Passionate Calanettis. Cara Colter

Isabella did not watch the news, and she would have flipped by the station. But tonight, she recalled that first morning Connor had said that was where he was coming from. Was that where his business had called him back to?

      And indeed, the story was about an incident that had happened at the World Food Conference. Members of an unnamed private security organization had apprehended someone who had made threats against one of the delegates. Details were sketchy, and there was no footage. Had Connor’s company been involved? Her gut said it had been.

      When the story was over, Isabella shut off the TV, but she sat there until the room grew dark, thinking about what she had seen.

      She was aware her stomach was in a knot. She was aware that this would be the reality of tangling your life with a man like Connor Benson.

      Six days after he departed, a knock came on her front door. It was dinnertime, and Isabella was not sure who would come calling at that hour.

      She swung open the door to see Connor standing there.

      He looked so wondrously familiar. Her heart began to pound unreasonably. Her anxiety about the kind of work he did left her in a rush of warm relief to see him standing there, so obviously unharmed.

      “Oh!” she said. She could feel herself blushing as she stepped back from the door. “You didn’t have to knock. You live here.”

      He cocked his head at her, lifted a brow.

      “I mean, you’re a guest here. I want you to feel you can come and go as you please.”

      “I know that, but I also knew you didn’t know when I would be back. I didn’t want to startle you. Again.”

      She regarded him. His face was deeply etched with exhaustion. But there was something else there, too. It was as she had suspected when she read his curt note—he had bought himself some time and now he seemed remote, as if they wanted different things. It was as if he had thought about that late-night meeting in the street and decided he wanted something different than what she wanted. He wanted them to be strangers. She wanted them to be friends.

      Or more than friends?

      Her anxieties were realized. Isabella could feel the excitement that had been building about his return leaving her like air hissing out of a pricked balloon.

      “Come in,” she said. “It’s hot outside. Are you hungry?”

      He hesitated. Isabella had the feeling they were not back at square one, they were somewhere even before square one. Was he going to pretend he had never even asked her on a date?

      “Come eat,” she said, more forcefully than she intended. She felt as if she did not want to give him room to retreat, physically, to his room, or emotionally, away from her.

      She suspected it was because Connor was a soldier, and he responded to the command in her voice. He dropped his bag inside the door and followed her into the kitchen. He took a chair at the table, and she moved to get him some of the pasta she had made for her own dinner. Now, passing it to him, she could see even more clearly the exhaustion in the lines of his face. His mouth had a stern set to it, as if smiling was foreign to him.

      She felt guilty. Whatever he had just come from, it had been hard, and it had taken a very obvious toll on him. What was she thinking, making this all about her?

      “Where have you been?” she asked, lowering herself in the seat across from him.

      “Just a job.”

      “Ah. Azerbaijan?”

      He frowned at her.

      “The World Food Conference?”

      “The conference is over now. Everything went fine.” He dug into the pasta like a starving man. It did her heart good to see him eat like that, even if he was doing it to avoid her.

      “I saw something about it on television one night. Was there some kind of threat made against some of the delegates?”

      His voice was cool, it didn’t invite probing. “Everything went fine,” he repeated.

      “Someone was apprehended.”

      “Really?”

      “Really. By the private firm that looked after security for the event.”

      He lifted his eyebrows at her. So what?

      “Were you in danger?” she asked him softly.

      He lifted a shoulder. “Not particularly.”

      She knew then that he had been in danger, and that he shouldered the dangers of his job with the ease of long practice. This was not a man you could be timid with. This was not a man you could beg not to go to his world because it would soothe something in you. She found she had more courage than she ever would have believed. Because she felt proud of him, and in awe of his strength.

      “Ah, Itus,” she said. “Ever humble.”

      He looked up from his plate, lifted a brow at her. “What do you know about Itus?”

      “I know in Greek mythology, he is the god of protection.”

      “It’s just a name,” he said. “My business partner, Justin, named the company. He picked that name. I am not a Greek mythology kind of guy.”

      “I wonder if your business partner was thinking of you when he chose that name.”

      Connor frowned, uninviting, but she went on anyway.

      “Because Itus was very like you,” she said quietly.

      “Me?” He snorted, self-deprecating.

      “Yes, you.”

      “In what way?” Connor had a bemused look on his face.

      “He was a mortal boy, only seventeen when he was chosen to protect the god Apollo. He was given two swords, and he became so good with them that he beat the god Ares in a sword fight, though he would not boast about it. Apollo wanted to make him a god, and Zeus agreed, possibly because he did not want any more of his gods beaten in sword fights with mere mortals. Itus refused the honor. He did not feel he was worthy, but Apollo insisted and made him eat the food that would make him immortal.”

      Connor actually cast a wary glance down at his pasta.

      “Then Apollo released him from his duties, and Itus now spends his days protecting the innocent from those who would do them harm.”

      “Look—” he set down his utensils, very deliberately “—Isabella, there is no use thinking there is anything the least romantic about me. Or what I do. It’s hard, dirty, dangerous work—”

      “You forgot lonely,” she said quietly.

      “—and it makes me a poor choice for a companion. No, not a poor choice. The worst choice. I should have never asked you out on a date. It was stupid and frivolous.”

      She felt the sharp bite of disappointment, but she was not totally unprepared for it. The crispness of his note had hinted this might be coming. At the same time, she could see it was the result of the events he had just come from that made something so simple as going on a date seem frivolous to him.

      “I’ve decided,” he said, his voice curt, “a date between us is out of the question. I mean, we are living together under the same roof for two more weeks. It’s just way too awkward.”

      “I agree,” she said soothingly.

      That seemed to pull him up short. He regarded her suspiciously and then continued, “I mean, if I’m going to spend time with you, I should make it count. I should teach you something useful.”

      She found herself gazing at his lips, thinking she had an idea or two what she’d like Connor Benson to teach her. “What would that be?”

      “I should teach you how to swim.”

      “Instead