He touched a curl at her cheek because he forgot he shouldn’t and he really wanted the connection. “What really makes Dixie Carmichael tick?”
“I can’t resist poking my nose in where it doesn’t belong—ask anybody in town. But I didn’t realize I wanted to do it for a living till lately.”
“Read one of those getting-in-tune-with-your-inner-self books?”
“A potential glitch jolted me out of a three-year coma that was a side effect from a messy divorce. I decided to get on with the business of living, doing what I really wanted because wallowing in self-pity wasn’t getting me anywhere.”
“Can’t imagine you doing the pity routine. You’re too…” Feisty, energetic, fun. And he wanted to kiss her so bad he could almost taste her lips on his. “We should eat.”
He stepped onto the stoop and unlocked the door to the future Nick’s Place.
“I’m too what?” she asked, not moving from under the light. “You never finished the sentence.”
You’re too everything, he thought, but said, “You’re probably hungry. I am. All that dancing did me in.” He couldn’t tell her what was really on his mind. It was too intimate and he couldn’t go there. He’d get lost in Dixie and never find his way out. He flipped the switch on the wall, the bare bulbs casting harsh shadows. “Come on. I’ll show you my pots.”
“First time I’ve ever heard that line.” She laughed and stepped into the room, and he nodded to the back. “Kitchen’s that way.”
But instead of heading there, she took off her hat, letting her incredible curls tumble free as she gazed around. “So, how are you going to decorate the place now that you got rid of all Jan’s stuff? It doesn’t smell so much like perm solution now. When you tear up the carpet, it will be even better.”
“Decorate?” Needles of panic pricked his spine. He’d planned on acquiring restaurant stuff, not putting it all together. Didn’t think he’d be around long enough for that. If she wasn’t driving him crazy with her delicious body, she was asking questions he didn’t have answers to.
She pressed. “You know, as in fix up this place like a restaurant? Ambience. Décor. What are your plans, Nick Romero? Surely you have plans.”
She put her hat on the ladder he’d left standing in the middle of the room and ran her hands through her hair. He grinned while struggling for an answer. He wasn’t a decorator. He didn’t even have pictures on his walls in his apartment—and he’d lived there five years. To him decorating was putting the toilet paper roll on the spindle, instead of setting it on the sink.
What would Nonna Celest do with this place? He’d spent years surrounded by paint chips, swatches of material, furniture catalogs and magazines, rolled carpets leaning against the wall. Something had to have rubbed off on him, soaked into his brain.
“I’m doing a bistro effect.” Okay, that was good. Keep going. “Maybe saffron-yellow stucco walls, parchment-white beam ceilings that are lower, giving it an intimate garden feel.” No doubt, this was the first time an FBI agent had uttered the phrase intimate garden feel. “And some plants that can wind around the beams and white columns. Tear up this old carpet and put in Florida tiles. Gardenias.” Celest kept gardenias, made the place smell like heaven. He’d almost forgotten till now. “Wine-colored Roman shades at the windows, sage green trim. Candles.”
She smiled. “In wine bottles?”
He smiled back, because whenever she smiled, he wanted to, too. “Why not. Candles in bottles and tablecloths to match the shades. I never was into that checkered thing.” He found one of the catalogs he’d brought to make it look as if he truly was opening a restaurant. He opened to a place he’d marked. “Here are the dishes and the wineglasses and the linens.”
She pointed to the tableware with a white pattern with a basket weave pattern. “This is great. When does the kitchen equipment get here? I’m sure you’ll have to update the appliances.”
Something flickered in her eyes, as if this was a trick question. Wasn’t she buying his great story? Hell, it sounded good to him. He’d just decorated the whole flipping restaurant for her. What more did she want? “Soon, very soon. For now we can use the stove and fridge that are here.”
He cupped her elbow and led her toward the kitchen. Enough with the questions. He needed some action, diversion. “Let’s cook. How’s that sound to a hungry woman?”
PERFECT, Dixie decided as she went with Nick into the kitchen. He tucked a towel into the waistband of his jeans as if he’d done it a million times, then pulled an armful of veggies from the fridge. He nodded at a pile of boxes on the floor beside a table and four chairs. “You want to grab a pot? They’re in there.”
“I don’t believe it. You really did want to show me your pots.”
“If I hadn’t, that would have been the worst pickup line in history.”
She laughed as she undid the box flaps and unwound bubble-wrap, exposing a big shiny silver pan. “Pasta pot. Expensive brushed aluminum.”
He glanced back. “Mind filling it up with water and putting it on the stove? The two-quart saucier should be in there, too.”
“Saucier? Sounds like a British lady of the night.” She ran the tap. “I use cookware I buy from the grocery store on the sale racks.”
“This is All-Clad. Ideal pots for the ideal kitchen. Cooking is relaxing, immediately gratifying, and you can eat your creation. Works for me.”
“My ideal kitchen has a fridge, microwave and garbage can. I nuke, I eat, I pitch.”
“You didn’t cook for your family?” He washed the saucier.
“I cooked a lot. I just don’t like to.”
He withdrew a knife from a cutlery block, put the tomatoes on a wooden board and slit them into halves with the precision of a surgeon, then cleaned out the seeds. No squashed tomato parts oozing all over.
“Okay, I’m impressed. You really are a good cook.”
He flashed a male grin that made her hair curl even more. “It helps when you’re trying to open a restaurant.”
No canned soup and grilled cheese here. But… There was still that but nagging at her. Was it the look in his eyes? The overhead light in the kitchen played in his dark, rich hair, and his back was sure and strong as he bent over the stove.
He was so handsome. Maybe she should forget the niggling feeling. Maybe she should just enjoy the handsome, intelligent, good cook, laid-back, easygoing man the way Maggie had suggested. Maybe there was nothing up with the guy at all; maybe his terrific attributes short-circuited her ability to sniff out trouble and she was imagining there being something up with Nick.
There was only one way to find out for sure if any of those maybes were true. “Mind if I use the little girl’s room?”
He gathered the diced tomatoes into his hands and dropped them into the saucier. “In this case it’s the little boy’s room, too.” He grabbed parsley. “Next door past the stairs. But you probably knew that. Help yourself.”
Nice that he offered, because that was exactly what she intended to do.
Chapter Four
Bypassing the bathroom, she took the stairs, stepping on the edges to minimize squeaking—something she’d learned when sneaking into her own house as a teenager and she was out after curfew. Only one small squeak escaped, not enough to give her away. Although she wouldn’t have been surprised if Nick had heard her heart beating louder than the thunder that had echoed through the town earlier.
She reached the top landing and gulped air to steady her nerves. Get a grip, girl! This was all part of investigative reporting. And so was getting shot for trespassing, except Nick didn’t seem like the shooting type. Then again, what type was he?
She flipped on the light. Boxes everywhere. Typical moving scenario. A fast rummage through them would take way more time than she had right now. Breaking and entering loomed in her future.
“Dixie?” Nick’s voice sounded from below.
She turned off the light in the room and scurried on tiptoes to the top of th
e stairs as Nick appeared at the bottom. Excuse! She needed an excuse for what the heck she was doing up here. He turned on the hall light, flooding the faded wallpaper and dark wood in harsh rays. He gazed up at her, a questioning look on his face. She babbled, “I…uh…” Think, Dixie, think!
“Needed towels?” he offered. “I wasn’t expecting company and didn’t put any fresh ones out. I just remembered.”
She beamed. “Well, you can’t think of everything. Now, can you? You’ve just moved in.” Saved by the towel. “I didn’t want to bother since you were cooking, so I decided to use the bathroom up here.”
She descended the stairs, the planks creaking as she went. Nick didn’t back away from the bottom but blocked her path. Was he onto her? His dark black eyes told her he was suspicious. She didn’t need suspicious. She needed gullible. Her insides squirmed and she resisted the urge to run. Investigative reporters did not run; they sucked it up and looked brave. Lois Lane always looked very brave. And with such an ugly hairdo she’d probably had lots of practice. “Is…is that tomatoes I smell boiling?”
“Damn—the sauce.” He tore back to the kitchen and she sagged against the wall. She had to get better at this lying stuff. If Nick realized she was digging around in his things, he’d never let down his guard and she’d never figure him out.
She headed for the kitchen. The best part of all this was she now had two adventures going on at once: the smugglers and Nick. She watched him stirring the sauce, and her heart beat faster and harder. Even without an adventure, she’d like having this man in her life. “Did your sauce burn?”
“Close. Do you like anchovies and green olives and capers in your sauce?”
“Never had them together, but I figure I’m about to.” She drew up beside him so as to peek in the pot. Who was she kidding? This was an excuse to get close to him.
He added fresh basil and oregano. “Mind stirring the spaghetti so it doesn’t clump?”
She found a wooden spoon. “Everything smells great.” Including you.
He turned the dark red concoction to simmer, picked glasses and utensils from the cabinet and drawers, and set everything on the little table. He took the spoon from her fingers, caught a strand of spaghetti on the side and slurped it into this mouth, the thin white strand disappearing till he bit off the end and put it to her lips. “Your turn. What’s your opinion?”
That she was ready to lose her mind with his fingers so close to her lips. Her tongue caught the noodle, grazing his thumb, and her insides did a slow burn like the sauce bubbling on the stove. His gaze held hers. She tried to swallow, but the spaghetti caught in her dry throat, making her choke, breaking the spell.
Thank heavens! Not that she wanted to choke to death, but something had to come between them before…Before what? Before she jumped into his arms and kissed him senseless and they did the horizontal hula right there on his kitchen floor.
He got a glass and filled it with water. “Are you okay?” he asked as he handed it to her.
She gulped the water down. “I’m fine. Terrific. Let’s eat.”
He snagged the stockpot with two towels and dumped the spaghetti into the colander to drain it, then set the colander back into the pot. He winked. “Keeps it warm. There’s a selection of wines in the closet.”
And that was where they should stay. She did not need wine and Nick and good food all at the same time. “If it’s not wine in a box I’m clueless—one of the reasons my ex ditched me.”
“Because you didn’t know wine?”
“Because I wasn’t the sophisticated type he wanted. After he got stinking rich, that mattered.” She claimed a chair and Nick served a plate of the most heavenly smelling pasta on earth. He filled his own plate, then popped a cork from the bottle he’d retrieved.
“A ’97 Panzanetto Castelluccio. One of my favorite Italian wines. My grandmother lives close to this vineyard. She took a vacation to Florence, fell in love and never came back.” He smiled. “You’d like her.” He poured the wine and Dixie ate an olive to keep from salivating over him. Tall, dark, handsome, a wine connoisseur and he could cook and loved his grandmother.
He was incredible and more. The more was what worried her. “You know,” she said as she dug into the food and twirled the spaghetti, making sure not to lose any anchovies or olives, “today when we were up at the depot, you kept that Kate Spade card I found.”
He twirled pasta, not missing a beat. “Hey, you’re right. I did. And I have the hat that you lent me, too. I’ll get them after we eat. They’re upstairs in my closet.”
He devoured a forkful. “We should talk about the 5-K run. You need to decide on a route, get volunteers to stand along the way and pass out water. Get some promo out there so people will register.”
See, she said to herself, the card was an innocent oversight. And Nick was concerned about the run, getting involved and helping with it. One of the good guys…or just a good front.
Darn it! Why couldn’t she get beyond that feeling? She smiled sweetly, genuinely. She’d give his place a thorough going-through when he wasn’t around and prove to herself beyond a doubt what had her antsy about Nick Romero was simply her overactive imagination or basic female lust. Then she could get to know him better…a lot better. At least for a while.
But then she had things to do, places to go. At forty she wasn’t after a permanent relationship—been there, done that—and Nick Romero didn’t have that yearning-to-be-settled look about him, either. All she had to do was get rid of this unsettled feeling she had about the man, then sit back and enjoy the fun.
NICK TOOK A LONG DRINK of the Panzanetto and studied Dixie as she ate and talked about Whistlers Bend. She reminded him of a glass of fine wine—robust, full-flavored, a little mysterious—and potentially addictive as hell. How could he stay focused on his work with Dixie around? He couldn’t! He had to keep their time together at a minimum, that was the answer. Only be together when necessary.
“Gee, it’s getting late,” he said to Dixie. “Your sister will wonder where you are.”
“Not really.” He tried not to notice Dixie’s full lush lips on the wineglass, and shoved three bites of spaghetti into his mouth.
She arched an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
“Tired,” he said around a mouthful. “Very tired.” And suddenly horny.
Dixie was way too distracting. But he couldn’t walk away altogether. She was familiar with the area and was damn good at stumbling across clues. More important, she shouldn’t be out looking for clues alone. Way too dangerous.
He needed to watch out for her and that meant staying focused and thinking of Dixie as the job, except that was hard with her licking sauce from her lips. Did she have to do that? He needed to get this assignment finished!
He’d get ahold of Wes and show him the registration card. Since Wes was staying in Rocky Fork, keeping an eye on things there and fronting as a freelance photographer, he could drive over later tonight. Nick scarfed down another spun forkful of spaghetti not taking time to really taste and savor. What a waste of good food and beautiful company.
She was staring at him wide-eyed now. “Fast eater.”
He shoveled in two more portions of food, stifled a burp sat back and patted his gut. “You almost finished?”
She glanced at her half-eaten portion. “Well, I—”
“Good.” He stood. “I’ll pack you a doggie bag.”
She steepled her fingers. “Okay, Romero. What’s wrong? It’s like you suddenly want to get rid of me.”
She held up her hands in surrender. “Just say the word and I’m out of here. You don’t have to suffer acute indigestion on my part. I can take a hint.”
“I’m—” Really nuts about you and can’t keep my mind on my work is what he thought. But instead he said, “I’m just…getting over a relationship. Having trouble adjusting…to…women. But I do want to see you. The time at the depot was great. I like being part of your investigations. I’m kind of a private person
, not real adventuresome.”
Hell, at least the “private person” was true.
She stood, looking more sympathetic. He felt like a rat! “I understand breaking up. I really do. When Danny left me it was awful.”
Awful! Nick clenched his jaw. Dixie didn’t deserve awful. She walked over to him, touched his shoulder, tiptoed and kissed him on the cheek. Oh, hell. Her lips were warm, soft and a bit moist against his skin. Her touch gentle and tender and caring. Great! Big-city liar meets nice western girl.
He was a louse!
“I’ll see you later,” she said as she made for the door.
“Call me if you go off on one of your adventures, okay?”
She turned and smiled, making his insides quake. How could one smile do that to him? Then again, the smile was Dixie Carmichael’s and everything about her affected him somehow. “You bet,” she said. She nodded at the dishes. “I’d stay and help you clean up, but I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“Thanks for a great evening.”
She walked into the main room and he heard the soft click of the door closing behind her. He looked to the table and the lipstick smudge on her wineglass. It was a really poor substitute for her lipstick on his mouth. His arms actually ached to be around her. He licked his lips, tasting wine, knowing he’d much rather taste Dixie.
He heard footsteps in the back hallway. “Dixie?” Did he say that? Probably because he wanted it to be her. Instead, Wes stood in the entrance to the kitchen. He flashed Nick a big dopey grin, did a really bad rendition of hip twitching and said in a squeaky voice, “Hi, there, big boy. Come up and see me sometime.”
Nick started to laugh, till he caught sight of Dixie behind Wes. She stood there spellbound. She finally managed to say, “Uh, I forgot my hat and heard voices and…” She held up the hat. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Cripes. The plan was for him and Wes never to be seen together. Two strangers in town at the same time were too hard to explain. Well, he’d better do some fast explaining now! “Dixie,” he said in a rush, “this is Wes. He’s a freelance photographer over in Rocky Fork. He’s going to take pictures of Nick’s Place when it’s done and some of the entrees and desserts on the menu. Help me get ads together. He stopped by to set up a time.”
A Fabulous Wedding Page 5
