Fiona And The Sexy Stranger Read online

  “Very local,” he emphasized.

  “Think more in terms of a local puppet show, put on by first graders,” she quipped, taking a sip of her wine. “Maybe kindergartners.” Bad move, she realized. The wine went directly to her head. Very carefully, she set the glass down and waited for the room to refocus.

  “If you flip around the local stations, you’ll notice that a lot of people are doing their own advertising these days. It might look a little amateurish, but done right, it’s not without its charm. After all, it doesn’t have to be fancy to be good.” She was looking at him doubtfully. Obviously she needed further persuasion, Hank thought. “The tastiest thing I ever had was my mother’s rhubarb pie. Didn’t look like much, definitely had a bad name, but it tasted like heaven. One taste and I was hooked. My dying request would be to have a piece of that pie. Not fancy, just good.” He looked at her significantly. “Remember that.”

  Fiona didn’t know if she was reading too much into what he was saying. Probably. The mind did strange things when it was floating.

  “All right.” For the sake of argument, she went along with it for the moment. “Just how much ‘not fancy’ can you get me for this amount?”

  She took out the check Bridgette had given her and very carefully wrote in an amount that she felt she could live with. Bridgette would probably insist that she take more, but she wasn’t about to go deeply into debt no matter who was lending her the money or how desperately she wanted it.

  Hank took the check from her and looked at it. Though significant in her terms, in his it would mean stretching things. A lot. But he did like a challenge.

  “It’s doable.” For now, he handed her back the check. “Keep that handy,” he advised. “There’s a guy I’d like you to meet.” He saw her expression. “Why did you wince just now?”

  “Sorry, conditioned response.” Fiona tucked the check away. “My friends are always saying that to me.” She shrugged, not even knowing why she was saying this to him. “It seems that the world doesn’t like odd numbers. Like one.”

  He appeared to study her for a moment. “Do they set you up on a lot of blind dates?”

  She laughed to herself, toying with the stem of the wineglass. She wasn’t about to have any more until after she ate. “They try.”

  “But you don’t go,” he guessed.

  She shook her head. “Too busy.”

  Hank had a hunch it wasn’t that. “Lucky for me you weren’t too busy tonight.” He could see the waitress looking their way. He signaled for her to come over, then looked at Fiona. “Let’s order, shall we?”

  Every time he smiled at her like that, Fiona could feel a tidal wave washing over her, taking her breath away. She glanced at the menu, too flustered to focus on the actual words.

  “What looks good to you?”

  His smile widened. “I’d say you, but then you might run off again, so I won’t” Humor played along his mouth as he lowered his eyes to the menu. “I like a good steak myself. Rare. Plain, but with flavor. Beats those fancy dishes every time.”

  Fiona had no idea what possessed her, but she took his declaration as a direct challenge.

  6

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Fiona countered.

  The quizzical look on Hank’s face had her continuing without drawing a breath. If there was anything she was confident about, it was her ability to make mouth-watering meals. Ever since she could see over the kitchen counter, she’d had a knack of taking mundane ingredients and creating culinary magic with them. It was a talent that she knew set her apart and one she took refuge in.

  “I think I could whip up a dish or two that might just woo you away from your allegiance to meat and potatoes.”

  Hank steepled his fingers together as he studied her. The change amazed him. One moment, Fiona was in retreat; the next, she was serenely confident.

  “Are you inviting me over for a home-cooked meal?”

  That wasn’t exactly what Fiona had meant But then, how else could he have taken it? It did sound like an invitation.

  “I—that is—” There was no graceful way to get out of this. Maybe she didn’t altogether want to, she realized. Why else would she have set herself up like this?

  “Because if you are,” he continued, “I accept I haven’t had a decent home-cooked meal since I left home.”

  “You can’t cook?” She had no idea why that surprised her. Maybe it was because he seemed so completely self-sufficient to her. She pictured him being capable in any given situation.

  One side of his mouth rose in a half smile as Hank thought of one particular messy fiasco he’d engaged in. He’d tried to make stew the way his mother did and wound up with burnt chips permanently soldered onto the bottom of his only pot.

  “Only to survive. It’s not one of my major talents. Besides, there’s never enough time for it.” He worked late at the office and availed himself of takeout or thirty-minute deliveries to avoid puttering in the kitchen. During rare, creative moments, he bought cold cuts and made sandwiches.

  Since a great deal of her time was spent in the kitchen, coaxing along new creations or working with old, familiar recipes, Fiona couldn’t imagine not having the time to cook.

  “For me, there’s always enough time to cook. Cooking relaxes me.”

  It had the opposite effect on him. Especially when pots boiled over. He would have thought that since Fiona’s line of work required a great deal of cooking, the last thing she’d want to do when she was off was prepare a meal. “Even under pressure?”

  “Especially under pressure.” That was when she was at her best, exhilarated by the challenge. “I’m not very good at other things, but in the kitchen—well, in the kitchen it doesn’t matter how tall I am, or if I’m wearing any makeup. Seasonings don’t care what you look like, only how creative you are.”

  His expression was bemused. “I wasn’t aware that seasonings had opinions at all.”

  She’d talked too much, Fiona thought ruefully. “You’re laughing at me again.”

  He reached for her hand.

  “No, I’m not. I’m not laughing, I’m smiling.” His eyes touched hers warmly. “With you.”

  “But I’m not smiling.” Even as she said it, she struggled to keep her mouth from curving in response to his expression. Just being around him made her want to smile.

  “Then you should be.” His hand closed over hers. “It makes your face glow.”

  It took effort not to shift beneath his gaze. His compliments made her feel awkward, even as she welcomed them. She’d never really had to deal with compliments before.

  “That’s probably sweat. I’ve been on the go all day,” she told him, “and I haven’t had a chance to cool down yet.”

  She had hurried here directly from a meeting with another prospective client, unable to stop at home to change the way she had planned. Best-laid plans died when meetings ran over. She’d instinctively learned never to hurry a would-be client along. Usually, the affair they wanted catered was of utmost importance to them. That necessitated kid-glove treatment. Rushing was not part of the deal.

  Very slowly, his eyes still on hers, Hank rubbed his thumb along her palm. The tiny action immediately awakened every nerve ending in her body.

  “Then don’t cool down. I like you this way.”

  “Sweaty?”

  “Glowing,” he corrected.

  Was it her, or was the room suddenly growing even darker than it had been when she’d first entered? Darker and hotter.

  “Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked.

  The soft, cocooning darkness ebbed away a little as she looked up at the waitress.

  “Absolutely.” Picking up her menu, Fiona quickly scanned the two long pages and made an arbitrary choice. It didn’t really matter what she ordered; she doubted that she would actually taste the food anyway. Nerves had disintegrated her taste buds.

  He definitely made her nervous, Hank thought. He smiled to himself as he waited
for Fiona to finish ordering. She both aroused and stimulated him without, he had a strong suspicion, meaning to do either. She was too busy trying to retreat.

  Whether it was a horse he wasn’t supposed to ride or an account that appeared to be out of reach, he’d always been a sucker for a challenge and Fiona Reilly had all the makings of a very stimulating, very intriguing challenge. It might be interesting to be instrumental in releasing the woman he sensed was trapped within that proper, delicate exterior she turned to the world.

  He knew what they said about still waters.

  Fiona sighed, too full to move.

  It was rare that she actually sat down for a meal and rarer still that it wasn’t at her own table. It was nice to have someone else do the work for a change, even though the sauce was a little too tangy for her taste. Tangy or not, she could still appreciate all the work that had gone into the preparation.

  Finishing the meal was one thing. It would have been rude to leave it half eaten. But ordering the chocolate mud-pie had been nothing short of sheer indulgence on her part.

  She slid the last crumb into her mouth, savoring it. It had been delicious.

  Still, like a sinner after the fact, she murmured guiltily, “I shouldn’t have had that dessert.”

  Hank had watched her eat with pleasure. Unlike some women he knew who picked at their food, Fiona ate as if she were enjoying every bite. “Why, afraid you’ll actually tip the hundred-pound mark on the bathroom scale?”

  He made her sound like some fragile little doll. “I weigh more than a hundred pounds.”

  Hank shook his head. He knew better. “Didn’t feel that way to me when I caught you in my arms the other night.”

  The mere mention of the incident had long fingers of warmth moving all through her, prodding Fiona in places that had no business being prodded. Especially when there was nothing she could do about it.

  Fiona shrugged carelessly, as if to dismiss the subject. “Maybe you’ve been working out too much and your muscles got in the way.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed playfully. He signed his name on the credit card slip, then laid down the pen. “Ready to go?”

  She began to move back her chair. “You might have to carry me.”

  Hank rather liked the thought His eyes teased her. “Oh, I think I can bear up to it if necessary.” Rising, he pulled back her chair for her and helped her to her feet. The nervous look was back in her eyes, he noticed. A definite challenge. “By the way, when should I come over?”

  She’d almost stopped midstep, but managed to keep walking. “Come over?” she echoed. When had she invited him to her house?

  Taking her arm, he guided her to the door. The fact that every female head in the establishment watched his progress was not lost on her.

  “For that home-cooked meal,” he was saying. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out. My taste buds couldn’t stand the disappointment.”

  Fiona had hoped that he had forgotten about that.

  It had been a definite slip on her part. She might have known better. Murphy’s law. Now that he actually was calling her on it, Fiona felt herself fumbling inwardly. It wasn’t that she minded cooking for someone, she didn’t. Doing so gave her a great deal of pleasure. But on a personal basis, she had only cooked for friends, or for Bridgette and her family.

  Just the thought of cooking for Hank tied her up in a multitude of unmanageable tiny, tight knots. Though she still didn’t believe that this was anything more than an amusing way to kill time for him, that didn’t stop her from wanting to impress him.

  Mentally, Fiona quickly reviewed her schedule for the next few days. She was going to be busy, but Friday night was free.

  As usual, she thought sarcastically.

  “Friday night’s probably inconvenient for you,” she guessed out loud. She was prepared to be told that he couldn’t make it.

  He surprised her. “No, it’s wide open.” He held the door for her, waiting until she passed through first.

  Fiona felt an icy chill zip over her, followed by enough heat to melt a mountain of ice. He was actually going to come over.

  “You don’t have a date?” She found that almost impossible to believe.

  She was trying her damnedest to wheedle out of this, he thought. Hank looked into her eyes. The light in them made his pulse quicken just a little. This was something he intended to explore further.

  “I do now.”

  “A date?” No, no, that wasn’t what she’d meant at all. This wasn’t going to be a date, it was going to be a lesson, a business meeting with food. Panic hit her with the force of an anvil dropping on her foot. “You mean, you’re actually coming over to my house for dinner?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. You can’t renege now, Fiona,” he warned playfully. “Your reputation’s at stake.” He outlined the evening for her. “You make the food, I bring the wine. We eat, talk…whatever—”

  Fiona swallowed, calling herself an idiot for being such a mouse. “‘Whatever’?”

  They were standing at the foot of the steps that led to the sidewalk. The early evening breeze was playfully tugging at the ends of her hair, making them swirl around her face. Hank combed them away from her face with his fingers.

  “Whatever,” he repeated with a soft smile. “It means that the evening’s wide open. We can do whatever we want. You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “No.” The denial popped out before she could stop it Before she allowed herself to be truthful with him.

  Hank pretended to take her at her word, though he could see she was lying. “Good.”

  But Fiona was afraid, afraid of making even more of a fool of herself than she had before. Afraid of not being able to retreat when she wanted to. Invention, born in the wake of necessity, had her reconnoitering. “Um, why don’t I bring the meal to your place instead?”

  It made no difference to Hank where they got together so long as they did, but he didn’t see why she why was pressing for the change in venue. “Why?”

  She thought fast. “Because then it would seem more like catering that way. If I serve you in your dining room, maybe it might help you come up with something to help with the advertising.”

  She’d inadvertently hit upon the way he operated, he thought. All right, he saw no reason to try to dissuade her. Her place, his place, it was all one and the same to him. Whatever was meant to happen between them would happen no matter where she was serving.

  “Good idea,” he agreed.

  Fiona sighed, savoring her minor victory for a few moments before wondering if he had some ulterior motive for agreeing. He’d been awfully quick to agree.

  Yes, Fiona thought the following Friday as she packed the last of the dinner she’d prepared into the van, it was a very good idea to do it this way. Coming to him, she could leave anytime she thought she should. If he came over to her place, she couldn’t just pack up and leave when she felt it was time. She’d be stuck. And then who knew what might happen?

  This was a much smarter move for her.

  Hank startled her by opening the door before she had a chance to ring.

  “I saw you pull up,” he explained, answering the unspoken question in her eyes. “Here, let me help you with that.” He took an unusually large, covered rectangular pan from her. “What is this? Feels heavy.”

  Fiona reached into the rear of the van and took out another pan, a smaller one than the one he was holding. “A little of this, a little of that”

  Her smile, Hank thought, was positively mysterious.

  He led the way into his kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her looking around as she followed. “This would have been easier for you at your house.”

  He was right, but she stuck by her guns, unwilling to tell him the real reason she was doing it this way. “Yes, but then you couldn’t get the feel of having something catered.” She set the pan down on the first flat surface she came to in the kitchen.

  It was a country-style kitchen, wid
e and airy. Perfect for working in. It seemed wasted on him, she thought.

  Fiona went back to the van for the next round of pans. He was right beside her.

  “You said you wanted to get to know as much about my business as possible,” she reminded him. “This will give you the customer perspective.”

  “I already have the server perspective,” he teased, taking a large pot this time.

  She avoided his eyes. “Yes, thanks to my mistake,” she agreed.

  “It turned out for the best I wouldn’t be anticipating a great deal of ‘this and that,’” he added, deliberately using her vague terminology, “if you hadn’t pounced on me.”

  Turning the first pan sideways, she set down the second one and then moved aside so that he could do the same. “I didn’t pounce—exactly. Besides, it was your own fault for being as tall as Alex.”

  “Which reminds me, what are you doing these days for a replacement?” Though she’d originally asked if he’d be interested in helping her again, she’d never taken him up on it. He’d just assumed that Alex’s injury hadn’t been as bad as first thought.

  “I contacted the agency. I really do act rationally, given the right amount of time.”

  Amusement curved his mouth. “Never crossed my mind to think you didn’t.”

  She loved his smile, Fiona thought. It seemed to curl right into the very heart of her, spreading tongues of fire in all directions. It made her tingle if she looked at him long enough.

  Which was why it was important not to. She couldn’t just stand here in the middle of his kitchen, tingling. She was supposed to be behaving like a professional, not like an auburn vibrator.

  It looked as if she was moving in, Hank thought, glancing around. There were enough covered pots, pans and containers littering every available space in his kitchen to hold a garage sale on kitchenware.

  “All this for one meal?” he marveled. He should have insisted she do this at her place. She was going to far too much trouble.

  “It’s a potpourri. Besides…” she sniffed, adjusting the oven temperature. “Don’t question an artist.”