Daisy had moved toward the huge stone hearth and was warming herself in front of the crackling fire.
“Make yourself at home,” Mason invited. “I’ll be right with you, just putting the finishing touches on dinner.”
“I’ll help,” she said, turning toward him. “I want to see your kitchen.”
“It’s just a kitchen,” he said.
“Don’t care, I want to see it anyway.”
“Fine, you can have a sip of tea while I finish.”
“Okay.”
He led her into the kitchen and was gratified when she oohed and ahhed over his marble finishes and redwood cabinets. Peaches had followed them into the kitchen and was happily pilfering Cooper’s food from his bowl. Of the bigger dog there was no sign.
“It smells really good in here,” Daisy said as she clambered onto one of the tall barstools at the breakfast bar. It wasn’t an easy task for her, and she revealed a delectable glimpse of soft, pale thighs before she managed to get herself situated.
“I like that dress,” Mason said with a wicked grin.
“You do?” He sent her a warning look, and she flushed. “I mean, thank you. I’ve only worn it once before. At my grandmother’s funeral.”
Mason snorted, then felt guilty for laughing, but seriously the woman had no real idea how to gracefully accept a compliment.
“Sorry about your grandmother.”
“The funeral was five years ago; I’m actually surprised the dress still fits.”
It probably hadn’t fit quite so snugly five years ago, but Mason had reason to be grateful for the fit now. Her cleavage looked amazing in the thing.
“It fits great,” he said. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he forestalled her by lifting his forefinger to silence her. “Just say thank you, Daisy.”
“‘Thank you, Daisy,’” she repeated impishly, and he rolled his eyes.
“Lame.”
“I know,” she said, laughing.
Daisy watched Mason move around his kitchen with effortless ease. He looked so at home in the large room with its wholly masculine granite and wood fittings. The whole house was dripping in testosterone. The furniture big, solid pieces made up of gorgeous wood. Everything fit perfectly into the rough-hewn log interior that boasted both finesse and aggressiveness in its finishes. The wooden floor was adorned with luxurious shaggy rugs, and the living room furniture boasted sturdy but comfortable upholstery. Even the drapes were carefully chosen to be both aesthetically pleasing and durable. The place was a fascinating study in contrasts. It was obviously designed and decorated by a man, but one who enjoyed the finer things in life without compromising his masculinity one iota.
He was wearing faded jeans that molded his butt and thighs lovingly; the denim looked well worn and white at the seams. He also had on another flannel shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal those strong arms, with veins roping over his large hands and up over his forearms. The top three buttons of the shirt were undone to reveal the strong, tanned column of his throat.
“I hope you don’t mind taking your tea in a mug,” he said, and she snapped back into the present, hoping that she hadn’t been visibly mooning over him. “I don’t do froufrou little teacups.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
“How do you take it?”
“Milk. No sugar.” He grunted in response, and she barely managed to keep her grin in check as she watched him plonk a tea bag into a mug, splash hot water in after it, followed by a drop of milk. He unceremoniously thumped the mug down in front of her, with the tea bag still immersed, before turning away to stir the merrily bubbling pot on the stove top.
“Thanks.” She toyed with the tea bag tag as she searched for something to say. “Smells like curry in here.”
“Yeah. I hope you don’t mind spicy food.”
“Not at all. The hotter the better.”
“I like a woman who can handle a little heat,” he told her, shooting her a sexy little glance over his shoulder. Daisy fought back a blush and rolled her eyes at him.
“Stop twisting everything I say. It’s childish,” she admonished, and he chuckled.
“I’ve spent most of my life around a bunch of testosterone-fueled guys, Daisy. It doesn’t make for a very refined—or mature—sense of humor. Fart jokes, sex jokes, and ti—uh—boob jokes, that’s pretty much the extent of it.” He was delightfully unabashed by that fact. But Daisy didn’t believe a word of it. He had a well-rounded sense of humor—she’d seen evidence of it, heard it in the wry note that sometimes crept into his voice when he spoke.
“Who’s being self-effacing now?” she scoffed, and he fully turned to face her, shock evident on his face. “Ah, you don’t often have people calling your bluff, do you? The humble, ‘aw, shucks, I’m just a blokey bloke’ routine must have fooled a few people in the past, am I right?”
“A fair number.” He lifted his shoulders, still keeping that sharp, intelligent gaze pinned on her, as if he were scrutinizing a very interesting bug beneath a microscope. It was starting to make her uncomfortable. “But not you, I suppose?”
“You didn’t get to university while you were in the army, but I’m guessing you did at a later date,” she said, adding a questioning lilt to her voice.
“After going in to business with Sam, I took a few business management courses.”
“A few?”
“I hold a master’s degree in business administration,” he informed her casually, turning back to the pot. He continued to speak over his shoulder. “I started taking online courses in business administration while I was modeling and then studied full time for a year after that while Sam was getting the business off the ground. I went back to studying part time once the business was fully functional. Sam and I were divided between management and fieldwork for a long time before we finally got the hang of things. I preferred being out in the field, and he enjoyed the management aspect more, so I was the guy who trained new recruits, kept their asses in gear, and Sam schmoozed the clients. It was win-win, until I decided to get out completely.”
“Why did you leave?”
“It wasn’t my scene.”
“It took you seven years to figure that out?” She took a sip of her tea and wrinkled her nose. She had left the bag in too long.
“We were successful. It seemed foolish to not want that success. But as the years passed, I just became more and more . . . I don’t know . . . discontented, maybe. I was a good close protection officer, but it could be mind-numbingly boring at times, not quite what most people imagine. No gunfights and chasing bad guys down dark alleys. In the end it wasn’t a career, it was a job, and it’s not what I want to be doing anymore.”
“And you’re still trying to figure out what you really want to do.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to use that MBA for anything?”
He stirred the pot for another second before holding the wooden spoon aloft, his free hand cupped beneath it to avoid spillage, and took the few short steps that brought him to the other side of the island.
“Taste,” he prompted, lifting the spoon to her lips. She blew on it for a second before taking hold of his wrist to keep his hand steady and closing her lips over the spoon. The spicy heat of the sauce burned her lips and left a trail of fire down the back of her throat as she swallowed, and she opened her mouth to fan her tongue frantically in an effort to ease the discomfort. Her eyes watered as she grinned up at him.
“Whoa! That is spicy,” she panted, and he frowned.
“Too spicy?”
“Just add a dash of yogurt to temper it a bit,” she suggested, and he nodded, stopping by the double-door refrigerator to grab a carton of yogurt on his way back to the stove. He stirred a spoonful of the stuff into his spicy stew before taking another taste test and nodding to himself.
“Better,” he muttered. “In answer to your question: I don’t think I’m cut out to be a businessman. I didn’t enjoy the t
edious management aspect of the job at all. Hated the meetings, the haggling over prices and contracts, the legalities and bureaucracy . . . none of it appealed to me. I’m more of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy.”
“So what do you enjoy doing above all else?”
“There is something,” he said, the words seeming to be conceded with a great deal of reluctance.
“What?”
“I designed this house. It was the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I worked with an architect to get it all right, of course, but everything in here was my vision,” he said. “And that got me thinking about architecture. I’ve always enjoyed drawing houses and buildings; I’d look at a building and automatically ‘fix’ what I considered to be flaws in the design. Take Chris’s restaurant, for example; he had the location picked out years ago, but the original design for the place was just wrong. I was kind of horrified when he showed me the initial blueprints. It was all steel and glass and didn’t suit the setting at all. When he saw my reaction, he challenged me to do better. I picked up a napkin and started sketching, and what I drew is pretty much what you saw. I mean, I don’t have the technical know-how—he still had to go back to his architect to fine-tune the design—but I’m a fast learner.”
“You designed Chris’s place? Mason, it’s absolutely beautiful. You have genuine talent,” she enthused, and he averted his eyes. But if the slight flush along his cheekbones was any indication, he was flattered by her praise. “So why not go for it? If your past projects are any indication, you’d be brilliant at it.”
“I don’t know, it seems a little late to be making huge career decisions like that.” He shrugged.
“Nonsense, time will still pass, and ten years from now you could either be an architect or a guy filled with regret because he never took the chance.”
“Maybe,” he said noncommittally. He smiled and propped his elbows on the granite top of the island and leaned toward her. “But enough about me. How was work today?”
Daisy was frustrated by the change in subject. Mason could see that. Well, that was too bad, because he was done talking about himself. She had this easy way about her, a manner that lulled a guy into thinking he could confide in her and tell her anything. Next they’d be sitting around braiding each other’s hair and talking about their love lives. He shuddered at the thought and turned the focus back on to her. Right where it should be.
“It was okay, nothing too traumatic, just the usual stuff. Fifi needs to be spayed, Rover keeps scratching, Fido is limping. Bread-and-butter cases, my dad calls them.”
“Do you see a lot of traumatic stuff?”
“Not usually, but things can get a bit hairy at Inkululeko. When people live in appalling conditions, it’s hard for them to take proper care of their pets. Even though they try their best with the resources they have. That’s why the clinic is so vital to their community.”
“Isn’t it dangerous? There’s a lot of crime in that area.” The thought had occurred to him before, but since he had properly gotten to know her, the idea of her placing herself in danger truly pissed him off. And quite honestly, scared the bejesus out of him.
“The community is so grateful for the service we provide that they serve as our protection. And we’ve even had a few of the shadier types bring their dogs in for medication and treatment. We’ve been treated with nothing but respect.”
“There are always those who want to ruin things for others,” Mason pointed out, keeping his voice mild even though he was desperate to urge her to beef up security for her clinic. Even one guard. Mason could organize it. Still, he knew that he didn’t have a right to be concerned over her safety, and he for damned sure had no say in how she ran her clinic or where she conducted it.
“It’s fine. We have ample protection. The clinic is very busy, and there are always people about. Perfectly safe.”
Mason kept his own counsel but wondered how soon he could arrange a visit to the clinic and assess the situation himself.
“Anyway, I think the food’s about done. I’ve already set the table, so if you’d like to wander into the living area and have a seat, I’ll bring everything out.”
“Nonsense, I’ll help,” she dismissed. She glanced around for the dogs and couldn’t spot either of them. They were both terribly quiet, so at least they hadn’t killed each other.
“Where are the pooches?” she asked, and Mason cast a disconcerted look down at the floor.
“No idea,” he responded. He went to the doorway and looked into the living room and then chuckled quietly before waving Daisy over to come and see. She hopped off the barstool and tried to squeeze into the doorway next to Mason, and he took hold of her elbow and tucked her against his side so that the top of her head was nestled beneath his armpit. She tried to ignore his heat and his gorgeous scent while looking to where he was pointing. Peaches had claimed Cooper’s huge dog bed. The small dog was sleeping soundly, curled up into a tiny, fluffy ball while poor Cooper sat on the carpet, about six feet away. He was staring at Peaches with his head cocked and his adorable face rumpled into that concerned, baffled expression that only retrievers seemed able to achieve.
“Oh, poor baby. That hardly seems fair, I’ll get my bossy little diva out of there before the situation deteriorates.”
“He won’t hurt her,” Mason whispered, his breath ruffling the hair above her ear. “He’s just trying to figure her out. In the meantime, he’ll let her walk all over him until he knows how to deal with the situation.”
“But it’s his house, and Peaches has just taken over.”
“Women.” Mason chuckled, and she slanted him a glance.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He just grinned and cheekily stole another one of those unexpected kisses from her.
“Grab the wine while I bring out the food.” Still reeling a little from the kiss, Daisy was a little slow on the uptake until he stepped away to put a bottle in her hands and then put his hands on her shoulders to physically turn her until she was facing the kitchen door again.
“Off you go,” he said before swatting her lightly on her butt. She gasped and nearly dropped the bottle in surprise. Another unrepentant grin before he headed for one of the cabinets to remove a few serving bowls.
“Oh my God, that was so good,” Daisy moaned later. “I can’t believe I finished all of it. Between this and all that bread at Chris’s yesterday, I’m never going to fit into that stupid bridesmaid’s dress.”
She stared down at her empty plate in dismay; every last bit of curry sauce had been wiped up with the buttery homemade roti, which had been served as an accompaniment to the saucy lamb vindaloo.
“Glad you enjoyed it.” Mason smiled at her over the rim of his wineglass.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“A woman I dated, Vashti. This is her recipe.”
“Oh?” Daisy tried to keep her voice casual but failed miserably. “How long were you with her?”
“A year or so. She wanted more, and I didn’t have any more to give.” He twirled the wine stem between his thumb and forefinger, a thoughtful look on his face.
“I see.”
“Do you?” he asked, a cynical tilt to his mouth. “Women always say they understand, but they never truly do. So what do you see, Daisy?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
She stared at him for a long while, giving the question the gravity it deserved.
“I see a man who enjoys the company of women but prefers not to get too attached to them. Falling in love makes you vulnerable, and I see a man who doesn’t like having any vulnerabilities. I see a man who’s never really content with what he has, no matter how perfect it seems, and is always searching for something newer or better.”
He drained his glass and put it down on the table carefully.
“All that?” he mused. “From what? Just three days’ acquaintance?”
“Well, we have been on a ‘getting to know you’ intensive crash course.” S
he forced the flippant words past her dry throat and took a sip of her own wine to ease her hoarseness somewhat.
“I suppose we have. Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you?”
“Oh, please don’t.” The words were soft and pleading, and Daisy was ashamed by how unevenly they tumbled from her lips. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mason.”
“I’m not offended,” he said, emptying the rest of the wine into his glass and draining half of it before continuing on. “Just impressed by your remarkable powers of observation.”
He said he wasn’t offended, yet there was something about the stiffness of his shoulders and the cadence of his voice that told her that her comments had touched a nerve. She cursed the glass of wine that had loosened her tongue and futilely wished her words back.
“I also see a man who has gone out of his way to help a complete stranger save face in front of her family and friends,” she tacked on desperately, and he smiled, a cold, cynical movement of his lips that was a terrible caricature of his usual smile.
“You could argue that my motivations are completely self-serving,” he pointed out.
“I don’t see how they could be. You’re only doing this because you allowed your conscience and guilt to get the better of you.”
“Yeah? Or maybe I’m doing it because I want to fuck you senseless, and this is all a means to that end.”
Daisy gasped, his mocking words slamming against her fragile defenses like boulders. Why would he say something like that? It was heartbreakingly disappointing to discover that he was just like everybody else after all and Daisy was the butt of yet another stupid male joke she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
The Wingman Page 16
