Texas Secrets (8 page)

"You're not afraid to be alone with me, are you, Boone?" Maddie's eyes glowed silver. He couldn't decide if it was mischief or worry.

He studied her slowly. "No reason to be, is there?" But he knew there was. From where he stood, he could smell her, the rich, mysterious scent that wafted through his dreams all too often.

"I can't waste any more time standing here." He clapped his hat back on his head. "I've got work to do."

Behind him, he heard Maddie's exhaled frustration. He was being hard on her, but he had his reasons.

It was damn foolish, but somehow even knowing that Maddie's bed lay only thirty feet or so from his every night, Vondell's presence downstairs had provided a barrier. Now Vondell was gone, and the nights would get a whole lot longer.

He wished he could forget the feel of Maddie's body, wished he could banish the images that crowded in—Maddie smiling and laughing, carrying on with Vondell, teasing Jim. Checking on that calf every day like it was her pet dog, for Pete's sake.

Maddie was sexy, there was no doubt about it. That voice seemed to crawl down his spine and settle deep into his gut every time he heard it. But it was Maddie's spirit that was far more dangerous to him.

She breathed life into this old place, just as Sam had wanted, damn him. And in a few weeks, she would leave and take the sparkle with her. A fast round of hot sex would relieve some of the pressure for the moment, but it would only make things worse in the long run.

Boone already felt in his bones that if he ever got his hands on Maddie, once would never be enough.

And now their chaperone was gone. The hands left at night, too.

This house was big, all right.

But it would never be big enough for him to forget that Maddie was in it with him.

Chapter Five

Boone stopped on the back porch for a minute, rolling his left shoulder and cursing the mare. Dancer got more fractious by the day. She was new since he'd last been on the ranch, but everything told him her labor wouldn't be easy. He'd have to watch her closely.

It had been a long day. He'd slap a sandwich together and try not to miss Vondell's cooking too much. All he needed was a shower, something in his belly, and several hours in the sack.

The minute he opened the kitchen door, something smelled so good Boone's mouth started watering.

Then his gaze lit on Maddie, and he almost groaned out loud.

She looked right at home. And she looked good, damn it.

Her dark hair was piled haphazardly on her head, anchored by what looked like chopsticks that shimmied gently as she turned. "Hi. Ready to eat?" Maddie smiled.

"I told you not to cook for me."

"No, you told me I didn't
have
to cook for you. I miss cooking. Gotta keep my knife hand sharp."

The sparkle in her eyes, the mischief in her grin, both drew him like a beacon.

As if ignoring her presence in the night ahead wasn't already going to be tough enough.

He should get started ignoring her now—but man, did something smell good.

Her smile widened. "No radish roses, I promise."

Boone couldn't help his own grin. "Don't tell me—tofu burgers instead."

Maddie's laugh started out pure and clear like a bell, then slid down the scale to low, sultry chuckle. For a moment, all Boone could do was stare. Escaping tendrils of her hair curled around a face flushed from the stove's heat, and she had a smudge of flour on one cheek. She wore old cutoff jeans and another one of those damn too-short tops that exposed the smooth skin of her midriff. One of Vondell's aprons was wrapped around that sweet patch of skin right now—but Boone knew it was there.

And his fingers wanted to touch it.

Badly.

Just one slow slide of fingertips across satin. It
would
be satin, he was sure of it.

"I'm happy to know you're interested," she said.

His body responded so fast that Boone almost got whiplash, jerking his head up. "You...are?" he croaked.

"I like tofu burgers. I make great ones."

Damn. Close call. She would know his thoughts if he didn't get control, quick.

Then he looked closer. Within that sparkle of mischief, the sure instinct of a woman gleamed. Her pupils went dark in silent response to him.

It was already too late. She knew.

His gaze slid down to those lips that drove him crazy. His hands flexed, fingers ready to slide beneath that apron.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt anything. Maybe they could—

No
. The old prickling warning stopped him. Nothing would be simple or easy with Maddie. He would want more than one roll in the hay with this woman.

Boone tore his gaze away and stared toward the hall, clearing a throat gone suddenly parched. "I've got horse and sweat all over me. Do I have time to shower?"

He risked one glance at Maddie. The smooth skin above her bodice flushed rosy. Her lips were slightly parted, and the mischief had fled from her eyes. He saw a different Maddie—unsteady and vulnerable, not her usual cheerful, indomitable self. Boone realized he'd come to expect Maddie to always rise to the challenge, to stay unflappable in her own flaky way.

He didn't like knowing that he'd caused it. Not when there was no future in pursuing it.

Oh, he'd like to rattle Maddie, big-time. He'd like to rock the foundations of her world. Drown himself in making love to her and pull her into the whirlpool with him.

But Maddie didn't belong here. She wouldn't stay.

And he wasn't leaving this place again. Couldn't afford to have it haunted anymore than it already was.

Almost a whisper, her answer drifted to him in that damn husky voice. "Ten minutes enough?"

Boone felt the sting of wry amusement, but he didn't grin. Ten
years
wouldn't be enough.

"Ten minutes it is." Boone made a grateful escape.

* * *

He wanted her
.

Maddie stared across the now-empty kitchen, her mind reeling like a drunk in search of the next bottle.

Then her common sense took over.

Boone might want her, but he didn't like her. Robert had once wanted her, too. Had praised her, turned her head with compliments, made her feel unique and special. At first.

But it had been as much because he'd needed her and the flair he had praised to insure the success of the restaurant. Maddie knew now that she had been the magic ingredient that had packed the place every night. It wasn't arrogant to admit that—she'd had many reports that the restaurant stood half-empty most nights now. The patrons apparently missed both her cooking and the visits she made to the tables. Maddie loved feeding people, listening to them, keeping up with their families. Making them her family.

It was pathetic how long it had taken Maddie to realize that exactly the color and flair that made her a prized chef had been what Robert had tried to stamp out of her when the restaurant doors were closed. As if she should have some off/on switch like he did—all charm and grace during working hours but all Boston propriety the rest of the time.

Boone needed Maddie, too. To keep his ranch intact.

But he didn't approve of her, didn't like who she was, didn't believe she belonged here. No amount of pleasure, no amount of wondering how those strong hands would feel all over her body, was worth having to recover her sense of herself again.

She didn't have an off/on switch. She was who she was, and she had no one else now. If Maddie let anyone destroy her faith in herself again, she didn't know if she could rebuild it this time.

Boone tempted her, all right. A lot. Something about him called to her and it wasn't just a set of impressive muscles or a handsome face.

But he didn't want her here, not permanently. It was right that he should have this house that meant so much to him, but Maddie already thought that she might want to come back, just to visit. There was something about this place that pulled at her, despite knowing that she would never truly fit.

If she and Boone could be friends, she could come back to visit, maybe. He would marry and have children, sure—make this house the home that he remembered from happier times. She could be friends with his wife, bring presents to his kids.

If
they were friends. Only friends and nothing more.

The crackle of butter close to burning yanked Maddie back.
Just cook, Maddie. Get through dinner. Then go take your walk and get away from him. With any luck he'll be in bed before you return
.

* * *

Boone drained his glass of ice water and got up to refill it.

"Thanks. I can't leave this right now." Maddie spoke to him but her gaze was firmly fixed upon the stove.

"This isn't your restaurant. You don't have to give me good service. I've been taking care of myself for a long time now."

She did glance up at him then. "I guess old habits are hard to break. I waited tables for a long time while I was learning the business." The mischief rose again. "I made good money on tips."

He grinned back. "Whoever had you waiting tables instead of making the food was a fool. That smells great."

Delight sparkled in her eyes. "You haven't tried it yet."

"Need a taster?"

For just a second, he could swear he saw nerves fracture the delight. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and reached in a nearby drawer for a spoon. Scooping up sauce, she blew across the spoon before lifting it to his mouth. Boone couldn't take his gaze from her lips.

When he didn't respond quickly enough to the raised spoon, Maddie looked up at him. Their gazes slid together, and Boone felt his breath lock up in his chest.

She was so close. All he had to do was reach out and touch the flesh his hands still remembered.

Maddie's breasts rose with her quick inhalation. Her nostrils flared. Those eerie silvery eyes went dark, and Boone knew all he had to do was take the next step. She was as aware of him as he was of her.

And she wasn't stepping away.

He could kiss those lips. He could taste her on his tongue. He could lick a slow, soft trail down the slender line of her throat, sip the salty dew from her body.

The oven buzzer went off, and jolted them both.

Boone gripped his glass so hard it was a miracle it didn't break."I'll wait for the meal." He turned away, grasping for control, hearing his voice crack like it hadn't since adolescence. As fast as he could, he put kitchen floor between them.

This was never going to work. They were oil and water. Maddie was meant for bright lights and center stage. He only wanted the horses, the big sky, the quiet.

She was going to leave, and he would stay. 

The barn was full, but maybe he should make room in the tack room. Or the back of his truck. Or anywhere but locked in this house with Maddie.

Twenty-six days and counting.

When she set the food on the table, Boone couldn't stifle his amazement at the simple fare. Linguine with marinara sauce. Salad. Garlic bread, hot from the oven.

His amazement must have shown.

"I told you—no radish roses."

Boone glanced up. Nerves and something darker danced in her eyes, but she held her head high and proud as if daring him to say anything about what had happened.

"I figured it would still be something fancy."

"Taste it. I told you, good food is good food."

So he did. And it was the best thing he'd put in his mouth in ages. Vondell was a good cook, but this sauce held a world of flavors, robust and teasing on his tongue. He took a bite of the bread and almost sighed out loud.

He realized Maddie wasn't eating, just watching him. "You're not going to eat?"

"I will, but right now, I'm just enjoying seeing someone eat my food again. It's what I do. I feed people."

"I can't imagine why anyone ever let you leave New York. This is the best marinara I've ever tasted."

Surprise and delight jousted for top billing. "You know it's marinara?"

Boone had to smile. "I've traveled a lot of places. And people in Texas know what marinara is, Maddie." He shook his head. "Well, Jim probably doesn't, but—"

Maddie laughed then, and Boone let the sound of it wash over him like a river's bounty in the heat of summer. For a moment, he wanted to stop time, to simply enjoy the moment—the food, the laughter, the woman. To let it cleanse away the layers of hard feelings that time had painted into the corners of every room of this house.

In that instant Boone could feel what it had been like when his mother was alive, when this house had last rung with laughter.

"Did your wife like to cook?"

Boone froze. "Who talked to you about Helen?"

"No one talked to me about her, not really. Jim just mentioned...I'm sorry. I know she died. It must have been very hard on you. If you don't want to talk about her—"

"I don't."

"I see." She went solemn. "I'm sorry."

"You don't see, but it doesn't matter." He'd known better than to let down his guard. "We don't need to know each other's life stories. No point in it."

Maddie laid down her fork and drew a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. All the mischief and fun had vanished from her eyes. Slowly she rose and carried her untouched plate to the counter, removing her apron.

"It's time for my walk. Just leave the kitchen and I'll clean it up when I get back." A tiny tremor threaded through her voice as her lips curved faintly at the corners. "They say the best chefs make the biggest messes. It's pretty obvious I'm a great chef."

Then she left, her gait stiff as if holding herself together. She headed out the front door and down the hill, as was her nightly habit.

Boone stared at his plate and wondered if he ought to just go kick a puppy for good measure.

* * *

After cleaning the kitchen, Boone walked out onto the front porch and sat on the steps, looking out toward the dwindling twilight. He didn't see Maddie on the road anywhere, but her car was still here so she couldn't have gone far.

He scanned the vista before him, his gaze, as always, wandering toward the little pioneer cemetery down the hill on a piece of their land. Coyote Valley Cemetery held the bones of those who had settled this place, had carved out lives from a harsh, unwelcoming land.