Part 3 (1/2)
She drew in a calming breath. ”Do excuse me, Mr. Winthrop,” she said formally. ”Wouldn't you like to sit down? I'll pour you a cup of coffee.”
”Not until you tell me where you plan to pour it,” he returned.
”Don't tempt me.” She reached up into the cabinet for a second cup and saucer while he pulled out a chair and straddled it.
When she turned back with the filled cups, she found him watching her. It unnerved her when he did that, and she spilled coffee into one of the saucers before she could set them on the table.
”Couldn't you sleep?” he asked pleasantly.
”No,” she said. ”I'm not used to sleeping late. I'm at my best early in the morning.”
A slow, wicked smile touched his hard mouth. ”Most of us are,” he commented.
It didn't necessarily mean what she thought it did, but she couldn't help the blush. And that increased her embarra.s.sment, because he laughed.
”Will you stop!” she burst out, glaring at him. ”Oh, why don't you take your coffee and go back to bed?”
”I'm hungry. Don't I smell bacon?”
”Bacon!” She jumped up and turned it just in time. It was a nice golden brown.
”Going to scramble some eggs, too?” he asked.
”No, I thought I'd let you drink yours raw,” she said.
He only laughed, sipping his coffee. ”I like raw oysters, but I draw the line at raw eggs. Want me to make the toast?”
”You can cook?”
”Don't get insulting.” He stood up and found the bread and b.u.t.ter. ”Get me a pan and some cinnamon and sugar.”
She stared at him.
”Cinnamon,” he said patiently. ”It's a spice-”
”I know what it is,” she grumbled, finding it. ”Here. And I've lined the pan with aluminum foil. It's all yours.”
”Ungrateful woman,” he muttered as he mixed the cinnamon and sugar in the shaker she'd handed him. He b.u.t.tered the bread and spread the mixture on top.
”Don't get conceited just because you can make cinnamon toast,” she mumbled. ”After all, it isn't exactly duckling a l'orange.”
”I'd like to see you cook that,” he remarked.
She cleared her throat. ”Well, I could if I had a recipe.”
”So could I.” He turned on the oven and slid the toast in under the broiler. ”Get me a pot holder.”
”Who was your personal slave yesterday?” she asked, tossing him a quilted pot holder.
”I liked the old days,” he murmured, glancing at her. ”When men hunted and women cooked and had kids.”
”Drudgery,” she scoffed. ”Women were little more than free labor....”
”Cosseted and protected and worried over and loved to death,” he continued, staring down at her. ”Now they're overbearing, pushy, impossible to get along with and wilder than bucks.”
”Look who's talking about being wild!” she burst out.
He stared down his nose at her. ”I'm a man.”
She drew in a breath and let it out, and her eyes involuntarily ran over him.
”No argument?” he asked.
She turned away. ”Your toast's burning.”
He took it out-nicely browned and smelling sweet and delicate-and put it on a plate while she scrambled eggs.
”I like mine fried, honey,” he commented.
”Okay. There's a frying pan, grease is in the cabinet. If you're too good to eat my scrambled eggs, you can mutilate your own any way you like.”
He chuckled softly, an odd sound that she'd never heard, and she turned to look up at him.
”Firecracker,” he murmured, his eyes narrow and searching. ”Are you like that in bed?”
She jerked her eyes away and concentrated on the eggs. ”Wouldn't you like to get dressed before we eat?”
It was a mistake. A horrible mistake. Because then he knew what she hadn't admitted since he walked into the room. That, stripped to the waist, he bothered her.
The arrogant beast knew it, all right. He moved lazily until he was standing just behind her...so close that she felt him and smelled him and wanted nothing more out of life than to turn around and slide her hands all over that broad chest.
His hands caught her waist, making her jump, and eased her back against him so that she could feel the warm, hard muscles of his chest and stomach against her back. The caftan was paper-thin, and it was like standing naked in his arms.
She felt his fingers move to her hips, caressingly, and her hand trembled as it stirred the eggs to keep them from burning.
”Egan, don't,” she whispered shakily.
His breath was warm and rough in her hair, because the top of her head only came to his chin. The fingers holding her hips contracted, and she felt the tips of them on her flat stomach like a brand.
”Put down that d.a.m.ned spoon and turn around,” he said in a tone she didn't recognize.
She was shaking like a leaf, and G.o.d only knew what would have happened. But noisy footsteps sounded outside the kitchen door, and an equally noisy yawn followed it. Egan let go of her and moved away just as Ada walked in.
”There you are!” she said brightly, watching her best friend stir eggs. ”I'm starved!”
”It'll be on the table in two shakes,” Kati promised, hoping her voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt. d.a.m.n Egan!
”I'd better get dressed,” Egan commented, winking at Ada as he went past her. ”I think I bother somebody like this.”
Kati made an unforgivable comment under her breath as he left the room.