Ripper (Tortured Heroes Book 5)

by Jayne Blue

  Raleigh had been stealing little glances of his chest in that tight t-shirt so her mind was otherwise occupied and mistook the meaning of his question.

  “I think it looks pretty even. I’ll know in a day after it’s totally dry.” She assessed their handy work.

  “No, I mean is my debt paid to you?” Their communication was good, but his English left room for some crossed signals.

  Mace was trying to get out of there. Raleigh realized it with heaviness in her heart. But she gave it one more try. She looked him squarely in the eye, no flirting, just a little taunt in his general direction.

  “Your debt? Let’s see. I fed, cared for, and pretty much doted on the love of your life for nearly three weeks. Does one measly wall seem even to you?” Not so fast gorgeous French neighbor, not so fast she thought.

  “It does not seem even. I am still in debt it appears.”

  “It appears.” She tried another gambit.

  ”You hungry?” She realized they had worked through lunch and it was near dinnertime. She was starving.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I can make us some pasta?”

  “I’ll clean up your painting supplies in the meantime,” Mace offered.

  “Perfect plan.” He got to work collecting brushes and consolidating paint trays. Raleigh began making the one meal she had a marginal grip on how to prepare.

  But apparently, she did not. She felt a hand on hers as she was about to dump the box of spaghetti noodles in the water and turn it on.

  “What is this?” Mace had her wrist in his hands. She felt that same jolt of current between them. He had to feel it too because he removed his hand as if he had stuck it in an electrical socket.

  “I am putting pasta in water.”

  “Pasta from a box and water not even started to ze boil?”

  “Ze boil? No, I guess not. So?”

  “You’re a disaster in the kitchen I see.”

  “Well. I,” she thought about trying to defend herself but realized that was useless, “Yes, I’m going to go with yes I am a disaster in the kitchen.”

  “Let me.” She watched as Mace took the noodles out of her hand and set them aside.

  “You have fresh tomatoes or just this can?” He asked her and looked disgusted.

  “The can. But it is a really good can.”

  “Hmmph.” This was some sort of French word or noise that she could not translate.

  Mace started water, rummaged through her cabinets, and essentially took over. It was heaven.

  She had no knowledge, skill, or desire to cook. She nuked her frozen meals and usually ate them at her computer screen. Maybe if he cooked for her occasionally, she would actually get the courage to walk all the way to the farmer’s market and buy real ingredients.

  Of course, that was getting ahead of herself. What was eminent was a delicious plate of pasta.

  Mace was clearly in his element. The scary looking muscle man was focused and intent on creating dinner where she was just going to heat it up and hope for the best.

  Watching him cook was not all that different than watching him fight. He commanded his space, he moved fluidly and with confidence.

  Before long, he had pasta, sauce, and even garlic bread. She had forgotten to buy that, and he made it? Not even possible in her mind.

  “Sit.” He pulled out a chair for her and then wrapped a kitchen towel around her neck. She was not used to being ordered to do anything but, in this case, she complied. She was hungry, and it smelled delicious.

  “Open.” And she did. Mace slid a fork full of pasta into her mouth. With his own take on the rudimentary ingredients she had, he had created something fantastic. She moaned. It was delicious. Perfect and unintentionally sexy as hell.

  “Well?”

  “It’s fantastic. I love it. You’re amazing.” She was not exaggerating, and she closed her eyes and opened her mouth for another bite. Mace provided one.

  “Imagine what we could do with an actual tomato,” He said, and she laughed.

  “I’ll buy you all the produce you want if I can have another mouthful of that.” She saw his jaw clench. Aha. He was thinking what she was thinking.

  As she focused on his delicious food, she also found a new line of conversation. Her questions about his MMA fighting had effectively shut him up but food? That topic opened the floodgates. He nearly gushed, and Raleigh was able to get a look at what was behind tall, French, and muscular.

  “My father is a baker, my mother excellent at preparing all else. I grew up in a small village in the valley, uh, you would say wine country, so food and wine are everything. Canned sauce. Don’t ever tell her.”

  “I’m properly ashamed and will never speak of it again.”

  “Good. Now let me get these dishes.” He stood up and began to clear the table. What? How is this guy available? Looks like a god, cooks like an angel, and now he is cleaning up? It was too much.

  Raleigh insisted on washing the dishes, though. It was only fair. She nudged him away from the sink and took over the task.

  Mace worked behind her, drying dishes, putting them back, and tsk-tsking the state of her pantry. It was fairly meager and admittedly sub-par for anyone who knew a thing or two about food.

  Mace reached around her as she stood at the sink. She felt his hard chest brush against her back. And then he was still.

  Something in the air had shifted between them, and she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. She was going to give seduction one more try.

  She tilted her head back onto his shoulders and arched her body. She sank into him. Her body insisted on it.

  Mace ran his lips down the side of her neck, and she felt his hands slide around her hips and press them close to him. She felt herself sway into his powerful frame. She felt the strong evidence of his attraction to her no matter how cold he wanted to play it.

  She wanted him to take her, right there, on her kitchen table, her counter, wherever. She had never been overwhelmed or swept off her feet like this.

  She wanted to be swept away.

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