“I have never, I mean never, cooked anything in my life.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Don’t you ever get hungry, like late at night?”
“Sure.”
“And?”
“And I call the kitchen.” He looked doubtful as he unwrapped a yellow pepper.
“You seriously need a reality check.”
“I seriously need a chef.”
“Peel off the label, then wash the pepper, cut it vertically and take out the seeds.”
Hunter blinked at her.
She rattled into one of the bags, looking for spices. “That’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“That, oh-so-pathetic, lost-little-boy expression.”
He gave up and peeled off the label, then turned to the sink. “It’s tried and true on about a dozen nannies.”
“You must have been incorrigible.”
“I was delightful.”
“I’m sure.”
She spiced the chicken breasts, then chopped up the mushrooms, while Hunter butchered a number of innocent vegetables beyond recognition.
“Did you get cream?” she asked, peering into the bottom of the sack.
“Over here.” He reached around her, and her face came up against his chest. His clean scent overwhelmed her, while her breasts brushed his stomach. Everything inside her contracted with desire.
“Here you go.” He set the carton of cream on the counter in front of her. If he’d noticed the breast brush, he didn’t let on. She, on the other hand, was still tingling from the contact.
She turned away and set the oven temperature. It was too early to make the sauce, so she put the cream in the half-sized fridge and moved to put some distance between her and Hunter.
“Can we get a movie?” she asked.
“There’s a DVD library behind the couch. Or pay-per-view if you want something current.”
“A classic?” she asked, skirting the couch.
“It’s your night,” he responded. “If it was mine, the fantasy would include waiters.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask for details about his fantasy night, but she quickly realized that would take them down a dangerous road.
A knock sounded.
“The sweatpants,” said Hunter from where he was running the cucumber under cold water.
Sinclair left the DVD library to go for the door.
She took the sweatpants and tank top into Hunter’s bedroom, stripping off her dancing dress and hanging it in the closet. The V back of the dress hadn’t allowed for a bra, so she wasn’t wearing one. The sweats were loose and rode low on her hips. While the pale-purple-and-gray-striped tank top left a strip of bare skin on her abdomen. But the cotton fabric was soft and cool, and she felt more relaxed than she had in days.
“You should take off your tie,” she said to Hunter as she reemerged into the living room.
He glanced up, and his gaze stopped on her outfit for a few seconds.
“Good idea.” He dried his hands then worked open the knot. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves.
She crouched in front of the DVD rack.
“Is that the chick-flick shelf?”
“How about
“Now
“Fine, but nobody ever got lucky watching
“Am I getting lucky?”
She ignored him. “Here we go.
He nodded. “Good compromise.”
She pulled it from the shelf. “Action, adventure, emotion and romance.”
“Sounds like a winner to me.”
“It’s not very funny.”
“Apparently, we can’t have everything.” He stepped back from the counter. “However, we have achieved salad.”
She walked over to check it out. The lettuce pieces were too large, the peppers were practically pureed, and there was a puddle of water forming at the bottom of the bowl.
“Good job.”
“Thank you. But I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
She snagged a crooked slice of cucumber and popped it in her mouth. “Then I’ll be sure to savor it.”
He looked down into her eyes. “Excellent idea,” he said, and her breath caught at the tone of his voice. “Savoring those experiences that are rare.”
Ten
Dinner over, Hunter and Sinclair each found a comfortable spot on the leather couch. They had a box of chocolate truffles between them, and another bottle of Chateau Rothschild on the coffee table. He would have liked to draw her into his arms, or into his lap, or at least over beside him. But until she sent a signal, he didn’t intend to make a move.
She curled up, her legs beneath her, and her pert breasts rounded out against the tight tank top. He could make out the outline of her nipples in the dim light, and he stared at them with a fatalistic longing. Her shoulders were tanned and smooth, her bare waist and cute belly button were nipped in above the low cut pants. And he could see the barest hint of her satin panties along the line of her hip.
She reached for a chocolate. “Did you try the Grande Marnier?” Her lips wrapped halfway around the dark globe, and she bit down with an appreciate groan.
He wasn’t going to make it through the movie.
There was absolutely no way he was going to make it through the movie.
“Here.” She held out the other half of the chocolate.
He leaned forward, and she popped it into his mouth. Then she licked the remaining chocolate cream from her fingertips.
“Good?” she asked.
He nodded, unable to form an actual word.
The American frontier bloomed up on the wide screen.
Sinclair reached for her wine. “Here we go.”
He didn’t even glance at the colorful screen. Instead, he stared at her profile, remembering what it felt like to kiss her lips, to taste the smooth skin of her shoulders and breasts, to stroke his fingers along the most intimate parts of her body.
She sipped her wine, and he watched her swallow. She smiled, then frowned, her eyes squinting down in reaction to the story.
“You done?” he asked, moving the chocolate box to the coffee table, clearing his path. If he had an opportunity to move closer, he’d take it in a split second.
She glanced at the box. Then she nodded.
Using the excuse of replacing the lid, he eased toward the middle of the couch, then he settled back to bide his time while the story unfolded.
As the heroine’s party made their way through the bush and the music signaled the tension and danger, Sinclair
