Christmas Male(52)
He saw so much, Fiona reminded herself. What she couldn’t quite admit or understand was that she was looking forward to the undercover work. If Franks bought into their story.
D.C. formed the chopped tomatoes into a pile, then set down the knife.
“Is there something you want me to do to help?”
“Put some music on.”
She moved to her CD player. “Do you have any preferences? I lean toward the classical.”
“Lean away.”
He glanced up as the first notes floated out from the speakers. “‘Pachabel’s Canon.’ That will do nicely.”
She stared at him.
As if he could feel her gaze, he glanced at her. “You’re wondering how it is that I like Baroque music?”
“A little.” She climbed back on her stool and studied him as he washed a mound of greens and wrapped them in a paper towel.
“My father had a huge collection, going back to phonograph records. He liked all kinds of music—jazz, blues, classical. After he died, my mother used to listen to it a lot. She told us it was a way of remembering him. So I like them all, too, depending on my mood. What else do you lean toward besides classical?”
She narrowed her eyes. “All of the above plus show tunes. This is more date talk, isn’t it?”
He grinned and raised one of his hands, palm outward. “Busted again.”
She couldn’t prevent a smile, nor could she stop herself from relaxing a little. She toed off her boots and watched as he tore the greens he’d washed into a salad bowl. It amazed her how easily he made the transition from partner to lover to friend to…gourmet chef? He was certainly good at the chopping-things-up part.
He pulled a brand sticker off the bottom of a pot, rinsed it out, and filled it with water. “You don’t cook much.”
“I don’t cook at all. Natalie and Chance gave me the pans as a housewarming gift when I moved in here.”
He set the pot over a flame. “Too bad. Fixing a meal is one of the two best ways I know to relax and recharge after a busy day.”
“And the other one?”
He lifted his wineglass and held her gaze over the rim. What she saw in his eyes had her skin vibrating in a shock wave of little explosions. Her toes curled on the rung of the chair. “Oh.”
“We’ll get to that.”
And they would. The knowledge, the certainty of the fact that they would make love again had been humming between them all day like an electric current, sometimes with more intensity, other times with less. She felt it surge as her gaze drifted to his hands. His fingers were long, his movements quick and competent.
He’d been just as skilled when he’d touched her bare skin. She wanted to touch him, too. There’d been no time for exploration in Amanda’s apartment. All she’d had was a sample of how those hard muscles felt beneath her palms.
They reached for their wine at the same time, sipped and set the glasses down. The current spiked through her veins again as she met his eyes.
“You know what they say about anticipation,” he said.
She did. But she’d never before experienced it like this. D.C. was so different for her. No man had ever aroused this level of need in her. No other man had pushed his way this far into her life. She’d known him for little more than twenty-four hours, and here he was—a large man in a black sweater and jeans…filling up her kitchen. And she wanted nothing more than to walk around the counter and drag him to the floor.
Focus, Fiona.
She forced her gaze back to the piles of chopped vegetables. “What are you making?”
“The simplest dish I know. Linguine with fresh tomato and basil sauce.”
She ran her gaze over the cluttered counter. “It doesn’t look simple.”
He laughed. “It is. My mom believed in sitting down with the family at dinner time. Since she worked all day, the recipes couldn’t be too complicated. And they had to be fast. Jase and I were always starving. To speed things up, she gave my brother and sister and me the prep jobs.” He located a skillet, set it on a burner.
She ran her finger around the rim of the glass. The picture he was painting of a loving family triggered a sudden memory. “My mom died when I was four, my father before that. But I remember she used to chop things, too. She’d let me stand on a chair next to the counter and watch. I haven’t thought of that in years.”
“The sense of smell can trigger memories.”
“One of the foster moms I had used to cook, too. Nothing fancy. Mostly from cans.”
He added oil to the skillet. “And the others?”
She shook her head. “Not so much. We had sandwiches a lot. Pizza and fast food when the checks came in.” She took another sip of her wine. She didn’t usually talk about her past.