He laughed, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Hank watched her move around, poetry in a pair of jeans. He was tempted to lace his hands around her small waist and bring her to him, saying the hell with the meal. All the sustenance he needed was located just above her chin.
But he had a feeling she wouldn’t be pleased to hear that right now. Not after all this preparation.
He hovered, not knowing what to do with himself as she worked. “Can I do anything to help?”
She raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t really cook.”
“I can’t” He saw no point in lying. “But I’m dynamite when it comes to handing things like spoons or saltshakers.” Hank winked at her conspiratorially. “Try me.”
There was nowhere to duck to get out of range. The wink went straight into her system. “All you have to do is sit back and enjoy it.”
His smile was lazy, sexy, as his eyes drifted over her. “I’m doing that already.”
No, this wasn’t going to work at all. She needed him in another room, somewhere where she wasn’t so acutely aware of his every glance, his every breath. “I move pretty fast—maybe you’d better stay out of my way.” She gestured toward the next room, hoping he’d take the hint.
It fell on deaf ears. “Uh-uh, the deal is that I watch you, remember? Get the feel of all the effort you put into something.” He was throwing her own words back at her. “It’ll give the ad more of an honest feel.”
She’d never thought of ads as being particularly honest. The good ones were catchy, but that was all. “Why can’t you just make something up?”
Why was she so anxious to get rid of him? Hank wondered. Was she afraid that he might see something he shouldn’t? Some secret recipe that had been handed down through generations? Suddenly it was important to him that she trust him.
“It’s better if I believe it.”
She sighed. “All right, but it’ll take longer this way.”
He shrugged, making himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A little more than an hour later, Hank leaned back on the dining room chair. If it wasn’t so damn impolite, he would have been tempted to unbutton the top button of his jeans. They’d gone from comfortable to tight in less than sixty minutes. He’d done his best not to overindulge, but Fiona had made everything look so good—and taste so good—that he couldn’t help himself.
Fiona eyed him, waiting for a response. Though he had eaten and they’d talked on a variety of subjects, he hadn’t really said anything about the food. It seemed ridiculous to her that his approval should matter so much to her, but it did. She wanted it. Deserved it, she amended.
“Well?”
Hank inclined his head, a contender taking his defeat with grace. “I stand corrected. Everything I had tonight was beyond description.”
That didn’t sound encouraging as far as the future of their business association went. “I thought you were so good with words.”
“I am, but it’s going to take time to find the ones that will do your culinary skills justice. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Watching our housekeeper, Mavis. She was a whiz in the kitchen and she let me experiment when no one was around. I told you, cooking relaxes me. I like doing it”
He nodded. “It certainly shows.” Ideas began materializing in his brain. “Fiona, with the right management, you could be in such demand, you wouldn’t have a moment to call your own.”
She grinned. That would certainly prove her father’s prophecy wrong. “I could live with that.”
He looked at the dish she picked up. “That sauce, you didn’t just make that, you created it, right?”
It pleased her that he had guessed right She nodded as she stacked the dishes. “Right. My own recipe.”
He was on his feet, helping her, making plans. He’d already come up with a logo for her. That small stick figure balancing the wedding cake had taken on a life of its own. Charmed by it, Fiona had taken it to a printer to have it embossed on her business card.
“We could bottle that. Sell it to stores or restaurants. Better yet—” Excitement began to pulse through him. Moving around so that he was in front of her, Hank took hold of her shoulders, trying to make Fiona see that she was standing on the brink of something very big. “I’m thinking expansion, I’m thinking a chain. Maybe even a franchise.”
He was getting swept up in his enthusiasm. She hadn’t thought he could be so animated. Fiona placed a hand on his shoulder before he got completely carried away.
“Just think advertising. Local advertising,” she emphasized. “We’ll take quantum leaps later.” It was nice that he had such faith in her, but she had always been a realist at bottom and she wanted to make perfectly sure that each step she took was reinforced and secure.
Hank placed his hand over hers, forgetting the bonanza he was envisioning for a moment and concentrating instead on the woman behind it.
“Let yourself go a little, Fiona,” he urged. “Dream.”
Self-conscious again, Fiona pulled away. “I’d better get these dishes washed before I put them in the van.” She stared down at the plate. “This sauce is almost impossible to work with once it dries.”
She wasn’t worried about the sauce, she was backing away. It was like a dance, Hank thought. They moved forward, they moved back, always in circles. He was beginning to think that he might like to try moving in a straight line for a change.
Following her into the kitchen, Hank brought the rest of the dishes with him. Though very organized in appearance, the kitchen was besieged by a battalion of pots and pans.
Fiona took the plates he was holding. She nodded toward the dining room. She needed to be alone for a few minutes, to get her bearings back. To remember that she was his client and that their relationship had to remain strictly professional. To want something otherwise was just stupid. At the very least, it was asking for trouble.
“If you were the client, you wouldn’t be doing that. Why don’t you—”
He wasn’t about to leave. She was going to have to get over whatever it was that seemed to spook her around him.
“Maybe it’s not my place to ask this, but just why are you so skittish? Most women don’t mind being around me. They certainly don’t act as if I were a time bomb, about to explode in their faces at any second.”
She didn’t owe him an explanation, but the part of her that had been teased mercilessly, that had been ridiculed and belittled until there had been nothing left of her self-esteem except tatters, didn’t want him to believe that he was responsible for her reaction.
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
That was the most banal of cop-outs. He leaned his hip against the sink and waited. “That’s not enough of an explanation.”
Someone else might have shrugged and said, “Take it or leave it,” but Fiona wasn’t someone else. She was far too sensitive to be insensitive to someone else.
She started to wash the dishes. Her voice was only a little louder than the rushing stream of water when she began to talk. Hank had to listen close to hear her.
“When I was fifteen years old, I had a crush on Jason Greeley. At the time I thought he was the most gorgeous thing on two feet. I was sure I would die from loving him. He was in a couple of my classes and all I could do was just stare at him like some lovesick puppy. One day, out of the blue, he walked up to my locker, took me in his arms and kissed me.” She took a deep breath, as if to shield herself from what she was about to say next. “My head spun and I swore I heard music.
“It was a short song. After he kissed me, he walked away and I saw him put his hand out to my cousin, Jimmy. Jimmy gave him a five-dollar bill and Jason smirked and said, ‘See, I told you I could kiss anyone on a dare, even her.’”
Fiona blinked. It was stupid to still feel the pain after all this time. But she did. “I could have died.” She looked up at Hank. “The wors
t part of it was that I was stupid enough to think that someone who looked like Jason would have actually been attracted to me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he insisted.
“No, there isn’t,” she agreed. “But I’m not the kind of woman who attracts men like Jason.” She knew her pluses and she knew her limitations. “Or men like you. I’m solid, dependable and great in an emergency, but I’m meat and potatoes, not caviar. The Jasons of the world want caviar.” And she was never going to let anyone hurt her like that again.
Hank began to understand. “I already told you, I have a weakness for meat and potatoes. Just because I discovered that I like fancy cream sauce doesn’t change that. Meat and potatoes are always satisfying, always good.” His eyes skimmed along her face. He wanted to get her to see what he saw. “Can I stop playing client now?”
Fiona could feel herself begin to feel uneasy again. “Why?”
His smile was slow, mellow, comforting. It amazed her that the same expression could be so many different things, evoke so many different emotions from her. “Because I want to help you with the dishes.”
She laughed, relieved. “I won’t argue.”
“Good.” He picked up a towel and began to dry the dishes she had done. “And while we’re doing them, let me tell you what else I have in mind for your company.” For now, Hank thought, he was going to concentrate on the business end. The other part would come along naturally enough if he was just patient. “You’re going to bless the day you met me,” he promised.
One thing was for sure, Fiona thought. She certainly wasn’t going to forget it.
7
The sound of a doorbell wedged its way between the seams of the perfectly lovely dream she was having. With each peal the sound became stronger and the dream dissolved a little more, becoming misty until the very shape of it eluded her.
Against her will, Fiona woke up. As her brain cleared, she vainly tried to hang on to unrecognizable, elusive fragments. All she could remember, even now, was that the dream had left her with a feeling of euphoria that all but vibrated through her body.
With a surrendering sigh, she sat up. She needed to pull herself together. Fiona glanced toward the clock out of habit, not bothering to focus on it. Whatever time it said, it was too early. The Goldbergs had given her carte blanche yesterday, saying they wanted to spare no expense, asking only that the affair be memorable. They were an adorable couple, still affectionate after all these years, but they had laid a heavy burden on her shoulders with their trust. She’d been up until the wee hours of the morning, putting together what eventually amounted to a killer menu. That had required a great deal of cooking and sampling. And a great deal of discarding.
She’d collapsed into bed sometime around two, expecting to sleep like a dead person. But the dream she’d had had been far from restful.
Hank.
It had been about Hank, she realized suddenly. And it had been erotic. That was all she could remember. It was more than she needed right now.
The ringing wouldn’t go away.
Fiona tried to think. This was the first Saturday in a month that she didn’t have a wedding to cater, so the person ringing her doorbell couldn’t be Bridgette. Besides, she usually had to call to get Bridgette to show up. No one liked to sleep in the way Bridgette did.
It was probably some neighborhood child, collecting for his school or club or, worse yet, someone from a religious sect, determined to convert her. Fiona decided to ignore whoever it was; she lay down again and pulled the comforter over her head.
The telephone rang.
Technology was ganging up on her. Throwing off the comforter, she reached for the telephone and pulled it closer to her. She propped herself up on her elbow and mumbled a drowsy, “Hello?”
“Answer your doorbell, Fiona.”
She sat up, instantly awake and combing her fingers through her hair in an attempt to look presentable. As if he could see her through the wires.
“Hank?” How did he know someone was ringing her doorbell? she wondered. “Where are you?”
“On your doorstep.” He’d been all but leaning on her doorbell. After five minutes, he’d become concerned that something was wrong. Her car was still in the driveway, so he knew she hadn’t left for a job. “I’m calling from my cell phone. If you look out your window, you can see me.”
Receiver in hand, Fiona scrambled off the bed and looked out the window. Hank had backed away from the door and was standing in her driveway. He waved when he saw her. Suddenly feeling as if she were back in her dream, Fiona waved back.
“Open the front door,” he said into his phone. “I have something to show you.”
With the phone cradled against her shoulder and neck, Fiona was already shoving her arms into the robe she kept flung across the foot of her bed.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The robe had seen better days. As had she, she thought ruefully. There was no way she could let him see her looking like this. Right now, she was two steps removed from a bag woman.
Leaping over a cookbook she’d dropped on the floor, she made it to her closet in three steps. “Just give me a minute to put something on, all right?”
“Don’t tell me you sleep in the nude, Fiona. My heart couldn’t take it.”
Fiona almost dropped the receiver. Flustered, but with a smile growing in the wake of his words, she tossed it onto her bed.
“Wait,” she ordered, raising her voice so he could hear her. She grabbed the first pair of shorts that looked presentable. Someday, she was going to get around to doing a proper load of laundry, she thought. But someday obviously wasn’t going to be today.
She heard a faint, “Yes, ma’am,” coming from the receiver.
Fiona could have sworn the words were followed by a chuckle. Why that should bring a warm flush racing through her body didn’t make sense but she didn’t have time to analyze it.
Barefoot, Fiona tied the ends of a worn T-shirt around her middle and hurried down the stairs. Velcro materialized, insisting on playing tag with her. The cat bounded down the stairs just ahead of her. Fiona held onto the banister, afraid that she’d go rolling down the stairs as she tried to avoid squashing the cat.
“S-scat,” she hissed.
True to form, Velcro ignored her.
“You can be replaced with a stuffed animal, you know,” Fiona warned, striding toward the door.
The animal merely meowed her contempt, taking her post by the door as if she wanted to know firsthand who was invading her domain this early in the morning.
“Hi,” she murmured.
“Hi,” Hank echoed, walking in. She looked tousled and absolutely delectable, he thought, turning to look at her. Her eyes were still swollen from the last remnants of sleep. He couldn’t help wondering what it would be like, waking up to find her beside him, looking like that in the morning. “Sorry if I got you out of bed.”
“Oh, you didn’t—” she began, then thought better of the protest. She probably looked as if Velcro had dragged her around by all the back fences in town. “Yes, you did, but it’s okay. I should have been up hours ago.” Velcro was wrapping herself around his leg and digging in, just as she had done the first time he’d come over. This time, though, Hank didn’t even seem to notice. He was probably used to that kind of ardent female attention, she thought, gingerly removing the cat and picking her up. “I don’t usually sleep in this late, but it was a long night.”
“Working?” Hank scratched Velcro’s head. The cat purred as if she had died and gone to heaven.
Amazed by Velcro’s reaction, Fiona nodded. “Trying to find just the right menu for this couple’s golden wedding anniversary.”
A low whistle of admiration left his lips. “Fifty years with the same person. Now that’s what I call commitment.”
She had a hunch that the only commitment he made was to his work. And who could blame him? He could have a different woman every night without any effort if he
wanted to.
“Yes, it is. I guess that sort of thing is kind of rare these days,” Fiona agreed.
“Oh, I don’t know. My parents have been married thirty-five years. I guess it kind of helps to live on a ranch. Whenever they had an argument, there was a lot of space for them to retreat to until they got over whatever it was that had set them off in the first place.”
He’d had good, kind parents who loved each other, she thought enviously. “Sounds a bit simpler than psychiatrists and marriage counselors.”
“Cheaper, too.” He winced as Velcro’s paw brushed against his knuckles. “You might think about trimming her nails.”
“Sorry.” She moved the cat out of range. “I can lock her up in another room if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay. Maybe she’ll get used to me.” Hank turned to look at Fiona, feeling guilty now for having come over so early. But he knew that she’d want to see what he’d brought over. He cupped her chin in his hand, studying her face. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Not much,” she confessed. “It felt like I was dreaming the minute I closed my eyes. I feel more exhausted now than when I went to bed.”
“Nightmare?” he guessed.
“No,” she said emphatically. Curiosity entered his eyes. “Actually, it was about you.” Fiona bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t have said that”
The lady, he thought, was refreshingly honest.
The smile on his lips curled all through her, nudging its way into every open space. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said.
He toyed with the ends of her hair, standing much too close. She should have held on to Velcro in self-defense, she thought.
“Was it a good dream?” he asked after a beat.
She lowered her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. When was she going to learn to think before she spoke? “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
She remembered, all right. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be blushing. He was tempted to coax the details out of her. Hank raised her chin until their eyes met.
“Maybe we can do something to refresh your memory after you take a look at page two in the entertainment section.” He held up the newspaper he’d brought for her perusal.
Fiona And The Sexy Stranger Page 9
