by Seton, Cora
“Donovan, dear, the tea pot is ready,” his mother reminded him with a smile.
At his mother’s prompt, he lifted the kettle off the burner and turned the stove off. He met Cloe’s amused gaze briefly before pouring the water over the tea bags. He let them steep for one minute before stirring.
As his mom always said, “If you can see the bottom of the cuppa through the tea, it isn’t real Irish tea.”
“Well, thank you,” his mother said, turning her attention back to Cloe. “I’ll put together a folder and bring it over. How much do you charge for such a thing?”
“I’m happy to do it. No charge. You’ve all been so kind to me it’s the least I can do.”
Donovan grabbed the milk from the fridge, poured a splash into each mug and returned it. Then he carried the mugs to the table and set one in front of each woman before sitting across from them.
“Please bring the biscuits, son.”
His mother hid a smile behind her mug as he jumped up to get the dessert. His focus wasn’t exactly sharp today. He blamed it on the sexy blonde and a long deployment.
He carried the tin of biscuits to the table and set it in the center. Cloe stared at the small, round cookies for a moment before his mother urged her to try one while he helped himself to two. His mom’s homemade biscuits were the best. She soaked the raisins before adding them, which made them plump and delicious.
They enjoyed their tea and biscuits, the conversation light. His mom knew how to entertain, making small talk effortlessly. Little by little, Cloe relaxed, having not one, but two biscuits. She even finished her tea, much to his mother’s delight. Strong Irish tea wasn’t for everyone, but Cloe seemed to like it.
By time his mother got up to leave, Cloe actually looked the most at ease he’d ever seen her. She walked to the door with them and returned his mother’s hug.
“I’ll stop over in a day or two to deliver those papers,” his mother promised before pulling him in for a bear hug. In his ear she whispered, “Take care of her, my son.”
He walked her to her car, kissed her cheeks, then waved her off. When he turned, he saw the soft look in Cloe’s eyes from where she stood in the doorway. It made him want her. To be inside her with those long legs wrapped around his thighs.
Ah, damn.
What was it about this woman that sent his thoughts into the gutter every time he looked at her?
She deserved better from him.
Not wanting to stay exposed for too long, he strode up the walkway and across the porch. Cloe stepped aside so he could enter.
He closed and locked the door.
“You’re very lucky to have such a close family,” Cloe said quietly.
“I am. How about you? Do you have any family?”
That shuttered look crossed her face. He’d tread on dangerous ground.
“No. I don’t have any family,” she said. “Not anymore.”
Didn’t that raise hundreds of questions? Questions he bit back because the look on her face told him whatever the reasons were, they were painful. Pushing her to talk about them would only bring that misery to the surface.
Damn it. He wanted to push past her barriers, dig deeper into who Cloe Carter was, but he refused to cause her pain. She’d had enough of that the past couple days. And, he suspected, long before that.
“I’m here to listen if you need a shoulder,” he offered. Actually, he’d offer more than that if she wanted.
Her head lifted and their eyes met. He didn’t bank his attraction and she drew in a tiny, sharp breath. What would she do if he kissed those red lips?
She swayed toward him.
Hell, yes.
A knock on the door brought his head up. Cloe jumped back, blinking as if she’d been in a daze.
Instantly alert, he put up a hand telling her to remain in place, and checked the door. A man in a blue service uniform stood on the porch, clipboard in hand.
Giving Cloe the thumbs-up sign, he opened the door and spoke to the technician. His car had been returned to the curb with four brand new tires. He signed, retrieved his keys from the man, and bid him a good day.
“All clear,” he said turning around to face her.
Cloe nodded and rubbed her palms on her jeans. “I think I’ll go get some more work done.”
Mentally, he cursed the interruption. More than anything, he wanted to kiss her. Taste her. But, the moment had passed.
For now.
“How about I dig through the fridge and make us something to eat?”
“You probably won’t find much in there. I was on my way to the market when…” She cut off with a small shudder.
When that bastard hit her. Anger ripped through him. If he ever got his hands on the guy he’d rip his head off. Especially now he had threatened Cloe’s life. An innocent woman.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He gave her a nudge toward her computer. “Go. Work. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
After casting him a skeptical look, she returned to her desk. Donovan went into the kitchen and started digging for ingredients to make dinner.
*
Cloe glanced toward the kitchen where Donovan whistled a Christmas tune while doing amazing things with whatever ingredients he’d found in her cupboards. Which couldn’t be much. She’d never had time to cook before she moved here and she didn’t take time now. Who did she have to make meals for? Why waste the time and energy just for herself? If she could even cook. Her mother had been the chef in the family and that gene had definitely not been passed down to Cloe. Her dad used to tease her that she could burn water.
Already, she could smell wonderful scents drifting from the pot he’d set on a burner. Not hers—the house had come fully furnished. Donovan seemed to know exactly where to find everything and somehow had found food in her kitchen to make a meal with. Miracle of miracles, because she hadn’t stocked the cupboards since she moved in.
Her gaze traveled over Donovan’s broad shoulders, trim waist and oh-so-awesome backside cradled in stylish jeans. The man truly gave hot a new definition. He looked good in anything. Or without.
Heat crept up her cheeks and she tore her gaze back to her computer screen. Imagining him naked would do no one any good. Especially her, in case he looked over and found her staring—lusting over him.
Good Lord, she needed to stop this train of thought before she got herself in deep. Been there, done that. Not doing it again. Too risky. Her heart couldn’t take another break. And this man would certainly break her heart if given the chance.
She wasn’t giving him the chance.
Focusing her attention on the account due by New Year’s, she tried to work. It had been no trouble earlier, but now, with an attractive man cooking up something delicious in her kitchen she couldn’t concentrate. At all.
What was this man doing to her?
How had he slipped past her defenses so easily?
Five minutes later she let out a sigh and shut her computer down. With the wonderful scents filling her house there wasn’t any way she would get any more work done today. Best to throw in the towel and see if she could help.
Cloe rose from her seat and joined Donovan in the kitchen. He was filling another pot with water.
“Can I help?” she asked.
He glanced over his shoulder from where he put the pot on the stove and turned on the burner. “I’ve got things handled here, but you could set the table if you like.”
“I can do that.” Secretly, she was relieved he hadn’t asked her to help. With her lack of culinary skills she’d only be a hindrance.
Gathering tableware, she set the table for two then went to the fridge to find something to drink. Oh, boy. A half carton of orange juice and the bottle of wine left over from the dinner Donovan’s brother had sent over yesterday.
“Um, I only have water and wine,” she said.
“The wine will go great with dinner. I chilled it so it should be ready.”
She grabbed t
he fancy bottle, watching him stir something in the taller pot. Then he brought the wooden spoon to his mouth and tasted the red sauce. Spellbound, she froze in place, her belly doing little somersaults. She wanted a taste too. But not the spoon.
Mentally berating herself, she hurried to the table to pour the wine. He was just a man. A very handsome, sophisticated, muscular hunk of a man.
Ah.
Why couldn’t she stop? Donovan was doing her a favor by staying here and protecting her from danger. He didn’t deserve her hormones turning him into a sex object. In her defense, she hadn’t been with a man since Lance and that had been over a year ago. They hadn’t seemed to be able to find time for intimacy in their busy lives. That had partly been responsible for her holiday plans at the resort. Some skiing, some romance, Christmas traditions.
Look how that turned out. Her hormones had gotten her into trouble then and they couldn’t be trusted. If she engrossed herself in work she’d be fine. As she had been the past year. Work kept her mind from going to sad places. Since meeting Donovan she hadn’t been able to stick to that.
The man was scrambling her brain.
That, or the accident had affected her more than she thought. Yeah, she’d go with that. Safer.
Realizing she had forgotten an opener for the wine, she went back into the kitchen and dug through the drawer until she found it.
“Smells wonderful,” she commented before going back to the table to open the bottle. When she tried to pull the cork it wouldn’t budge. Biting her lip, she tried again. No luck.
“Here, let me. Sometimes those corks really stick.”
She handed the bottle to Donovan, who pulled the cork as if it were a piece of lint. Hard as she tried she couldn’t keep her eyes off his biceps. They were spectacular. And oh-so-useful.
God, she was out of control.
Donovan handed the bottle back to her and she thanked him while avoiding his gaze. Couldn’t risk him reading her thoughts.
“Dinner in five,” he said on his way back to the kitchen.
Sounded good to her, she was hungry. For food. Food was the only thing on the menu and she better get it straight before she got in trouble.
She poured the wine and sat down to wait. He wouldn’t need her help; he looked like he had it handled. Good, she was better off here.
As promised, five minutes later dinner was on the table. A huge bowl of spaghetti that looked even more delicious than it smelled.
“You made this in my kitchen?” she asked in disbelief.
He grinned and sat across from her. “Hope you like marinara.”
“When it smells like this, yep.”
He served up a large heap of noodles and sauce on her plate, then a larger one on his. No way she’d ever eat that much.
She wound a forkful and tasted it. Then groaned and looked at Donovan. “No way you made this in my kitchen,” she said. “This is amazing.”
“Glad you approve. My papa’s marinara is the best.”
“I agree.” She took another bite, then sipped her wine. Flavor burst on her tongue. The wine paired perfectly with the pasta.
When half her plate was clear she pushed it away and leaned back in her chair. “No more.”
They cleaned up the table together. Then stood side-by-side to wash the dishes. The old house hadn’t come with a dishwasher. Donovan offered to wash so she could dry and put them away.
“Does you entire family cook like that?” she asked, accepting a plate from him.
“They do. My parents insisted we all learn the skill. Running a restaurant didn’t leave us much choice.” He chuckled. “Angela is the only one who really never picked up the skill. She hates to cook.”
Cloe put the plate in the cupboard. Conversation with Donovan came so naturally. Too much so. Not even with Lance had she felt this comfortable with a man.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she said. “I never really took the time to learn.” Because she’d been too busy building her career to learn what her mother wanted to teach her.
Guilt and regret washed over her. If only she’d taken the time to do it. Those moments were lost now. She would never bake with her mother. Never learn her special nuances in the kitchen, her special dishes. Never stand side-by-side with her as they baked Christmas cookies for the annual party.
“Cloe? You okay?”
Jolted out of the past, she looked down to see she still held a pot in her hand, water dripping down her arm. Donovan took the pan from her and set it on the counter. Then his hands cupped her shoulders and turned her so she faced him. With her emotions so close to the surface she stared at his chest, afraid he’d read her thoughts if she looked him in the eye.
He put a knuckle beneath her chin and lifted her head, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Whatever it is you keep buried in here,” his other hand slipped down to her chest to rest over her heart. “You can trust me with it.”
Her heart fluttered beneath his touch. Trust him with her heart? God, how she wanted to. But, she couldn’t risk losing anyone else she loved. Never again.
She pulled away. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Then she turned and ran to the safety of her bedroom. Closing the door on her past and her future.
Chapter Seven
‡
Donovan stared at Cloe’s closed bedroom door. It felt more like a barrier than a door. If it had a lock he bet she’d used it. The torment in her eyes before she bolted spoke volumes. She’d suffered. Still did. But she wasn’t willing to share.
That bothered him more than he cared to admit. Maybe because the women he dated usually volunteered information. Hell, he liked to listen. Cloe wasn’t like other women he’d dated. Jill had been good at conversation in the beginning of their relationship. It was in the end that she’d stopped talking. As she walked out the door without warning, without as much as a goodbye. Just a note that said ‘I can’t do this anymore’.
Did he really want to go through that again?
Cloe made him want to take the risk. This was more than a case of him doing the right thing and protecting her from harm.
Damn. How quickly things were getting complicated. He didn’t need complicated. Been there, done that. Hurt like hell.
He wanted to knock down that door. Kick it in and uncover her secrets. Take the hurt away. Carry it for her. Hold her.
Donovan raked a hand through his hair and turned back to the sink. He dipped his hands in the soapy water and finished washing the dishes. Then he dried them and put them away. All the while keeping an eagle eye on Cloe’s door. No sound came from the other side.
After hanging up the dishtowel, he sat on the couch and turned on the television. Her door opened and he glanced over the back of the sofa to see her carrying an armload of blankets toward him. He rose to his feet to accept them from her. Their hands brushed and she jerked away.
“I’m sorry for running out on you like that. There are just some things I can’t talk about.”
“I understand.” That, he did understand, as much as he didn’t want to. He’d seen good men fall in the line of duty, so he got it. Talking about things that were painful wasn’t easy for anyone. He sure as hell didn’t want to share his.
Her soft gaze met his. “You do?”
Aw, hell. Fair was fair. If he wanted her to open up he’d have to do the same. Earn her trust.
“We all have ghosts, Cloe.”
“Even you?”
He placed the blankets on the sofa. Then he took her hand in his. “My ex-girlfriend walked out on me while I was deployed. No warning. No note. No contact to date.”
Her eyes widened. “She left without telling you?”
“She did.”
“While you were deployed. That’s just wrong.” Her fingers tightened in his. “I’m so sorry.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Her sharp, indrawn breath made him hide a smile. As much as she tried, she wasn’t immune to the chemistry betwe
en them.
“I appreciate that, cara.”
This time she didn’t pull her hand away. Instead, she leaned toward him until her breasts touched his chest.
“I like it when you speak Italian,” she murmured. “And Gaelic.”
“Chi nasce bella nasce maritata.”
Heat flared in her light green eyes. And went straight to his groin. He snagged an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. God, she felt so good. So right.
“What did you say?” she asked, breathless.
He smiled. “She that is born beautiful is born married.”
A mask fell over her face and she stepped out of his arms. “I’m not married,” she said, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.
“I know that. We covered the ‘involved’ part already. That’s not what the saying means—”
She held up her hands to stop him. “I know what it means. I just don’t like it because I am never getting married.”
“Why the hell not?”
“That’s none of your business.” Anger flared in her eyes. “You aren’t going to push me into telling you my sad story just because you told me yours.”
So her story was a sad one. That made him want to push harder.
“And you aren’t going to sweet talk me into it either.” She poked him in the chest. “Not with Italian or Gaelic or any of the other languages you speak.”
Damn, she was pretty when she got riled. Her skin glowed, her eyes brightened. Color tinted her cheeks.
He wanted to kiss her.
“I’m sorry your story is a sad one, cara.”
She shook her finger at him. “Oh, no. No, you don’t. Don’t be nice to me, dammit.”
That drew a smile from him as he stalked closer. She stood her ground. He liked that.
“You’re making this very hard,” she said.
“Am I?” He took another step closer.
She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Not happening, mister. Navy SEAL or not, you aren’t strong-arming me into talking.”
He grinned. “Strong-arming?”
Her lips pressed together before her smile took over. The world tilted beneath his feet. Damn, her smile lit up the room. This was a real smile, not the half-attempts she’d given him so far.
