.”

      He winked. “Didn’t say I don’t like women. But I do spend a lot of time alone.”

      “What do you do?”

      Crap, he’d walked into that one. If he told her, it’d break the growing connection between them. Fortunately, he could avoid the question because he saw Carmen coming with their desserts. “That looks good,” he told her as she handed him a platter with strawberries, grapes, and slices of kiwi fruit and papaya, plus crackers and small wedges of four different cheeses.

      “Enjoy,” she said, voice flat, obviously still ticked at him. When she’d finished with the meals, he’d have to have a word with her, try to make things right. Ensure she wouldn’t tell anyone about his “engagement.”

      Theresa took a spoonful of her chocolate Cointreau mousse and her expression told him she’d forgotten her question about his occupation. Her full attention was on taste sensations that appeared to be almost orgasmic.

      He’d have liked to be responsible for putting that glow of sensual pleasure on her face.

      She spooned up another bite, then sucked it slowly off the spoon, eyes closed, and his cock jerked as he imagined those lips wrapped around it.

      To further torture himself, he selected a ripe, medium-sized strawberry and reached over to dip it in her mousse. Her eyes opened, narrowed in annoyance, then he held the strawberry to her mouth. She smiled and reached up her hand to steady his, the way he’d done when he’d eaten salmon tartare off her fork. Her mouth opened, then she closed her lips around the chocolate-coated tip of the strawberry.

      Oh yeah, he was definitely erect now.

      The warmth of her soft fingers against his hand, the glaze of sensual enjoyment in her eyes, the way her lips wrapped around the red fruit. The damned berry was even shaped a bit like the head of his cock.

      As Theresa took her time nibbling the fruit from his fingers, he was glad for the napkin across his lap. Especially when Carmen came along to pour coffee.

      “Enjoying your dessert, I see.” This time her tone bordered on snarky. Unprofessional, yeah, but it had been shitty of him to come on to one woman, then ditch

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