A Fall of Silver (17 page)

But
just as his hands rose and hovered a bare inch from her shoulders, she pulled back.

He stopped, de
afened by the thunder of his blood. She gazed at him, her eyes dark, her face flushed.

Even aft
er he cleared his throat, his voice sounded harsh. “Stay? Until I get back?”

“Not if I don’t like what’s on
television.”

“What do you want to watch?”
His mind whirred uselessly as he grabbed the remote control, praying the cold plastic would pull him out of the emotional quicksand. As he stared down at it, he realized he had no idea what buttons to push.

“I don’t care.
” She turned away and crossed her arms, rubbing her biceps. For once, she looked young and uncertain. “‘Police Files?’ Whatever.”

The title of a cooking show hovered over a kitchen on the television.
“How about ‘Cooking with Ray and Bob’?”

“No
! No, I don’t want to watch that.”

Despite her
frown, he pocketed the remote control absently. “It’ll get your appetite back.”

“My appetite’s just fine
. Maybe you’re the one who should be watching that damn ‘Cooking with Ray and Bob’ show. You can’t live on cinnamon rolls.”

Unable to resist, he stepped closer and
rubbed his thumb over her plump, lower lip. Her gaze was brooding and heavy despite the light flicker of amusement in the depths of her blue eyes. Another surge of desire awakened, tightening his body. “That’s only a small sample of my culinary skills.”

“
Cut it out.” She stepped away and rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. The gesture didn’t hide her breathlessness despite the bravado in her words. “You’re a freakin’ priest.”

“
Try to remember, I’m not a priest anymore.”

Then, before he lost control,
broke down, and did something stupid like dropping to his knees and begging, he thrust his hands into his pockets. He strolled into the hallway, whistling an old Irish tune and headed for the stairs.

Behind him, Quicksilver
let out a string of profanity that grew more desperate as Bob and Ray jauntily announced that tonight was grill night and they were going to show just how versatile a skewer could be.

“Skewer
? Oh, my God,” she moaned.

Startled, Kethan glanced back.
On the television, Bob pulled out a drawer full of disgustingly cute metal skewers adorned with little ceramic lamb heads.

“
Just right,” Bob exclaimed, waving one in the air, “for Middle-Eastern lamb kabobs!”

“Oh, God, please d
on’t make me watch this! I don’t deserve it. I swear I don’t.” She squirmed in the chair, before hooking her arm over the back and facing Kethan.

Standing
at the foot of the staircase, he eyed the wide screen television just beyond her.

Ray pulled out a soft brush
. He began slowly slathering marinade over the skewer of meat and vegetables Bob held. They locked gazes, their eyes soft and moist with identical lascivious expressions, their tones thick with desire as they described how tender and succulent the meat would be.

“You don’t want to overcook it,” Bob said, dabbing on a bit more marinade.
A drop spilled over onto his thumb. He licked it clean.

Ray nodded
, his gaze following the motion of Bob’s tongue. “Oh, no. You
want
it to stay pink in the center to keep just the right amount of juicy tenderness, dripping with flavor….”

“Jesus,
please,” she moaned, twisting her hands. “Just get me out of here! Strike me with lightning, I don’t care. Just do it fast.” The wooden chair squeaked as she wriggled and stared, transfixed, at the television. Her blond hair glowed in the subdued light, cascading over her shoulders.

Kethan’s
mouth went dry.

Bob winked at Ray.

Weak laughter gurgled from Quicksilver’s throat.

Kethan stared at her back and thoug
ht,
this woman is going to kill me
.

Please, God. Just let it be merciful. And quick.

And try to wait at least until I’ve put on clean underwear.

Quicksilver was
sprawled across Kethan’s surprisingly comfortable loveseat when he returned, his hair damp and smelling of spicy soap. Her ankles dangled over the armrest, and despite the lack of a remote control, she had tuned the television to “Police in Action.” She flicked a quick glance at him, ready to give him a smart comment because she was still there and no longer watching food porn despite his depraved action in commandeering the remote.

To her annoyance, h
owever, he didn’t even notice. He placed the remote control on the low table in the center of the room and picked up the necktie he’d forgotten earlier. Then he looked around like Betty Homemaker searching for that spot of dust she knew she’d missed.

“H
ave you thought about dinner?” He shoved the necktie into the back pocket of his jeans.

Although h
e’d combed his damp hair back, one stubborn lock had sprung back and begun to curl over his brow as it dried. Remembering the feel of his hair between her fingers, she fixed her gaze on the television. She longed to smooth that soft curl back as an excuse to lean against him again, to tempt him into doing something dangerous.

When he wal
ked closer, she looked up. The glimmer of a smile on his wide mouth made her wonder if he guessed what she was thinking.

The rush of emotion made her feel…vulnerable
, scared.

She flushed
, hating the thought that he read her so easily.

Damn
.
He didn’t have to look so amused and confident
.
Don’t trust him
. Her stomach clenched. Experience had proven that she could handle physical pain, but emotions, they were bad. They tore you up inside and wouldn’t let you sleep or forget.

However,
she couldn’t suppress her reaction to his presence. He looked even better in casual clothes than his generic businessman’s suit. The jeans were well-worn with the right knee starting to wear through. Somehow, she sensed the wear and tear was due to heavy use and many washings instead of some designer’s artistic efforts at fashion.

The pale blue
shirt he wore deepened the color of his eyes and turned them a rich, intense indigo, while the open collar revealed a light scattering of chest hair with a few silvery droplets of water clinging to the tips.

“Can you cook
anything else? Real food?” she asked, trying to hold on to her cockiness while her body wanted to melt all over him like the gooey vanilla icing on the warm rolls. The scent of cinnamon and sweet, sugary icing lingered in the house, making her crazy.

Or crazier.

Why couldn’t he be mean? Or a really, really lousy baker?

Why did he have to make her feel as if, after all these years, she’d come
home
again where it was safe? Her chest tightened painfully.

That life was over. Gone.
Safety was but an illusion for the innocent who did not know what walked behind them in the darkness.

“Oh, yeah.
I’m
Homo sapiens
, sub-species,
domesticus
. I cook. I also do dishes.” He winked. “Followed with the occasional load of laundry.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Great. Just great. I am man, hear me roar.

“What do you have?
I mean, there’s no point in me asking for steak,” she giggled, thinking of Bob and Ray’s skewers, “or lamb kabobs, if you only have hamburgers.”

“Curried chicken?”

“Oh.” She stared at him in surprise as her stomach rumbled in profound delight. She’d never have thought of asking for curry, but now that he mentioned it, she desperately craved the rich, complex spiciness. “Yes.”

“Come on, then.
Keep me company. You can chop up the white grapes.”

“Grapes? In curry?”

“Don’t be afraid to try something different. Just wait.”

“I’m
never afraid of things that are different.” She slid around him to stroll into the kitchen and lean against the counter.

Each time she
thought she could predict Kethan’s behavior, he kicked her sideways, and he obviously knew it. Although he never glanced at her, a satisfied smile dimpled his cheeks as he pulled ingredients out of the refrigerator and got out two pans. The worst part was the answering smile she felt tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Refusing to
fall in line so easily, she examined the room, the heart of his house. Had she been asked a few hours ago what she expected, she’d have described a modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances and high-tech cupboards.

Instead
of glossy, characterless walls, the kitchen had bricks with a huge fireplace in the far end. A huge, green enamel stove with chrome trim, fashioned to look like an ornate Victorian wood stove, stood against the left wall. The elaborate stove and companion appliances would not have looked out of place in a Victorian farm house.

A counter of pale
, tan marble ran from the stove to the brushed steel double sink. The refrigerator was another Victorian-looking monstrosity with green enamel and chrome trim, snuggly set between maple cupboards at the end of the counter.

“Who was your interior decorator?
Laura Ingalls from ‘Little House on the Prairie’?”

He chuckl
ed and pulled a package of chicken from the refrigerator. After retrieving a cutting board from a drawer in the center island, he arranged his supplies in front of him like a master chef.

“You don’t like Victorian?”
His eyes twinkled.

“Well, it’s sort of, uh, not really a guy thing
. You know?”

“Not everyone prefers to cook on
a portable electric burner.”

“I don’t cook that much.
What’s the point?”

“Friends?
Family?
Eating
?”

“Friends are just people who haven’t had a chance to stab you in the back yet. Besides, wh
o needs the calories?”

He was quiet for a moment before he replied, “You do.”

He cares about you….
Tears stung her eyes.
Damn
. This emotional chaos was not going to happen again. She was not going to break down every time she entered his Laura Ingalls’ kitchen. It evoked such painful longing it almost made her crumple where she stood, desperate for the past. The room didn’t even
look
like her grandmother’s vintage 70’s kitchen and yet it had to power to trigger such grief, such a sense of loss, that she choked, speechless for a full minute.

S
he turned away and ran her hand over the smooth, cool surface of the marble. Her fingers smudged the shiny surface. Blushing, she used the hem of her shirt to wipe the streaks away. “Didn’t you want me to do something? Cut grapes?”

He pointed the tip of his knife toward a bowl of fruit sitting
on the counter. “Grab another cutting board and knife.” He gestured toward one of the shelves built into the island. “You’re not allergic to nuts, are you? I put garlic, shallots, raisins, and almonds in the rice. Speak now if that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’m good with that.
No allergies.”

Nodding, he set to work sautéing chicken
strips in butter. When they were done, he added shallots and garlic to the pan before sprinkling several tablespoons of curry seasoning over the mixture. When the spice hit the sizzling chicken, the room filled with the heady aroma, tantalizing, savory, yet subtly sweet.

Breathing deeply, she watched him make a rich sauce
by deglazing the pan with white wine, allowing the billowing steam to reduce and concentrate the wine and finally adding cream. Constantly stirring, he let the ingredients simmer until the liquid thickened into a creamy, pale yellow sauce.

“Those grapes ready?”
he asked.

Breathing deeply, s
he passed him the cutting board, impatient and starving as he added the chicken and grapes to the sauce. “Is it ready now?”

“If that rice is ready.
Check it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He grinned. “You must be starving if you’re desperate enough to call me ‘sir’.”

“You have no idea.”
She swallowed, trying not to drool as she stood over the stove. Her fingers hovered above the curried chicken, twitching as she resisted the strong urge to pluck out just one tender piece—anything—a grape or piece of chicken. The rich scent of curry filled the room. Her stomach rumbled again as her tongue flicked over her lips. She could almost taste the spices swirling in the moist, warm air.