by Brenda Gayle
Her first thought was that at least she had managed to hang on to her cell phone. Then embarrassment struck as she realized she was lying on top of him with her skirt hiked up over her hips. One of his hands remained on her waist while the other was trapped between his chest and her left breast. She rolled quickly to her right, off of Hunter and onto the sharp debris of the broken ladder.
“Oh crap.” She tried to ignore the pain of the wood shards pressing into her shoulder as she attempted to push down her skirt with only one hand. This is why one should always wear pants, she thought, cursing her adherence to old-fashioned sensibilities.
As she shimmied the skirt down, she raised herself to a seated position. She glanced over at Hunter, fully expecting him to be furious. Not only had she knocked him to the ground, she had destroyed what she suspected was a valuable antique, and made a mess of the beautiful room.
Hunter had rolled onto his side and propped his head up on one hand. He was watching her. He didn’t look mad. In fact, he looked like he could hardly keep himself from laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” Nora said. “I’m not usually so accident-prone.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” he replied, and lithely pushed himself to his feet. “Shall we try this again?” He held out his hand.
She couldn’t figure him out and that irritated her. She had no idea why she had allowed Karen to talk her into this, and now it was shaping up to be a truly disastrous evening—best to cut her losses. “I think I should go,” she said.
She ignored his hand and rose to her feet, not nearly as gracefully as he had done. But, then, she had a handicap. She had to keep tugging on her skirt to make sure it stayed down with one hand while hanging on to her cell phone with the other.
“Nonsense. The evening’s just getting started.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He did laugh then. “Come on, Nora.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and, as he led her from the room, he lowered his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Don’t deprive me of the opportunity to tantalize your senses and delight your palate. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
She licked her lips. He was talking about cooking, wasn’t he?
The kitchen was what she would have imagined in a house that entertained a lot of important people—not that she really knew what kind of kitchen that would be. She barely used her own, and she never entertained.
The long, shiny black countertops in the off-white room were broken in several places by stainless-steel stovetops. Four ovens lined one wall, and across the room stood two massive stainless-steel refrigerators. A large window looked out at the forest where the trees emanated an unnatural orange glow in the setting sun. It’s magical, Nora thought.
“Wine?” Hunter asked as he released her.
Why not? Maybe it would help her to relax. “Sure.”
On the counter she noticed an open bottle, and he took down a single glass from the shelf.
“I hope red’s okay,” he said as he began pouring.
“Aren’t you having any?”
“No.” He handed her the glass.
She took it and swirled the liquid in the bowl as she’d seen wine connoisseurs do. Then she raised it to her nose and inhaled lightly, stalling.
Why wasn’t he having any? And why did he pour from an open bottle? Should she be worried? She’d heard of Rohypnol—the date-rape drug. She didn’t know anything about him—and he’d said they were alone.
She looked at him over the top of her glass. He didn’t seem the type that would have to resort to rape for sex. And besides, why would he bother with her? He could probably have anyone he wanted.
But rape wasn’t about sex was it? It was about power.
“You have a very expressive face,” he said. “Do you really think I’m trying to drug you?”
Busted! “No, of course not,” she said, pretending to take a large sip of the wine to prove true the lie.
His raised eyebrows told her that he wasn’t convinced.
“Okay.” She put the glass down. “Why aren’t you having any? And why is the bottle already open?” She shouldn’t feel guilty, she told herself. She had every right to know the answers. After all, her parents had emphasized time and again that the world was full of dangerous people.
“In answer to question one: I don’t drink. And number two: my grandmother, who does drink, had a glass with lunch, earlier. If it would make you feel better, you can come with me to the cellar and pick an unopened bottle for yourself.”
“How can a chef not drink? Don’t you have to know how to pair wine with food? Don’t you need to cook with it?”
“So many questions.” He shook his head and then sighed. “I have a sommelier that helps customers pick the appropriate wine for their food. And I didn’t say I don’t cook with it, I just don’t drink it socially.”
“Are you a recovering alcoholic?”
“No,” he said quietly, and she had the impression he wished he’d never even mentioned the wine. “I don’t drink, end of story. Now, are we going to the cellar or can we start to cook?”
Nora took a small sip of the wine. It tasted of juicy ripe berries and she allowed herself to luxuriate in the warm sensation of it trickling down her throat and into her stomach. “It’s delicious,” she said. “And I’m sorry for being suspicious; it’s—”
“Habit?”
“Or something.” She pushed away the returning irritation.
“Please, have a seat.” He indicated one of the high stools that dotted the kitchen, and then launched into an explanation about the various cuts of beef and the proper method for aging them.
She tried to pay attention, but she couldn’t stop glancing down at the counter where she’d placed her cell phone. Why hadn’t Sylvia called back? Or emailed a reply? Nora looked at her watch.
He startled her. “Am I boring you?”
“No. Sorry. It’s just—”
“I know. The office emergency.” He sighed and rounded the counter to stand in front of her. “That thing rings, right?”
“What?”
“It makes a noise when someone calls?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He picked up the cell phone and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Now, maybe you’ll focus on me.”
She tore her gaze away from his crotch and looked up at him. “It vibrates, too,” she said without thinking. She felt her face flame.
He looked at her for a second as if he couldn’t believe she had said it either, and then burst out laughing.
“I mean—”
He held up his hands to stop her from saying any more, and then cupped her face and leaned down, his mouth only inches from her cheek. “I can’t wait to see what other surprises you have in store for me tonight, Nora.”
She thought her heart had stopped beating, and she tilted her head to look up at him. Too late, she realized the movement brought her lips to within a hairsbreadth of his.
His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and he began to lower his head ever so slightly. She pulled back and managed to catch herself just before she tumbled off the stool.
He froze, then looked down at her in utter bewilderment.
“I think we should get back to the cooking lesson,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded.
“Okay.” He shrugged and walked back to the other side of the counter. “On to the bordelaise sauce. I admit I cheated by preparing the potato tarte tatin and the soufflés earlier. Otherwise we’d be cooking all night. And we do want to get to the good part, right?”
Eating. He means eating, Nora told herself angrily, irritated by how easily he seemed to bring a blush to her face. She looked down at her wine glass and was surprised to find it empty. No more wine for you.
“Can I help?” She jumped off the stool, desperate to find some way to refocus her mind. “This is supposed to be a cooking lesson, isn’t it? I should be doing something.”
&nb
sp; As she came around the counter toward him she tried not to think about her cell phone. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t rung. Someone should have called her, even if Sylvia hadn’t. Could he have turned it off?
“Why don’t you do the mushrooms? Dice them up like this.” Hunter grabbed a knife and began chopping so quickly her eyes had trouble following the blade. “Then, when I start the steak, you can throw some butter in the pan and sauté them gently. Easy, right?”
Nora took the knife and began cutting. He seemed amused by her slow, deliberate chops, but didn’t comment. Once he was satisfied she was doing it properly he turned his attention to the sauce.
After she’d finished cutting up the mushrooms she stood watching Hunter. She was impressed by how easily he moved around his workspace. He obviously spent quite a bit of time in this particular kitchen because he knew where everything he needed was kept.
She saw that he didn’t slow down to measure any of the ingredients. He would add a handful of this or a pinch of that, shake it in a pan, take a spoon to taste it, and then add something else. Nora was certain the process couldn’t be quite as random as he made it seem.
Hunter looked totally relaxed and happy as he kept up a lively dialogue, documenting everything he was doing. Nora heard, but couldn’t concentrate on, what he was saying. There was something terribly sexy about a man who was competent in the kitchen.
She had an ache that reminded her of just how long it had been since she’d thought about a man in any way other than a business sense. Okay, so Hunter Graham would look sexy digging a ditch in ratty old coveralls. But man, looking at him now, in a cream-colored open-necked golf shirt and tight denim jeans, Nora could feel sweat beading on her upper lip.
Interrupting her thoughts, he turned to her and smiled. “Ready?”
She felt her breath catch in her throat. Oh yes, she was ready all right. “For what?”
“Before we fire the steaks, why don’t you whip up the cream for the sweet orange sauce we’re going to have on the chocolate soufflé? The whipping cream is in a metal bowl in the fridge, and the sugar’s in a canister over there by the mixer. One scoop, plus a dash of Cointreau—make it a generous dash.”
“Sure,” she said unsteadily. She turned quickly to retrieve the bowl from the fridge, praying he couldn’t tell what she’d been thinking.
She fumbled trying to fit the bowl under the beater bars of the mixer but waved him away when he came to help. She found his nearness disconcerting.
Nora waited for him to return to seasoning the steaks, and then started the mixer. She held her breath until the cream began to thicken. Oh shoot. Sugar and Cointreau, she reminded herself. She quickly tossed in a scoop of the granulated sugar and, in deference to his abstinence from alcohol, added only a touch of the liqueur. The mixture thickened, but didn’t fluff up like she expected it to.
“It’ll be fine,” Hunter assured her when she complained that the cream didn’t look as whipped as it should. “Now off to the mushrooms while I fire the steaks.”
Nora turned on the burner, but nothing seemed to happen. She turned the knob to set the element on its highest setting. The hiss startled her, and she quickly turned the knob back to lower the temperature. Without warning, a blue flame leapt from the element making her jump back in alarm.
This was different from her stove at home. She watched in dismay as the flame barely flickered. Cautiously, she increased the temperature again, slowly turning the knob to the maximum position. Frying meant high heat—she did know that much. She cut off a huge chunk of butter, threw it in with the mushrooms, and placed the pan on the burner.
She paused to watch Hunter at the grill—or more precisely, watch his biceps as they flexed with each deft flip of the steak.
The frying pan exploded in front of her and she leapt back in alarm. Flames roared toward her and black plumes of smoke rose from the stovetop. A piercing wail assaulted her ears.
Hunter dashed across the kitchen and threw a metal lid on top of the frying pan before turning off the burner. Then he flipped a switch and the massive vent that hung over the stove roared to life.
“What happened?” She had to yell to be heard above the siren and howling fan.
“I’m guessing you’ve never used a gas stove before,” he yelled back.
She shook her head.
Then, as quickly as it started, the wailing stopped. Although the fan still droned on, the kitchen seemed eerily quiet in comparison to a few seconds earlier.
“Why don’t you take a seat in the dining room and let me finish up here? Take the wine with you, if you like. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Nora felt stupid. She knew she wasn’t a good cook, but she wasn’t this bad, either. She couldn’t figure out what was happening to her. She glanced around the smoky kitchen. “I’m sorry,” she began, but unable to think of anything else to say, she turned away.
He reached out and grasped her shoulders, turning her around. She gazed up into his eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see there. Every time she thought he should be angry with her, he’d seemed to merely be amused. But she didn’t want to be a source of ridicule. He’d probably never believe it, but she was a competent, well-respected professional.
His eyes darkened to a deep lavender-blue and they held no hint of humor. She held her breath, remembering how close he’d come to kissing her a short time ago. She wasn’t sure she would back away this time.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Nora. This evening is for you. Let me take care of you. Forget work. Forget your emergency. It will still be there in the morning.”
Of course, he thought she was still preoccupied by her problem with Sylvia. Well, that was some consolation. She definitely didn’t want him knowing that it was Hunter himself who was now the cause of her distraction.
Dinner, with freshly charbroiled steaks—but no mushrooms—was as delicious as he had promised. She even had another glass of wine because he’d assured her it would enhance the flavor of the meat and sauce.
Surprisingly, conversation flowed easily, too. They avoided any discussion about her work. Instead, he entertained her with his experiences as an aspiring chef in New York City.
“Are you ready for the dark chocolate soufflé?” he asked as he cleared their plates.
“I don’t think I can eat another thing. This was delicious and I’m stuffed.”
“Nonsense, you must have the soufflé—at least to sample your contribution to the dinner.”
He brought out two individual soufflés and the bowl of sweet orange cream. “Allow me,” he said, scooping a big dollop of whipped cream onto her soufflé. Then he did the same to his own and sat down.
My sole contribution to the dinner. She lifted some of the gooey dark chocolate out of the ramekin dish and made sure she had a large amount of whipped cream on her spoon.
It took less than a second after it touched her tongue for her to realize something was very wrong. She held the awful stuff in her mouth, not sure what to do. She couldn’t swallow it. It was terrible. The salt was biting into her cheeks and she finally had no choice but to spit it out into her napkin.
Hunter had already discreetly discharged his dessert.
“It looked like sugar,” she said miserably.
His expression was kind. “My fault,” he said. “I should have tasted it. A good chef always tastes the food before serving it to a guest.”
His acceptance of the blame was too much. The evening had been one disaster after another, each one her fault. She had almost burned down the house for heaven’s sake. And still, he wouldn’t get mad at her.
She couldn’t figure out what was going on. He was acting as if this was a date, as if he was trying to woo her. But that made absolutely no sense at all. He didn’t even know her, and she couldn’t imagine she would hold any attraction for a man like him.
“I think I’d better go.” She stood carefully, afraid she’d knock the chair back, spill somethin
g, or somehow catch the tablecloth and send the dishes crashing to the floor.
“You don’t have to leave. I have more soufflé in the kitchen, and it would be easy to whip up a different topping. Or how about a liqueur and coffee in the great room?”
The great room? Where the remnants of the destroyed stepladder littered the floor?
“No, really. I want to go. Is the driver around? Can he take me home?”
Hunter regarded her for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll go get him.”
There, she told herself, you were just imagining his attraction to you. He didn’t argue or offer to take her home himself. Why would you think someone like him would be interested in you anyway? He’s young, he’s sexy, and he’s well-connected. He could have any woman he wanted.
She tried not to glance at the shattered stepladder as she collected her purse from the great room.
And Karen? Nora’s stomach roiled at the thought of explaining it all to her sister.
“He’s bringing the car around now,” Hunter said, breaking into her thoughts. “Here, you’ll want this.” He dug into his pocket and handed her the cell phone. It radiated heat—his heat—and she quickly stuffed it into her purse before he could see how it burned in her hand.
“Thanks for dinner. Good night.” She hadn’t meant to slam the door on her way out. She had only wanted to make certain he didn’t follow her.
Chapter 2
Hunter stared at the vibrating door, bewildered. What just happened?
The stairs creaked and he turned.
“You’re losing your touch.”
Hunter glanced up as Libby Hunter descended the broad, wooden staircase. He marveled at how a tiny woman could exude such a dominating presence. Most people were intimidated by her—he had been, too, until he realized how lonely she’d become after his grandfather’s death. Although she had many acquaintances, few could be called friends.