Authors: Sherryl Woods
Instead of finding a gourmet feast, however, the only hints of dinner preparations were a diced onion and a bunch of partially chopped carrots scattered across a cutting board on the counter. The air was filled only with the sweet scent of lilacs and something else he couldn't quite identify. It smelled faintly fishy. He sniffed and his nose wrinkled in dismay. What on earth was it? Not dinner, he hoped.
He heard a soft, appealing meow and felt something nudging his ankles hopefully. A puff of gray fur wound itself between his legs. There was another meow, this one louder and definitely more demanding.
“Hey, old guy, are you starving, too?” he inquired, before suddenly realizing that the subtle odor had been that of cat food. “You can't be, you old fake. You've obviously been fed. Don't try to trick me into giving you a second dinner.”
Lancelot, apparently sensing that he was wasting his friendliness, gave Tate a haughty look of disgust and walked away, his tail switching. Tate chuckled at the cat's indignant departure. Victoria and Lancelot were obviously two of a kind.
“If you don't mind, you could finish chopping the carrots.” Victoria's musical voice drifted down to him. He had a feeling she could talk a man into chopping down trees. Carrots were no problem at all. “I won't be long.”
Lured by the sound of that voice, Tate wandered out to the front of the stairs. “Anything else?”
“There are some potatoes around somewhere. You could try to find them and peel them.”
“Do I get any clues?”
“About what?”
“Where they might be.”
“They might be in the refrigerator,” she suggested, as Tate started toward the kitchen again. “Wait. No. I think I put them in the pantry.” He paused and waited. “On second thought, try under the sink.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. “Are the potatoes important?”
“Of course. I'm making a stew. It probably won't be very good, though. It should have been simmering for the last hour.”
“What happened? Did you get held up at the shop?”
“No. I got home right on time, but there was this rainbowâ¦.” Her voice trailed off as Tate groaned and returned to the kitchen, reminding himself for the fiftieth time since yesterday that this woman was obviously not his type.
“So, why are you here, McAndrews?” he muttered under his breath. His pulse speeded up as an image of her scantily clad body flitted through his mind. He scowled. “That's a lousy answer.”
He yanked open the refrigerator door and looked for the potatoes. He tried the pantry next, then checked the cabinet under the sink. He gave up, then accidentally found them when he opened the back door to let Lancelot out. They were sitting on the steps. He shrugged resignedly. “It's as good a place as any, I suppose.”
By the time Victoria finally got downstairs, he had finished with the carrots and peeled the potatoes. The finished product didn't look quite right to him, but what did he know about peeling things? Apparently not much, judging from the quirk of amusement that tilted Victoria's soft, coral lips when she saw them. His earlier desire to sweep her straight into his arms returned with a nearly uncontrollable urgency, startling him into a subdued silence as he simply stared at her.
“You don't spend a lot of time in the kitchen, do you?” she said dryly, as she unceremoniously plopped his efforts into a huge pot, added some water, onions and already browned beef that she'd plucked from the refrigerator. Then she liberally sprinkled dibs and dabs of various spices over the top, her brow puckered in concentration.
“It shows?”
“It shows,” she confirmed, glancing over at him. “Who fixes your meals for you?”
“I go out a lot.”
“What about breakfast? Are you any better at that?”
“Not much.”
“Then whatâ¦?” Her voice trailed off as he began to grin. “Never mind.”
“I eat cereal,” he informed her, as her cheeks turned decidedly pink. “At home.”
“Oh,” she said softly, an unfortunate tone of relief in her voice. He was still grinningâ¦openly chuckling, in fact.
For the first time since he'd arrived, Victoria took a really good look at Tate. He was wearing the same shirt and suit pants he'd had on this morning. Even his tie was right in place, and his shoes had been polished to a high gloss without a trace left of this morning's muddy excursion around her barn. He had rolled up his sleeves to attack the potatoes and carrots, but that was the only concession to comfort he'd made.
His formality, combined with the odd way he was looking at her, made Victoria even more uncomfortable than she already had been about having this man back in her kitchen. There was a raw hunger in his eyes she couldn't quite identify, but it made her decidedly nervous. Maybe he was crazy about stew and couldn't wait for her to get dinner on the table. She gazed into his eyes again and blinked at the intensity. No, she thought, that look had nothing to do with food.
“Don't you ever wear anything besides a suit?” she finally asked, her voice far shakier than she would have liked.
“Sure, but not when I'm working.”
She quirked a brow at him. “You're working now?”
“Of course. Until this audit is finished, any meeting we have is part of the investigation.”
“Shouldn't I call an attorney or something, then?” she taunted.
That look in his eyes faded as he scowled at her. “I don't plan to arrest you, for heaven's sakes.”
“You're going to charge me with tax evasion or fraud or something equally unpleasant.”
“I told you yesterday, I believe you didn't do anything illegal. But once the case is opened, there are procedures we have to follow.”
“You probably never speed either,” she said wearily.
“Not often,” he admitted, suddenly wishing he had at least a parking ticket he could tell her about.
“Haven't you ever wanted to break just one little rule?”
“There are reasons for rules.”
“Do you always agree with those reasons?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what do you do?”
“Try to get the rules changed.”
Victoria tried to imagine Tate in the middle of a protest rally. Not even her vivid imagination could come up with an impression of that scene. He probably made an appointment, sat down and discussed things rationally, shook hands politely and waited for change to take place. The people he approached probably listened too. She had a feeling he could be a very persuasive man when he wanted to be.
He was sitting at the kitchen table now, his hands braced behind his head, leaning back in the chair and watching her again, laughter dancing in his dark brown eyes. She had a feeling he found her amusing and that irritated the daylights out of her. Despite her misgivings about all of this, she'd wanted to be beautiful and sexy and alluring tonight. She'd searched her closet and found a lovely old dress with tiny sprigs of bright yellow flowers on a beige background. It had a scooped neck, edged with antique lace, that drew attention to her full breasts and a wide satin sash that emphasized her tiny waist. For once, her hair had cooperated and fallen into shining waves. And now this infuriating man was laughing at her. She felt like smacking him in the mouth. Instead, she sliced through a tomato with a whack that jarred the counter.
Tate winced. “Remind me never to make you angry.”
Victoria grinned. “You just did.”
“How?” he asked.
“You were laughing at me.”
“I was?”
“Weren't you?”
“I was smiling.”
“At me.”
Tate's head started spinning again. “Actually I was thinking about how unusual you are. I've never met a woman like you before.” At the moment, he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.
“And that made you laugh.”
“Smile.”
“Whatever,” she said airily. She hesitated for a minute, then confessed, “I was going for sexy.”
“Ahh,” he said softly as an even broader grin split his face. “Now I see.”
The knife sliced through another tomato with a resounding thwack.
“You are sexy, you know,” he said almost casually. Victoria promptly nicked her finger with the knife.
“Damn!”
“What happened?” He was out of his chair and at her side in an instant.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Let me see.”
“It's just a little cut. I do this all the time,” Victoria lied. There was no way she was going to let him think that he'd rattled her by telling her he thought she was sexy. It wasn't a complete lie, anyway. She did nick her fingers constantly. She had this dangerous habit of letting her mind wander while she was fixing meals.
“Let me see it,” he repeated insistently, a look of steely determination in his eyes.
Reluctantly, she held out her hand. The tiny cut had already stopped bleeding.
“Do you have some antiseptic? And you'll need a bandage.”
“Don't be ridiculous. It's practically healed already.”
“Have you had a tetanus shot?”
Obviously he planned to ignore her protests and turn this into a case for a trauma unit, she thought resignedly. Maybe he was a frustrated paramedic.
“I think so.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we ought to take you to the hospital,” he said decisively, confirming her worst expectations.
“Tate McAndrews!” Victoria suddenly bellowed. “Sit down!”
Tate's eyes widened, but he sat back down. Victoria faced him with her hands on her hips. “Now will you please relax. Loosen your tie. Have a drink. Go upstairs and try to organize my bills. Anything, but please don't hover over me. I already have two perfectly good parents to do that.”
“Did I touch a sore spot?” he asked innocently.
Victoria gave him a wobbly smile. “Well, they are a bit overly protective. You'll see.”
“I brought them a bottle of Scotch, by the way.”
“They don't drink.”
Dismay suddenly filled Tate's eyes. That look of uncertainty, which gave a surprising impression of vulnerability, touched her. She wanted to pat his hand.
“I knew I should have brought candy,” he muttered.
“You didn't need to bring anything.”
“Of course I did. I read Miss Manners.”
“If you're so worried about making a good impression on my parents, do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
“When we get over there tonight, don't say anything about working for the IRS or about this audit.”
Tate looked at her oddly. “I gathered this morning that you wanted to keep this some deep, dark secret. Why? They're your parents.”
“Exactly. They'll only worry, and I can handle it on my own.”
“What if you can't?”
Victoria looked at him, a frown creasing her forehead. “You said you believed me.”
“I do, but I'm not the only one involved.”
“But you'll do the report. Won't they take your word for it?”
Tate hesitated. “Usually they do.”
“Well, then. You see,” she said, flashing him a wide smile that lit her blue eyes with glittering highlights. “I have nothing to worry about.”
Tate couldn't bring himself to tell her that if Pete Harrison got even the tiniest inkling of the attraction he felt toward her, he'd put four other agents on the case to check out his work. Pete did not believe his agents should have human emotions. Anyone who did was suspect. In fact, if they could program computers to do the legwork, instead of just the analysis, Pete would happily fire his entire staff.
Tate glanced at Victoria and felt his stomach muscles tighten at the perfect picture she presented. All of her worries over the audit were apparently forgotten thanks to her faith in his ability to protect her. She hummed cheerfully while stirring the stew. Norman Rockwell would have loved having her as a model. Her cheeks were flushed from the fragrant steam now rising from the pot. Golden-red curls framed her face. As she lifted the spoon to her mouth and tasted the stew, her lips pursed in an enchanting frown. Her hand hovered over the spice rack, then plucked out two bottles and sprinkled a dash of the contents into the pot. She tried the stew again and shook her head.
“It's still missing something. You taste it.”
She dipped out a steaming spoonful and brought it to Tate, who obediently opened his mouth. Her eyes were on his lips as they closed over the spoon, and she ran her tongue over her own in an unconsciously sensual gesture that did all sorts of crazy things to Tate's pulse rate. He had a sudden urge to take the spoon out of her hand, pull her into his lap and taste the softness of her mouth for himself. Surely, it was more delectable than any stew. His eyes, filled with a raw yearning he couldn't disguise, lifted to meet hers, and he saw that she shared his hunger. He also saw that it seemed to startle her. She blinked and turned back to the stove, her hand shaking so badly that the spoon clattered against the side of the pot.
“I think the stew tastes fine,” he said softly.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
She shrugged. “Okay. Then I think we're about ready. We were supposed to have biscuits, but I ran out of time.”
She brought a loaf of homemade bread to the table instead and added a crock of fresh butter, then dished up huge steaming bowls of the stew. Over dinner, as the conversation veered off on one crazy tangent after another, Tate realized they had at least a few things in common, though hardly the sort of list that would qualify them for a computerized matchup. More important than their skimpy selection of mutual favorite things were the sparks that flew during lively discussions of their disagreements. Victoria had a razor sharp intelligence under that zaniness. She listened carefully to Tate's point of view and actually tried to understand it. Of course, she then dismissed it with some totally illogical argument that he could barely follow. When she started to make sense it scared the living daylights out of him.