She lay beside him, naked in the sunlight, with birds singing in the trees. He hadn’t torn her clothes. It amazed her that she wouldn’t have stopped him from doing so even if she’d had to ride back to Templeton House bare as Lady Godiva.

Instead, he had been so gentle, so tender that even now she could have wept.

“I’ve never made love outside,” she murmured. “I didn’t know it could be so lovely.” She sat up, stretched. “So many firsts. I don’t suppose there are many firsts I can give you.” She smiled down at him. “Bad Michael Fury’s already done them all.”

“And then some,” he said with his eyes closed.

“There’s so much you don’t talk about.” Knowing it was all too typical to pry into a man’s past when you were in love didn’t stop her. She traced a finger down his chest. “So many secrets inside.”

“You told me a couple of yours last night. Quid pro quo?”

“No, of course not.”

He opened his eyes. “You want to know something about me, ask.”

She shook her head and started to shift, but he reached up and held her still. “Afraid of the answer?”

“No,” she said steadily, “I’m not. And I’m surprised you’d think I would be.”

“Fine. Ask.”

“I—” she hesitated still, then gave in. “All right. You said you were married before, but you never mentioned her or what happened.”

“Her name was Yvonne. We got divorced.”

“All right.” Miffed by the terse response, she reached for her shirt. “We should be getting back.”

“Shit.” He rubbed his hands over his face and sat up as she shrugged into the soft—and now wrinkled—broadcloth. “Okay, you want to know. I met her when I was racing. She liked to party with drivers.”

“And you fell in love with her?”

“Christ, you’re a child in so many ways.” He stood and dragged on his jeans. “I fell into bed with her. We liked each other, we had good sex. So we kept falling into bed, and we kept having good sex. Then she got pregnant.”

“Oh.” She rose slowly and kept her eyes on her trousers as she slipped them on. “You said you didn’t have children. I assumed—”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

She looked up, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.”

“If I’d wanted to talk about it, I probably would have.” He swore again, then took her arm as she bent to retrieve her boots. “Sit down. Just sit, goddamn it. Nobody uses that wounded look the way you do.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes and struggled for control. Once he’d opened up this part of his life, he would have to open others. She would ask more questions, he would give her the answers.