His formality, combined with the odd way he was looking at her, made Victoria even more uncomfortable than she already had been about having this man back in her kitchen. There was a raw hunger in his eyes she couldn’t quite identify, but it made her decidedly nervous. Maybe he was crazy about stew and couldn’t wait for her to get dinner on the table. She gazed into his eyes again and blinked at the intensity. No, she thought, that look had nothing to do with food.
“Don’t you ever wear anything besides a suit?” she finally asked, her voice far shakier than she would have liked.
“Sure, but not when I’m working.”
She quirked a brow at him. “You’re working now?”
“Of course. Until this audit is finished, any meeting we have is part of the investigation.”
“Shouldn’t I call an attorney or something, then?” she taunted.
That look in his eyes faded as he scowled at her. “I don’t plan to arrest you, for heaven’s sakes.”
“You’re going to charge me with tax evasion or fraud or something equally unpleasant.”
“I told you yesterday, I believe you didn’t do anything illegal. But once the case is opened, there are procedures we have to follow.”
“You probably never speed either,” she said wearily.
“Not often,” he admitted, suddenly wishing he had at least a parking ticket he could tell her about.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to break just one little rule?”
“There are reasons for rules.”
“Do you always agree with those reasons?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what do you do?”
“Try to get the rules changed.”
Victoria tried to imagine Tate in the middle of a protest rally. Not even her vivid imagination could come up with an impression of that scene. He probably made an appointment, sat down and discussed things rationally, shook hands politely and waited for change to take place. The people he approached probably listened too. She had a feeling he could be a very persuasive man when he wanted to be.
He was sitting at the kitchen table now, his hands braced behind his head, leaning back in the chair and watching her again, laughter dancing in his dark brown eyes. She had a feeling he found her amusing and that irritated the daylights out of her. Despite her misgivings about all of this, she’d wanted to be beautiful and sexy and alluring tonight. She’d searched her closet and found a lovely old dress with tiny sprigs of bright yellow flowers on a beige background. It had a scooped neck, edged with antique lace, that drew attention to her full breasts and a wide satin sash that emphasized her tiny waist. For once, her hair had cooperated and fallen into shining waves. And now this infuriating man was laughing at her. She felt like smacking him in the mouth. Instead, she sliced through a tomato with a whack that jarred the counter.
Tate winced. “Remind me never to make you angry.”
Victoria grinned. “You just did.”
“How?” he asked.
“You were laughing at me.”
“I was?”
“Weren’t you?”
“I was smiling.”
“At me.”
Tate’s head started spinning again. “Actually I was thinking about how unusual you are. I’ve never met a woman like you before.” At the moment, he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“And that made you laugh.”
“Smile.”
“Whatever,” she said airily. She hesitated for a minute, then confessed, “I was going for sexy.”
“Ahh,” he said softly as an even broader grin split his face. “Now I see.”
The knife sliced through another tomato with a resounding thwack.
“You are sexy, you know,” he said almost casually. Victoria promptly nicked her finger with the knife.
“Damn!”
“What happened?” He was out of his chair and at her side in an instant.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s just a little cut. I do this all the time,” Victoria lied. There was no way she was going to let him think that he’d rattled her by telling her he thought she was sexy. It wasn’t a complete lie, anyway. She did nick her fingers constantly. She had this dangerous habit of letting her mind wander while she was fixing meals.
“Let me see it,” he repeated insistently, a look of steely determination in his eyes.
Reluctantly, she held out her hand. The tiny cut had already stopped bleeding.
“Do you have some antiseptic? And you’ll need a bandage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s practically healed already.”
“Have you had a tetanus shot?”
Obviously he planned to ignore her protests and turn this into a case for a trauma unit, she thought resignedly. Maybe he was a frustrated paramedic.
“I think so.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we ought to take you to the hospital,” he said decisively, confirming her worst expectations.
“Tate McAndrews!” Victoria suddenly bellowed. “Sit down!”
Tate’s eyes widened, but he sat back down. Victoria faced him with her hands on her hips. “Now will you please relax. Loosen your tie. Have a drink. Go upstairs and try to organize my bills. Anything, but please don’t hover over me. I already have two perfectly good parents to do that.”
“Did I touch a sore spot?” he asked innocently.
Victoria gave him a wobbly smile. “Well, they are a bit overly protective. You’ll see.”
“I brought them a bottle of Scotch, by the way.”
“They don’t drink.”
Dismay suddenly filled Tate’s eyes. That look of uncertainty, which gave a surprising impression of vulnerability, touched her. She wanted to pat his hand.
“I knew I should have brought candy,” he muttered.
“You didn’t need to bring anything.”
“Of course I did. I read Miss Manners.”
“If you’re so worried about making a good impression on my parents, do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
“When we get over there tonight, don’t say anything about working for the IRS or about this audit.”
Tate looked at her oddly. “I gathered this morning that you wanted to keep this some deep, dark secret. Why? They’re your parents.”
“Exactly. They’ll only worry, and I can handle it on my own.”
“What if you can’t?”
Victoria looked at him, a frown creasing her forehead. “You said you believed me.”
“I do, but I’m not the only one involved.”
“But you’ll do the report. Won’t they take your word for it?”
Tate hesitated. “Usually they do.”
“Well, then. You see,” she said, flashing him a wide smile that lit her blue eyes with glittering highlights. “I have nothing to worry about.”
Tate couldn’t bring himself to tell her that if Pete Harrison got even the tiniest inkling of the attraction he felt toward her, he’d put four other agents on the case to check out his work. Pete did not believe his agents should have human emotions. Anyone who did was suspect. In fact, if they could program computers to do the legwork, instead of just the analysis, Pete would happily fire his entire staff.
Tate glanced at Victoria and felt his stomach muscles tighten at the perfect picture she presented. All of her worries over the audit were apparently forgotten thanks to her faith in his ability to protect her. She hummed cheerfully while stirring the stew. Norman Rockwell would have loved having her as a model. Her cheeks were flushed from the fragrant steam now rising from the pot. Golden-red curls framed her face. As she lifted the spoon to her mouth and tasted the stew, her lips pursed in an enchanting frown. Her hand hovered over the spice rack, then plucked out two bottles and sprinkled a dash of the contents into the pot. She tried the stew again and shook her head.
“It’s still missing
something. You taste it.”
She dipped out a steaming spoonful and brought it to Tate, who obediently opened his mouth. Her eyes were on his lips as they closed over the spoon, and she ran her tongue over her own in an unconsciously sensual gesture that did all sorts of crazy things to Tate’s pulse rate. He had a sudden urge to take the spoon out of her hand, pull her into his lap and taste the softness of her mouth for himself. Surely, it was more delectable than any stew. His eyes, filled with a raw yearning he couldn’t disguise, lifted to meet hers, and he saw that she shared his hunger. He also saw that it seemed to startle her. She blinked and turned back to the stove, her hand shaking so badly that the spoon clattered against the side of the pot.
“I think the stew tastes fine,” he said softly.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
She shrugged. “Okay. Then I think we’re about ready. We were supposed to have biscuits, but I ran out of time.”
She brought a loaf of homemade bread to the table instead and added a crock of fresh butter, then dished up huge steaming bowls of the stew. Over dinner, as the conversation veered off on one crazy tangent after another, Tate realized they had at least a few things in common, though hardly the sort of list that would qualify them for a computerized matchup. More important than their skimpy selection of mutual favorite things were the sparks that flew during lively discussions of their disagreements. Victoria had a razor sharp intelligence under that zaniness. She listened carefully to Tate’s point of view and actually tried to understand it. Of course, she then dismissed it with some totally illogical argument that he could barely follow. When she started to make sense it scared the living daylights out of him.
Still, it was a beginning. But of what? A friendship? A brief romance? Surely it could be no more than that. They’d drive each other crazy, just as his parents had. His mother’s disorganization, her off-the-wall logic and her absolute refusal to think beyond the moment had given his father fits. And, much as he loved his mother, Tate had agreed with his father. Life was supposed to have an order, a certain logic to it. You had to be able to count on things.
He glanced up at Victoria, who was stacking dishes haphazardly on the counter. She was definitely not a woman who knew the first thing about order. He sighed as a plate slipped off the counter and crashed to the floor.
“Let me help,” he said, bending down to pick up the pieces.
“I’ve got it.”
Their hands closed over the same piece and their eyes met. The already charged atmosphere sizzled with electricity. Almost against his will, Tate leaned slowly forward and kissed her. He meant it only to be a light, teasing kiss, the sampling of her honeyed sweetness that he’d wanted all evening. Instead, it virtually crackled with passion. The piece of china fell back to the floor, as Victoria’s hands slid slowly along his arms, finally coming to rest lightly on his shoulders. His own hands circled her tiny waist and lifted her to her feet, pulling her body tightly against his. The curves seemed to fit perfectly into his hard contours, as though a sculptor had carved them as a matching pair out of a single piece of marble.
As her body trembled in Tate’s muscular arms, Victoria remembered every passionate movie kiss she’d ever envied. She sighed, unconsciously opening her mouth to Tate’s exploring tongue, relishing the sensation. The kiss was sweet yet hungry, gentle yet demanding. A riptide of warm, exciting feelings flooded through her, bringing her body alive in a most disconcerting way. She wanted more, wanted Tate’s lips to move beyond her mouth, wanted his hands to touch the breasts that were straining against the thin cotton of her dress. She also wanted him to stop, to give her time to catch her breath. These feelings were too new, too unexpected and far too powerful for her to deal with quite yet.
“Tate,” she murmured, as his lips blazed a path down her neck. The fiery touch was even more intense, more nerve-shattering than she’d anticipated. She moaned softly. “Tate, please. It’s nearly eight.”
“So?”
“We promised my parents we’d be there by eight.”
“They think we’re involved, remember. They’ll understand.”
His lips were at the crest of her breasts, hovering over the creamy flesh. Victoria’s body tensed in excited preparation for his touch, but she said firmly, “No, they won’t.”
Tate kept one arm securely around her, locking her body against his, as he glanced at his watch. “We’re not due there for another fifteen minutes.”
“It’s a twenty-minute drive.”
“We could speed.”
“You said you never broke the law.”
“I don’t, but I think this is worth an exception.”
“I will not be responsible for your fall from grace, Tate McAndrews,” she said saucily, slipping determinedly from his embrace. “Besides, we need to talk some more about this little visit we’re about to pay to my parents. I don’t think you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Tate denied with a weary sigh of resignation. “When I came down here yesterday, I didn’t. Now I know I’m in trouble. Your parents are just the tip of the iceberg.”
Chapter Five
On the drive to her parents’ house, Victoria tried to think of some way to make Tate understand that he was about to undergo a third degree that would make one of his IRS investigations seem like child’s play. Every time she opened her mouth to explain, he told her to quit worrying. She finally shut up, but she didn’t stop fretting.
She wasn’t sure what concerned her the most: her mother’s delighted, if mistaken, impression that she and Tate were involved or the possibility that her parents would discover that he was auditing her taxes. Either one posed a minefield of hazards that the man next to her couldn’t possibly have considered when he innocently accepted her mother’s invitation. She still didn’t understand why he’d agreed to do that, much less why he’d wrangled that dinner invitation from her, but right now she didn’t have time to puzzle that part out. She was far more concerned with this sinking feeling of dread that she was about to end the evening with either an entirely inappropriate fiancé or a companion who’d been hog-tied and sternly lectured until he agreed to drop his inquiry into her financial affairs.
“Tate, maybe we should forget about this,” she suggested hopefully. “I’ll explain to my parents that your malaria flared up again, and you were in no condition to drop in.”
The look he gave her was withering. “I don’t have malaria.”
“They don’t know that.”
He glanced over at her, his expression puzzled. “It’s just a friendly visit. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”
“Because my parents are going to make a big deal about it and you don’t seem to be prepared.”
“I’ve been dating since junior high school and been asked every conceivable parental question. They will not rattle me.”
“First of all,” she reminded him, “this is not a date.”
“It isn’t?”
“You said yourself it was part of the investigation,” she said irritably, then added pointedly, “an investigation I don’t want them to know about.”
Tate frowned. “Well, it is part of the investigation…in a way.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not exactly official.”
“Meaning you don’t usually drop in for dinner when you’re auditing someone’s taxes.”
“Right.”
“Then it’s a date after all?” she asked weakly, her head swimming. Dear Lord, this was getting complicated. Maybe she could develop malaria and go home.
Tate’s frustrated expression reminded her of the way she felt. “That’s what I said in the first place,” he told her, sounding puzzled. “Isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Victoria muttered, then sighed. “Okay, then. How many times have you been asked what your intentions are on a first date?” she challenged, then shrugged in defeat. “Oh, f
orget it. If you’re crazy enough to want to go through with this, far be it from me to try to stop you. Turn here.”
Tate pulled into the driveway of a lovely old farmhouse surrounded by towering oaks that were beginning to bud. Pale green sparkled in the early moon-light against the dark backdrop of massive trucks and mighty branches. Unlike Victoria’s ramshackle house, this one looked as though it had been in top condition for a hundred years, its appearance so solid and dependable that Tate was sure it could withstand another hundred.
As he turned off the car’s engine, the front door flew open, and Katherine Marshall stood framed in the doorway, her simple cotton print dress topped by a ruffled apron, her cheeks flushed prettily and her hair—a shade darker than Victoria’s—coiled into a neat bun. As Tate and Victoria approached, she positively beamed at them. Tate thought she looked exactly the way a mother should look—comfortable, warm and assured. She looked like a mother who would bake cookies. His own mother had burned the one batch she’d ever tried and hired a cook the same afternoon. She’d told Tate she’d rather take him hang gliding and leave the baking to someone else. Having a mother who wanted to be his pal had given him a rather distorted view of things. He’d always yearned to come home from school to someone a bit more traditional.
“Tate, how wonderful that you could come. Victoria’s father and I are so looking forward to getting to know you.”
Tate saw no hidden meaning in the friendly words, but Victoria mumbled, “I warned you,” under her breath. As her mother linked arms with him and drew him into the living room, he shot Victoria a reproachful glance before gazing down at her mother with a smile.
That’s all I need, Victoria thought in disgust. A couple of hundred-watt smiles like that and my mother will start buying frames for pictures of the grandchildren. As the evening wore on, her mouth settled into a grim line. Tate was actually enjoying himself and her parents were clearly infatuated. They couldn’t seem to believe that she had finally brought home someone who was down-to-earth and seemingly financially stable, someone her father could talk to and her mother could…well, mother.
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