The Perfect Ingredient (Dare Valley) (2 page)

“I’m giving up swearing for a while. Now are you going to let me come in? I’m freezing my ass… Jeez, you have no idea how hard it is to talk without using bad words.” He pulled another bill from his wallet and tucked both of them into his pocket.

Her inhalation was stark, like she was gasping for breath. “You’re different from how I remembered.”

The last two years and all the secrets between them rose up in his throat. He swallowed thickly. “So are you.”

“You shouldn’t have come to my house late at night like this, Terrance.” She exhaled jaggedly as she said it, making him wonder again what was wrong, why she seemed afraid.

“Just because I’m pissed at you, doesn’t mean I would hurt you. Ever. I only want to talk. Don’t you think it’s time? Your secret is out to the world now, and I deserve an explanation.”

“You think so, huh?” Her eyes narrowed. “It was two years ago.”

“Well, it cut me in two.” He hadn’t planned on revealing the truth to her, but perhaps it would ease the fear hovering around her, something he hated himself for causing.

Her mouth parted, and she took another tortured breath before stepping back to let him inside. He entered and reached down to pull off his wet hiking boots, which was when he noticed a baseball bat resting against the wall beside the door.

So this was more than a simple fear of him.

When he stood, he gestured to the Louisville Slugger. “What’s going on? Have you formed a newfound appreciation for baseball, or is there something you’re afraid of right now?”

She shoved the bat into the nearby closet as he shed his jacket. “I told you that you shouldn’t have come here at this hour. It scared me, hearing you come up the drive, not knowing who it was.”

Vixen hadn’t ever seemed afraid. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought about that.” And now he felt like the world’s biggest jerk.

Her house was a revelation, a window into who she was. They’d both had suites in The Peacock, but even the best hotel room was impersonal and cold. There had been no insights into her character there.

This place was different.

There was a sense of comfort, elegance even, but he hadn’t expected the simplicity. Cool tones and clean lines defined the space, from her cream leather couches resting in a U in front of a waning fire to the seascape portrait resting above the mantle. Other café scenes of a woman drinking coffee or a martini hung around the room. The walls were powder blue, like her eyes, and he cursed himself again as he remembered telling her how much they reminded him of the ocean.

What a fool he’d been.

Now he was a fool who’d lost two hundred dollars already, and he hadn’t even been in her presence ten minutes. At least the money was going to charity at the end of his probationary term, and at the rate he was going, he would likely be on their board of directors for all the money he’d be donating.

“I like your house,” he said, and she jumped at the sound of his voice.

Now he knew something was really wrong. This wasn’t just a momentary flash of fear. Something had her spooked. And her reaction told him she wasn’t used to men showing up here at night. A primal satisfaction streaked through him that there was no one else right now, even though he knew it was ridiculous. She was right. Two years was a long time, but he couldn’t control how he felt.

“Terrance, just say what you need to say and go,” she said softly, and without her usual fire.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. He was a passionate person, and from what he remembered, so was she. He’d thought they would yell. Now he wondered how much of an illusion Vixen had been. There was a poker tournament paused on the big screen in the corner of her den, but it was the only outward sign of Vixen. Did the woman he’d fallen for really exist, or had she been another one of Vegas’ mirages? He had to know.

“I’d like to fix you something special to make up for coming here and scaring you,” he said with new determination. “You always loved late-night desserts. Where’s your kitchen?”

Her eyes fell to the floor, and he could all but feel her remembering him coming back to her suite with a special dessert he’d concocted just for her and then feeding it to her in bed. His own body tightened with lust.

“I didn’t come here for that, Vix…Elizabeth. What should I call you?”

“Elizabeth is fine. And you don’t need to make me anything.”

“Without all that makeup and girly stuff, Elizabeth suits you. And I
will
make you something.”

He could be stubborn too, and he headed into the hallway. Their floor plans were pretty similar—her front room was a combination den and dining room just like his—so he figured he could find the kitchen on his own.

“Stop this, Terrance, really,” she said from behind him. “Just say what you want to say and leave.”

The kitchen was in the same part of the house as his, but he’d replaced all of the appliances to make room for his Viking range and walk-in cooler. Her walls were sage green, the cabinets white, and the Silestone counters a tan shot through with chocolate brown lines. He pulled open her refrigerator and clucked his tongue.

“Your pantry sucks,” he told her, eyeing the single quart of almond milk, the low-cal dressing, the nonfat yogurt—horror—and a couple of take-out containers showcasing a limp Cobb salad and a cloudy chicken noodle soup with the worst noodles on the planet. “And your taste in food hasn’t improved much.”

She’d savored his food but complained about it adding to her curves. He’d always bandied back that he loved her curves.

“Are you going to insult my food choices all night?”

Her voice, all soft and smoky and
familiar
, shot pure lust through his system again. Yeah, those had been the days. His body apparently didn’t care about the history between them. It wanted her as much as it always had.

“Nope. I’m done.”

He opened some vegetable bins and could at least approve of the kale and Swiss chard. But there was nothing he could work with for dessert. “You don’t even have eggs?”

“You sound appalled,” she replied. “I told you that I don’t need dessert, and you should just—”

“Bananas!” he cried out at last as he looked around her kitchen and spotted some in a wooden bowl in the corner. “Please tell me you have ice cream.”

“Of course,” she said as he pulled out real butter,
thank God,
from the fridge.

“And bourbon?”

“Yes, Rhett loves it. What in the world are you planning to make?”

“Bananas Foster. Where are your spices? Please tell me you at least have cinnamon.” If she didn’t, he might just have to walk out the door right now and fetch his own.

“Yes, I have cinnamon.”

Funny how she’d always smelled like cinnamon to him—even though her Chanel perfume ran more exotic than that. He always thought of her when he used the spice, even now. For a long time, those thoughts had been wrapped up in longing—a feeling he pretty much hated.

“Sauce pan? Cutting board?” he fired off, expecting her to produce them like a good sous chef.

“What about a monkey to eat the banana?” she quipped, and this time he heard the fire in her voice and was glad for it. The vulnerability of that other voice, the one belonging to this new woman named Elizabeth, made him unsteady.

“You know, I’ve eaten monkey brains before. They’re not bad.”

She made a gagging sound. “That is so gross. I can’t believe you’d eat something like that,” she said, stacking the items he’d asked for on the counter.

“You can blame a friend of mine for daring me. Your knives suck,” he commented as he drew one out of the block and ran his finger over the blade. “I can’t cut shi—”

Okay, he’d caught that one. A minor victory.

“How sweet of you to say,” she replied, vinegar in her voice this time, making him smile. “Anything else you want to insult around here?”

When she leaned on the counter, gazing at him like that with her big baby blues, he was glad he was no longer holding the knife. He might have cut himself like a first-year at the Culinary Institute of America. “Nope.”

With that, he busied himself with slicing the bananas, heating the pan, dropping in the butter, and then adding the bananas. At least her stove was gas. If it had been electric, he would have refused to cook on it. She handed him the cinnamon, which he knew was likely as old as a used car, but he dusted the bananas with it anyway, inhaling deeply. Even old cinnamon had an alluring scent, and when a vision of a naked Vixen sitting on his lap as she fed him cinnamon rolls popped into his head, he almost burned his finger on the side of the pan.

“Where’s your sugar?” he asked finally, pleased with the way it was coming together. He wouldn’t even dare hope she had simple brown sugar, not after seeing the sparseness of her refrigerator.

“I don’t have any,” she told him, and it was hard to miss the glee in her voice.

“You don’t have sugar? What kind of human being are you, anyway? You mystify me,” he told her, and it wasn’t just because she didn’t buy sugar.

Silence reigned for a minute as the bananas sizzled on the stove. Yeah, she knew there was a deeper meaning to his words. They might have pressed pause on their conversation, but this
was
a conversation—the things said and unsaid, the meaning behind their gestures and glances.

“I have honey,” she finally said, opening the cabinet and setting a half-filled smiling bear—dear God—beside him.

“Even the bees are embarrassed by this honey, but at least you have something sweet. Now I won’t have to report you to the Basic Ingredients Police.”

Her mouth twitched, and he felt it sparking between them again.

That explosive connection. The simple joy of being in her presence. Something he’d never felt with another woman.

“Feel free. I’ve always loved a man in uniform.”

It was an old joke between them, and he stilled at her casual use of it. She’d said his chef uniform was a turn-on, which he hadn’t heard too often. It wasn’t like an armed services uniform or anything, and it always smelled like an assortment of food.

Was she feeling it between them too? Did she want them to act on their old passion? Hell, he wasn’t ready for that. Okay, his body was ready, but…

“Bourbon?” he rasped out, drizzling the honey over the bananas and watching it bubble golden brown.

“In the liquor cabinet. I’ll get it.”

After she left the room, he kicked the stove and yelped since he’d forgotten he was barefoot.

Elizabeth was as beautiful and intriguing as Vixen had been. More so. And the old feelings were as fresh as his dinner special had been tonight.

He’d wanted closure, but he’d gotten anything but.

Coming here had been a bad idea.

Chapter 2

As Elizabeth headed to the 1930s Art Deco bar cabinet, she rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to banish the goosebumps. She’d worried her late-night visitor was Ryan James, who hadn’t stopped pestering her about going out with him again after one bad date. But the muted porch light had illuminated Terrance’s handsome face instead, and her trembling had changed into something else.

She was still afraid of what he would say to her, of what he would ask, but there was also the white-hot anticipation of being in his presence again. The sight of his lean, rock-hard body in that black leather jacket and those faded designer jeans that hugged his muscular legs made her mouth water. Add in his military-cut black hair, bottle green eyes, and the wicked scar on the right side of his mouth, and it was all she could do not to jump him.

It didn’t help that she was on a Man Fast, her first since she’d left him.

And he was cooking for her. Right here in her kitchen.

Her heart squeezed.

And this no swearing thing? She must have lived in Dare Valley too long because she thought it was as cute as a greeting card.

Selecting Rhett’s most expensive bourbon, she smoothed her hair down with her free hand and walked back into the kitchen, deciding not to fuss about the flannel pajamas—so sexy—and her lack of makeup.

“At least someone has taste,” Terrance commented when she handed the bottle to him.

“Rhett can drink the good stuff or rotgut,” she told him like he didn’t know. He’d been friends with Rhett and Mac Maven, the owner of The Grand Mountain Hotel where he was working as head chef, going on ten years now, three years longer than her friendship with the two men.

“Well, I don’t let him drink the rotgut around me,” he said, stepping away from the stove and trickling some bourbon over the concoction.

It caught fire, the wall of orange licking at the bottom of her microwave right above the stove, making her worry about the plastic melting, but since he didn’t seem concerned, she kept her mouth shut. He set the bottle aside and shook the pan, making the fire blaze to life again. When it died out, he searched in her cabinets for a spoon, and upon finding one, tasted the sauce.

“How is it?” she asked.

“Your cinnamon isn’t as intense as my special blend from Ceylon, but it does the job.”

“I’m so glad you can suck it up down here in food purgatory,” she said dryly, producing the ice cream without him asking for it and reached into a cabinet for two blue bowls.

“Salted caramel gelato,” he murmured. “I remember you liking ice cream.”

“It’s one of my favorite indulgences.”

“How can you eat this and nonfat yogurt?”

She laughed at his playful shudder. “Eating nonfat yogurt gives me more leeway to eat fully loaded ice cream. It’s all about balancing out the calories.”

“That diet logic is a load of bull— Aha, I caught myself again.”

And when he smiled, the expression full of pride, her heart simply flew out of her chest and fell onto the floor in front of him. Like, here I am again. Remember me?

Her heart had always gotten her into trouble.

He spooned the ice cream out, making sure it resembled the most perfect sphere ever fashioned. Then he deftly slid the bananas onto the side and trickled the sauce over it. Even she could smell the cinnamon now, and her mouth watered.

Dammit. Terrance had always known how to get to her.