“I’m pretty sure the single ladies in town would be delighted to bring dinner over for you.”
He picked up a bottle of olive oil, flipped it end over end in the air, and caught it in his other hand before he twisted off the cap and poured it in a frying pan. “That happened a few times. I didn’t mind the food; it was the strings attached.”
“I can imagine. Even if you’re not Rodney Loudermilk, you’re still pretty eligible.”
He chuckled as he walked over to ruffle her hair before he scooped up the pepper bits. “The ones looking for a commitment weren’t the worst.”
“What do you mean?”
“A couple of them were married.”
“Woo-hoo!” Julia cackled. “They just wanted you for your body. Not that I blame them.”
Paul didn’t comment as he scattered the vegetables in the sizzling oil and shook the pan.
They bantered back and forth through the rest of the food preparation. Julia knew they were deliberately keeping it light and superficial, but every time they came near each other, there was always a touch. It kept the physical awareness between them simmering as hotly as his frying pan.
Finally the chicken Marsala was ready, and they sat at a table topped with rich green and brown tiles. Julia had set out thick golden plates with borders that picked up the green of the table. Paul clearly cared about the aesthetics of his home, which pleased her.
He shook out a deep-green napkin and laid it on his lap. “Mangia!” he commanded.
“¡Buen provecho!” she said, repeating her family’s traditional comment as she dug into the deliciously scented food. Putting the first bite of chicken in her mouth, she closed her eyes at the burst of flavors on her tongue.
“Hunger is the best sauce,” he said dryly. She noticed, however, that he was devouring his own food with gusto. After a few minutes of silence as they enjoyed their meal, he put his utensils down. “Your Spanish reminded me of the other bombshell you dropped this afternoon. Are you ready for your uncle?”
Surprise made her swallow badly, and she had to gulp a few swallows of water before she could speak. She should have known Paul wouldn’t forget that. “I know exactly what I’m going to do with him.” She’d been considering it while she’d painted. “After lunch, I’m going to take him to the gallery to see how Claire will show my Night Mares, and then I’m going to take him to my riding lesson.”
Paul gave a short bark of laughter. “I see you don’t intend to ease him into the situation.”
“You can’t ease Carlos. He’s like a bull in a ring, and I’m not going to let him run over me this time.”
“What about lunch? What do you plan to say to him then?”
That was the one vulnerability in her scheme. She had to fire him before she could demonstrate her strength and independence. It would be worse if she tried to delay the lunch; he was very set on regular mealtimes. She cut another piece of chicken, put it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed before she said, “I’ll have to break the news to him that he’s fired. He can’t come to the show thinking he’s still in charge of my career.”
“Would you like me to join you? Maybe I can wave a red flag so he charges at me instead.”
She dropped her fork and reached across the table to cover his hand with hers. “Always ready to come to my rescue.” However, she wasn’t going to risk Carlos revealing her secret in an effort to bring Paul around to his point of view. She let go of Paul’s hand and sat back. “I have to face him myself.”
Paul pleated his napkin into an elaborate geometric shape and stood it up beside his plate. “Julia, you’re in a tough situation, and I’m an experienced mediator. Let me help you.”
She wanted to accept his offer so badly, it made her ache. Her eyes brimmed as she balanced the comfort of having Paul by her side against the danger of Carlos spilling her secret. She imagined the look on Paul’s face when he heard about her epilepsy, and her decision was made. Shaking her head, she picked up her fork again. She wasn’t going to risk him pitying her. “It’s like riding Darkside. No one can do it for me.”
She saw Paul’s jaw tighten, but he said nothing as he picked up a hunk of bread and ripped off a piece to dip in the Marsala sauce. She lifted her water glass and drank, watching him over the rim. He tore off another slice of bread with more ferocity than was necessary. His reaction made her happy. He might be annoyed, but he also was engaged with her again. It was much better than this afternoon’s attitude of laissez-faire. “I like it when you get mad at me.”