Dylan (8 page)

“I've got a loaf of bread, some pasta, and a pot of Nonni's red sauce simmering on the stove. I thought you'd like to take a break and have something to eat.” She hesitated and not for the first time he wondered who'd hurt her and whether or not she'd be letting him get close enough to find out… close enough to convince her he'd be able to make her forget the jerk from her past.

Though he couldn't say for sure, he'd bet the way he answered her would either make or break their budding working relationship. He pushed all thoughts of tasting the woman aside and dug deep for the civility that he hadn't used in a while, hadn't needed to. Men only needed to appear civilized when women were around.

Men understood one another and didn't have to worry about what they said, how they dressed or acted. But when a woman was involved—he sighed deeply and looked down at his hands. “I need to wash up first.”

“Bathroom's down the hall.”

“I'll be right back.” As soon as Dylan walked through the door, the subtle scent surrounded him. He drew in a deep breath and was assailed with the memory of sparks igniting in the air around them and the sweet, tart flavor he had come to crave.

Down, boy.
He'd been invited to eat—food.

The upstairs apartment was small, so finding the kitchen was a no-brainer; he just followed his nose and the scent of simmering spaghetti sauce. “Smells good.”

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “That'd be a plus since you're going to be eating my cooking for the next month or so.”

Dylan expected to be handed the serving spoon and told to fend for himself; he was surprised when she motioned for him to go sit down at the table by the picture window. Looking out, he noticed that the window was huge and it faced the parking lot, explaining why he could see so much of her. Gauging the height of the sun, he realized his brothers would be heading back to the ranch and having to eat whatever sandwich fixings were left in the fridge at home. He should probably be feeling sorry for them, if he didn't already know that the promise of an excellent meal was in the future for all of them, starting tomorrow.

She carried out a plate heaped with pasta and covered with sauce and a basket of sliced bread. “Please,” she urged, “sit down.”

He breathed in the mouth-watering scent before pulling out her chair and waiting while she placed the plates on the table. She shook her head at him and smiled. “I've got a few more things to bring in.”

“Let me help.”

She hesitated, then agreed. “Would you like wine with your pasta?” When he frowned, she offered, “I've got a couple of longnecks in the fridge.”

He felt at ease for the first time since he walked through her door. “Beer'd be good, thanks.”

She handed him two bottles of beer and nodded for him to precede her. Not wanting to make her feel ill at ease, he did as she asked. He set the beer down and took the plate from her hands, setting it down on the table. “You look a little pale. Do you feel all right?”

The pained expression on her face intrigued him, but he didn't know her well enough to push… yet.

“After you left, I had a run in with José last night.”

“Ahhh.” He helped her scoot closer to the table before he sat. “First meal today?”

She flushed, a hint of color tingeing the curve of her cheeks. Ronnie was a delight to observe. Maybe it wasn't just lust that had him by the throat. There was more here, and if he was patient, he just might discover the woman beneath the surface… the real Ronnie. Suddenly, he couldn't wait.

Digging in, he slipped the forkful of sauce-covered pasta into his mouth and groaned as his taste buds stood at full attention. Chewing, he savored the spices and full-bodied flavor. “If everything you cook tastes this good, I may not ever let you go, darlin'.”

If he hadn't been looking at her, he would have missed the flash of fear. Every damned time she tried to hide what she was thinking or feeling, it made him want to stick around for the long haul. He hadn't felt this way since he and Sandy had been fourteen years old and pledged to spend the rest of their lives together. It was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, but one he suspected would accompany him each and every time he was within three feet of this East Coast woman.

When she still didn't speak, he sampled another forkful, chewed, and swallowed before asking, “Please pass the bread.”

He deliberately brushed the tips of his fingers across her knuckles before grasping the basket of bread. Watching for a reaction, he was deeply satisfied when her eyes deepened to the emerald he remembered from the night before. She was interested right back.
Hot
damn!
“Thanks.”

They ate in silence. When his plate was empty, he remembered to use the napkin beside his plate and wiped his mouth. He could be polite if he had to.

“So, sweet thing,” he drawled. “Are you dessert?”

Ronnie's mouth dropped open and then closed. Her bright green gaze slashed across him, but he was ready and waiting for her reaction. “I already know how your smart mouth tastes, but I've got this hankerin' for a taste of your shoulder, your cheek, your—”

She got up so fast her chair banged against the windowsill. “Of all the—”

“Whoa there, filly,” he soothed. “I forgot that hair-trigger of yours.”

“What… I'm not… arrgggh…”

He took advantage of her sputtering and snagged her hand, pulling her close enough to plunder. He savored her flavor, enjoying the tartness mixing with the spices from the meal she'd cooked, slipping his tongue deep to sample the underlying sweetness. Lord, he'd die happy if her lips were the last thing on earth that he tasted.

Be
careful
what
you
wish
for, Son.

Finally, her arms wrapped around him, and he broke the kiss, urging, “Kiss me back, Ronnie.”

Her tongue tangled with his and he was lost.

“No.” Ronnie pushed out of Dylan's arms, shaking her head. “What am I doing?”

Dylan's eyes narrowed. “Smart woman like you ought to be able to figure it out.”

“See what I mean?” Head swimming, heart pounding, she took another step back until she was no longer within the circle of his arms. Sweeping her hand toward the tiny table beneath the front window, she sighed. “We were eating. Two reasonable adults sharing a table and a meal.”

His gaze snagged hers. “You kissed me.”

She glared at him. “You started it!

Unbelievably, the man smiled at her.

“What is wrong with you? I fixed you dinner so you could sample my cooking.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Not the cook.”

“Too late. My brothers and I demolished that pie and now that I've had a taste of you, I want more.”

He grinned and she wanted to smack that look off his face. Her palms tingled and her fingertips flexed. It took every ounce of control that she had to keep from striking out at him. She hated to be laughed at almost as much as she hated to be misunderstood.

Once she had the urge to hit him under control, the overwhelming need to be in the man's arms had her breath catching and her heart beating double time. Her insides melted and damned if her traitorous body didn't weep with want in places better left unsaid.

His gaze snagged hers and his nostrils flared. He looked like a stallion who'd just scented a mare in heat.

Holy
crap!
It had been way too long since she'd let her body get her into trouble with the wrong man at the wrong time.

She hadn't tangled with any man since and had worn out two vibrators, lying to herself that it felt just as good. But vibrators can't snuggle and were a poor substitute when you had a smooth-talking, good-looking, towering example of pure unadulterated male standing three feet away, vibrating with need and the promise of heaven in his dark brown eyes.

Heat crept up her neck into her face. She smoothed her hands from the bridge of her nose along the line of her cheekbones; the heat singed her fingertips, but it wasn't embarrassment that sent a direct message to her center—it was lust. Plain and simple. But what did she know about the dark-eyed cowboy clenching his jaw, quivering with need, evidenced by the telltale bulge straining against his button-fly jeans? They'd only met the night before, and despite the fact that they'd spent the last few hours talking and then working in close proximity, they were still basically strangers.

Dylan ran his hands over his face and seemed to gather himself back under control. “Ronnie, I'm about to beg—I hate to beg.”

Her inner muscles clenched and damned if her body didn't crank up the moisture to just shy of embarrassing. Trying to ignore her traitorous body, she drew in a breath and met his gaze. His eyes darkened and his breathing quickened.
Could
he
tell?
The need to cross her legs was almost impossible to resist.

“Dylan,” she began, “I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression—”

He reached for her again but stopped when she held up her hand. He clenched his hands at his sides and she wondered how long she could keep this cowboy from tossing her over his shoulder and heading down the hall to her bedroom.

“I don't normally kiss a man I've never met before.”

The look in his eyes chilled her. “We met last night, remember, darlin'?” He pantomimed circling a lasso with his hand, then letting it fly.

Fear and excitement had poured through her veins like molten rock last night, and only a large dash of common sense had kept her from agreeing to wait for him. “How could I forget?”

He stood at attention, his hands and his jaw clenching and unclenching as if to keep himself from grabbing her. The image of being hauled back into his arms flashed through her like lightning. Desire and lust combined into a ball of need so huge it threatened to close her throat. She swallowed against the lump. “You'd better go.”

Something akin to pain flashed in his dark eyes, but it happened so fast she wasn't sure if she had imagined it or it had been real. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

A hollow, empty feeling filled the void his leaving had created. Ronnie wanted to rush after him, call him back, and apologize. “For what?”

Needing
him?

Wanting
him?

Lusting
after
him?

“All of the above.”

Now that he'd gone, the sexual tension that had vibrated in the air around them dissipated, leaving her drained and wanting—wanting a man who could be all wrong for her. Besides, she didn't have the strength to go there again… did she?

Follow
your
heart, bambina.
Maybe her grandmother wouldn't lecture Ronnie about sticking to her budget and not going over her minutes if she called her tonight and again on their usual day. With a heavy sigh, she cleared the table and straightened her tiny kitchen. It wasn't her dream kitchen… that would be the size of her entire apartment, with a fireplace that took up one whole wall. Just like the one she'd seen in a vintage Victorian magazine, one so large, you could roast a side of beef in it, complete with a double oven—so she could roast a turkey and bake pies—while the pasta and red sauce simmered on the stovetop.

Her eyes teared up at the thought of such culinary perfection, until she snapped out of it. “Hey, I'm not destitute. I have a damned stove to cook on and an oven to bake whatever I want in.”

Yanking open the cabinet above the sink, she grabbed a container and carefully poured the leftover red sauce into it. Her Nonni called it gravy, but Ronnie's friends at school weren't Italian and thought she meant brown gravy whenever she called it that.

You
come
from
solid
peasant
stock, Veronica, be proud of it and don't ever forget that.

She screwed on the lid and put the jar into the fridge, reminding herself to make that call as soon as she set the kitchen to rights. Once the dishes were washed and air drying in the dish drainer, she was ready to tackle the pots and pans.

Ronnie rubbed at her temples to soothe the growing ache. It didn't help. “At least I had my usual tonight.” Rinsing out the empty beer bottles and placing them in the recycle canister next to her garbage, she smiled. Her grandmother would be pursing her lips right now; she never could understand how Ronnie could drink a beer and eat her grandmother's cooking. Nonni insisted on a robust red table wine. Ronnie could take it or leave it. Beer just tasted better to her. Must be something in her lineage somewhere that diluted her Italian heritage, rumors of
the
curse
flitted through her beleaguered brain, but she ignored the thought and reached for the phone.

“Hi, Nonni, it's me.”

“Veronica! Is everything all right? It's not Sunday.”

The worry in her grandmother's voice soothed the rough edges that her night of overindulging had left behind. “Just missing you,” Ronnie reassured her grandmother. Relieved, the dear woman launched into the latest news from back home. When she'd filled Ronnie in on who'd won at bingo, whose bridge partner had moved to Florida, and what new eligible man moved into their senior living complex, her grandmother asked, “So have you met any interesting men out in Texas?”

Ronnie's heart skipped a beat. “One or two.” Wanting to give her grandmother something to think about until their next phone call, she added, “By the name of Garahan.”

She could picture her grandmother's face smiling, which was as close as Ronnie could get to a hug right now. “Now don't go thinking it's anything serious, Nonni,” she warned. “I… uh… met him last night when I was out with friends. He's going to be rebuilding my shop.”

“
Bastardos!
” She agreed with her grandmother until Nonni started in on the curse. “You know Veronica, the Irish are just as hot-blooded as Italians.”

Knowing there would be no stopping Nonni once she got going on her favorite subject, Ronnie pretended someone was at her door. “Hang on just a minute,” she called out, “be right there.” Waiting a moment, she said, “Nonni, I've got to go.”

“Maybe it's that lovely Irishman from last night.” Her grandmother sounded positively ecstatic about the idea. “You should save your pennies for our Sunday chats, dear.”

“Yes, Nonni.”

“I love you,
bambina.
”

“I love you too, Nonni.”

Half an hour later, she wandered back downstairs, amazed at how different it looked. Where there had been haphazard piles of lumber that she'd sorted were now neat piles of lumber that appeared to be all the same thickness and type.

“Must make sense to a carpenter.” She smiled. Dylan was apparently a man of many talents; he could rope a woman, kiss her brainless, and sort wood. Time would tell if he was as good as Emily claimed he'd be repairing the front of her shop and rebuilding the shelves.

She turned and nearly swallowed her tongue; the pile of ruined lingerie had been painstakingly sorted by color, largest scraps on the bottom of each pile. The very thought of Dylan's hands touching the silky bits and pieces of what was left of the teddies and chemises she'd stocked and sold left her a bit breathless.

Remembering the callused hands that had gripped her upper arms and dragged her close, she closed her eyes, imagining what those hands would feel like caressing her shoulders, smoothing the hair off her neck, before pressing his lips where his hands had been.

“Arrgghh. Do. Not. Go. There!”

She spun on her heel and headed to the staircase, stomping her way up, feeling oddly better for taking some of her frustration out on the steps. When she reached the top she burst out laughing. If her grandmother was here, she'd be chastising Ronnie for
damning
around
—that's what Nonni called it when Ronnie stomped out her anger as a child. And Nonni was rarely wrong. She had been mad and taking it out on an inanimate object: the poor stairs.

Alone, she was just a bit uneasy, wondering whether or not the teenagers who had trashed her store would be back. She didn't think they were that stupid, but she retraced her steps and locked the door at the top of the steps. The snick of the lock slipping into place reminded her that she called the shots; she was in charge and could lock up or not… it was her choice.

Desperately needing to have a choice was of the utmost importance to her. When she'd married, she thought it had been her choice, but looking back, she could see that it hadn't been. She'd been swept away by the idea of not fulfilling her grandmother's prophesies and the dreaded curse, choosing a boy she'd known all her life, one that she sensed wouldn't be all that concerned with fidelity, but would be able to provide for her. And wasn't that what she'd decided she wanted, rather than love: a big house, a fancy car, and designer clothes?

Her ex had said he loved her, but Ronnie had come to realize that what he had loved was his image of her. She'd never let him know the real her because she didn't love him enough to share her hopes and dreams with the man. He'd often told her he needed her, but she'd come to accept that what he needed was someone who would pick up after him and cook for him. She'd been content with their life until her best friend had started canceling dates to meet for coffee, shopping, and drinks. Her gut was never wrong—she'd wished it had been.

Now that the pain of their betrayal wasn't quite so sharp, she realized the only thing her ex really loved, wanted, or needed her for was her cooking. “Damn.” Didn't that thought just turn her world upside down? Dylan needed her to cook for him too. Well, at least he'd been honest with her; Dylan had made no secret that he wanted a whole lot more from her.

“Double damn.” Even knowing he only wanted her for her body didn't bother her as much as she'd thought it would because she'd been just as attracted to his amazing body from the get-go. Successful relationships had been built on initial physical attractions before—
just
look
at
Nonni
and
Poppi
. Her grandparents had fallen in love at first sight—well, so maybe she and Dylan had fallen in lust at first sight. No biggie, there was time to sort things out while they spent time in one another's company at Guilty Pleasures.

Ronnie sighed as she flicked on the bathroom light. Her reflection smiled back at her as she admitted, “I really do want that man in my bed.”

“No.” Reaching for her cleanser, she opened the top and squeezed a dollop into the palm of her hand. Smoothing it over her forehead and around the line of her cheekbones, she let her mind wander. Wasn't a surprise that it settled on the tall, dark, and handsome hunk of cowboy with the callused hands and kissable lips.

She studied her reflection. Her face had a rosy glow, but her eyes were troubled. “Stay away from that man's lips until you've built up an immunity to his charms.” Her belly felt like it was filled with butterflies as she remembered the commanding way his mouth had claimed hers. Before those butterflies could travel south, she wondered if the curse would still be effective if he was only half Irish. She'd have to ask him.

The image of her grandmother laughing filled her. With shaky hands, she reached for her toothbrush and didn't look at the mirror again, even after she turned out the light.

***

Dylan drove up to the gate to the Circle G and put his truck in park. Sliding out, he unlatched and opened it without being conscious of doing so, his mind was stuck on the brunette with the slashing green eyes who'd both tempted and annoyed him to the bursting point.