by Ann Bruce
Feeling human again, Parker rifled through her suitcase, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Owen for packing sensible clothes for her. She pulled out a pair of cotton thong panties in a funky floral print, blue jeans worn soft and almost threadbare from frequent washings, and a cotton tank top with Lucy from Peanuts printed on the front. She shook out her hair, ran both hands through it to sweep the mass of it back from her face and, barefoot, left the sanctuary of the bedroom.
The slick hardwood was cool under her feet as she found her way down to the main floor. Domestic sounds lured her to the back of the house. She came to a halt in the doorway, taken aback by the sight that met her eyes.
Dean, dressed in denim nearly as worn as hers and a white T-shirt that drew attention to those impressively muscled shoulders and biceps, was snapping green beans like a pro. There was just something about a man who could cook that made a woman’s knees go weak. Well, cook and look hot doing it. Watching him, Parker decided that if this man had his own show on the Food Network, millions of women would tune in just to drool over him. Like she was doing now.
“Are you just going to stand there?”
She could feel the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks. “Sorry, you don’t look like the type who knows his way around a kitchen. You look more like the barbeque type. Thick slabs of raw meat and an open fire in the outdoors.”
Without pause, he looked up and lifted a single brow. “I didn’t always have Gordon. I was raised middle-class and both my parents had full-time jobs. If my sisters and I wanted to eat, we had to prepare the food ourselves. We all became very good at it.”
In all honesty, she didn’t know much about Dean since he kept such a low public profile, and she was struck by the similarity between their childhoods. Except, she’d only had one parent who’d worked two jobs to ensure her daughters wouldn’t be taken away by Children and Family Services.
A corner of his mouth twitched and he added, “And I can grill a mean steak. You’ll find out later in the week.”
“I didn’t realize men could grill friendly steaks,” she remarked smartly.
He paused for a moment, as if her having a sense of humor was rather unexpected. Then he chuckled. “We can, but a mean steak just sounds more manly.” A teasing glint in his blue eyes warned her. “I could grill you a friendly one. I’ll put a bow on it. Pink.”
“Pepto-Bismol pink and you got a deal.”
“Like your shirt?”
She glanced down at the tank top and pursed her lips. “At least it’s not black.”
“I like it. Except you look about twelve years old and I feel like a lecher.”
Her cheeks reddened. Jesus, she needed to do something about the constant blushing. In a thirty-three-year-old woman, it was just plain embarrassing.
Clearing her throat, she slipped both hands into her back pockets and rocked onto her toes. “What can I do to help?”
He finished with the green beans, ran them under cold water a few times and added them to a colander filled with sliced carrots, broccoli and cauliflower glittering with droplets of water. Thinly sliced beef, still rare, sat in a small pile on a thick, wooden chopping board. “I have it covered. Take a seat before you keel over.”
“I feel fine.”
“You’re paler than usual, and, by my guess, you haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours.”
Her stomach chose that moment to grumble loudly, supporting his estimate. She frowned down at it before pulling out a stool at the granite breakfast bar and settling herself on it.
“How do you contact the outside world?” she asked, running the soles of her feet along the cool metal bar on the chair.
Dean paused with his hand wrapped around the door handle of the stainless steel refrigerator. “Who do you want to contact?”
“My family. They’re going to need to know why I won’t be answering my cell phone for the next few days.”
“There’s a satellite phone you can use. But you might want to wait until tomorrow to call them.”
Dean opened the fridge, grabbed a nectarine from inside it and tossed it to her. Parker deftly caught the smooth fruit and tested it. It was a little hard, but she didn’t like her nectarines too ripe. “That should hold you until I finish the stir-fry.”
He waited until she took a bite before turning back to the skillet he had heating up on the gas stove. There was sizzling as he drizzled some oil onto the hot surface. After scraping in some mashed garlic from a mortar, he stirred it around, then added the beef.
The aroma from the skillet made Parker’s mouth water and her stomach reminded her yet again she’d gone for too long without nourishment. She made quick work of the fruit in her hand and got up to get another one.
There was more sizzling as the vegetables joined the beef. Parker returned to her seat and, rapt, watched as Dean added a little garlic chili sauce, a dash of soy sauce and oyster sauce. After some more stirring with his wooden spoon, he removed the skillet from the blue flames and set it aside. With an economy of movement, he took down two plates from a cupboard and set them on the island counter in front of her that served double duty. From a pot on the stove, he scooped out steaming white rice for both plates, then piled the stir-fry on top.
“I tried to not peek,” said Dean.
Confused, Parker paused mid-bite, then lifted a brow. “Tried?”
“I’m male and straight.”
“I don’t hear an apology.”
“I’m making dinner. Isn’t that enough?”
She humphed, then took a bite out of the nectarine, relishing the crunch.
Utensils and two wineglasses, which he expertly filled halfway with Merlot, joined the plates. Parker set aside the nectarine pit and managed to wait for him to take the stool next to her before digging in with a shiny fork.
Her eyes drifted shut and she had to suppress a moan. The stir-fry was the perfect combination of spicy and sweet. The rice was fluffy, the vegetables still crisp, and the meat tender.
“You like it?”
She nodded, her mouth still busy. She chewed carefully and swallowed, washing the bite down with the red wine. “God, yes.” She speared a strip of beef. “Kitchen duty is all yours if you want it.”
She glanced up from her plate and nearly forgot about its contents. Dean was looking at her mouth, his hooded eyes hot.
She tore a paper towel from the roll on the island. “Do I have something stuck between my teeth? Sauce on my face?”
His eyes lifted to hers and she hoped he wouldn’t notice the sudden hard points that were her nipples. “No, I just like watching you eat.”
Parker put down the paper towel, brought the tines of her fork to her mouth and took the beef between her lips before she said something she’d regret later.
They finished the rest of the meal in silence, both going for seconds. Afterward, they loaded the dishwasher.
“How about a movie?” Dean asked before she could scuttle back upstairs to her room.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Are you?”
She wasn’t. She’d slept the day away and now was wide awake. She’d planned on staring at the ceiling fan above her bed until dawn, which was only a few short hours away. It was safer than his suggestion.
“No,” she replied. “What are our options?”
“Let’s find out.” He scooped up their wineglasses and snagging the bottle of Merlot.
She followed him. The kitchen opened onto the large living room. It was furnished comfortably with cushy sofas and armchairs, which were covered in cream-colored fabric and flanked by sturdy-looking end tables. A thick rug covered the honey-colored hardwood floor. A fireplace and flanking bookcases dominated one wall.
Dean set down the wineglasses and wine bottle on the lovingly restored antique trunk that served as a coffee table. He picked up one of the slim remote controllers laid out like sentinels on the polished surface. After he pushed a button, the white-washed wooden panels above the fireplace
slid apart, revealing a massive television screen that made her own thirty-seven-inch widescreen look dinky.
Parker almost whistled. “Nice. Your friend spared no expense for his vacation home.”
“Jay says the isolation of the island’s worth it. The paparazzi can’t follow him here.”
Parker, who’d wandered over to peruse the eclectic collection of movies housed in one of the bookcases, cast a questioning look at Dean over her left shoulder. “Actor or musician?”
“He used to be the former,” Dean replied, coming to join her. “These days he only directs and produces. Says he doesn’t need to work out five hours a day if he’s behind the cameras.”
Her brow puckered. “Have I heard of him?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably.”
“Are you going to tell me?” she queried, exasperation coloring her voice.
“No. I don’t want you thinking about another man while you’re with me. Now, stop scowling at me and pick out a movie.” He faked a pained expression. “Just remember that I cooked dinner, so be nice.”
It would serve him right if she chose a chick flick, Parker thought. However, she’d have to suffer through it, too.
She could play with him a bit, though.
“Well,” she drawled, trailing a fingertip across the slim spines of the plastic DVD and Bluray cases, “I feel like a classic. A movie I know that always make me feel better after watching it.”
He eyed her warily.
“Let’s see,” she murmured as she continued her perusal, enjoying his silent agony. She thought she heard a faint whimper when her finger moved over some Kevin Costner movies and nearly smiled. A few more spines, then her finger came to a stop and she pulled out a DVD case and held it out for him to see like she was showcasing it on a game show.
“Die Hard?” She heard the relief mixed in with the astonishment. “Automatic weapons, explosions, and mayhem make you feel better?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Die Hard’s a classic Christmas movie.”
He chuckled and took the DVD from her. “I knew there was more to you than a beautiful face.” He gave her a light shove toward the sofa. “Sit down, relax, and I’ll get set up.”
Not knowing why, Parker was feeling strangely decadent and more relaxed than she had in longer than she could recall. Maybe she had needed a vacation. Deciding introspection wouldn’t benefit her here and now, she finished the remaining wine in her glass and stretched out on her side on the sofa, letting her body sink into the cushions and using one armrest as a pillow.
The movie started and Dean came to loom over her. She was feeling too comfy to sit up.
“You told me to relax.”
“So I did,” he murmured. “Another man would take your pose as an invitation.”
Parker was very aware of the three glasses of Merlot in her system. “You promised I would call the shots while we’re here.”
“So I did,” he repeated, looking too thoughtful for Parker’s liking. Or, rather, too much to Parker’s liking. Then he lifted both her legs up, sat down and let her limbs fall across his lap. He wrapped his hand around one foot.
“Your feet are tiny.”
She looked down. His hand, from heel to fingertips, was longer than her foot by a couple of inches. “I’m short and small and you’re big and lumbering.”
His thumb stroked up and down the high arch of her instep. She inhaled deeply and bit down on a corner of her bottom lip. Her toes curled and she tried to jerk her foot away. He didn’t release her. “Lumbering?”
“Okay, maybe not lumbering,” she quickly conceded. “Now, let go of my foot. It’s rough and callused from running and too many years of high heels…and sometimes running in high heels.”
Dean ignored her request. His thumb moved to the center of her foot. Parker had never known how sensitive that center line could be.
“How often do you run?”
“Five days a week. I…uh…try to do it early in the morning before I get ready for work.”
“Central Park?” He released her limp foot and picked up the other one.
“Um hmm,” she sighed. Her conversation skills were quickly deteriorating and the man massaging her foot looked like he knew it and was thoroughly enjoying it.
“There’s no park here, but one of the beaches should work for you. There’s six on this island. You can take your pick.”
“Um hmm.”
“Or you can do them all. Six days, six beaches.”
“Um hmm.”
“And I’ll run with you tomorrow.”
“Um hmm.”
“And we can strip down and play doctor afterward,” he added dryly.
“Um hmm.”
He chuckled and, to her disappointment, ended the impromptu massage, settling her foot in his lap. “Watch the movie.”
Despite having slept the day away and the gratuitous violence as Bruce Willis shot his way across the screen to save his wife and a group of hostages from highly organized thieves, Parker slowly drifted toward sleep, her internal clock apparently trying to adjust to the new time zone.
Dean watched her, taking note that the dark circles under her eyes weren’t as pronounced as before, and felt guilty because he wanted to cover her body with his, her mouth with his, and wake her up and keep her up until they were both exhausted. But she needed sleep more than she needed him proving to her just how much of the Neanderthal he actually was.
As the credits rolled, he powered off the television and DVD player with the remote controllers. Then, sliding one arm behind her back and another under her knees, he lifted her up, keeping her against his chest. She was light in his arms, fragile, and he resolved to feed her until she had another ten pounds on her slender frame.
Like earlier when he’d carried her from the private jet to the waiting SUV and from the SUV into the house, she snuggled up against him, burying her face in his neck. Warmth spread within his chest. Awake, she didn’t trust him as far she could throw him, but asleep, those barriers came down and her instincts took over. And he had less than six days to convince her to trust those instincts.
Chapter Four
Parker glared at the figure backlit by the early morning sun twenty feet ahead of her. She continued running, putting one worn running-shoe-clad foot in front of the other, each step marking the powdery sand that bordered impossibly blue water. But she couldn’t enjoy her surroundings, not when that competitive side of her was smarting because of the man waiting for her, looking like he’d done nothing more strenuous than enjoy a stroll along the beach instead of a hard run on two miles of sand.
“Are you sure you spend all day sitting behind a desk?” she asked when she slowed to a halt, breathing heavily, but, thankfully, not panting. That would’ve been just too humiliating to bear.
Looking amused and pleased with himself and a smidgen indulgent, Dean handed her a blessedly chilly water bottle. She twisted off the cap and downed half the contents without pausing to take a breath.
“I never said I spend all day sitting behind a desk,” he countered easily when she came up for air and rolled the sweating bottle across her forehead. “You just assumed that. All I need to broker a deal is a phone, so I can talk on the phone while lifting weights or doing squats if I want to.”
His glance trailed down her trim body, showcased in low-rise running shorts and a grey, fitted T-shirt with the letters N, Y and U stitched across the front.
“For a magazine editor, you’re in pretty good shape yourself.”
She lowered the plastic bottle and turned to face the ocean, shoved back the sweat-dampened strands of hair that escaped her braid and let the salty air cool her skin. Her eyes drifted shut as she let the breeze carry away her soft, drawn-out sigh.
Without looking at him, she said, “At the office, I live on hot chocolate, granola bars and bananas. For dinner, I usually hit a sushi place on the way home and order takeout. If I need something more substantial, I boil a little pasta, heat up som
e marinara sauce and maybe toss in a piece of grilled chicken breast or maybe a small handful of prawns.”
He made an unhappy noise in his throat. She cracked open one eye and squinted at him without turning her head.
“You’ll be eating a lot more substantially while you’re here. You need it.”
“Did I mention that I work out religiously?”
He grunted in the way men do when they don’t actually have a response.
She laughed, then toed off her shoes and peeled off her socks. Barefoot, she walked toward the water, loving the feel of the silky sand under her feet and pushing up between her toes. Water lapped her feet, warmer than the pool she’d trailed her fingers through earlier.
“You might want to take off your clothes before going in,” he suggested.
She threw him a glance over her shoulder. “I just want to cool off a bit before going back inside.”
“You’ll cool off faster if you take off your clothes.”
“You first,” she dared before she could stop herself.
His eyes gleamed wickedly. And she knew she’d walked into that one.
Dean whipped his T-shirt over his head and Parker’s mouth actually watered and her fingers itched to touch him. She bit down on a corner of her bottom lip, oddly breathless. He obviously spent a lot of time making deals while in the gym because acres of tanned skin were stretched over taut, corded muscles—from flexing biceps to hair-roughened chest to abs she’d only seen on athletes. Her gaze followed the thin line of hair, a darker shade of blond than the hair on his head, that bisected his navel down to the elastic waistband of his running shorts, saw his thumbs hook underneath it—and knew her willpower wouldn’t stand up to seeing him completely nude.
