Bought: One Night, One Marriage. Natalie Anderson
what you see?’ Dry humour laced his tone.
She said nothing.
The pause grew. ‘Want what you see?’ Less of the dry tone this time, a husky note of surprise.
Painfully wrenching her superglued eyes away, she stared at the glass in her hand and wondered what it was for.
Then she registered his questions—a good five seconds after he’d asked. Like? Want? Not able to answer honestly, she said the first thing that entered her head. ‘I’ve made soup for lunch.’
There was another pause. Then, ‘Why, thank you. I’d love some.’
Oh, hell. Had she just asked him to lunch with her?
‘But water would be great for now.’ He nodded to the empty glass in her hand.
The way she lost all thought compared to the confident way he handled himself was embarrassing. She walked round him to the fridge and challenged, ‘You’re so cool, aren’t you?’
He grinned and leaned against the centre island bench. ‘I guess. My nickname in my teens was cucumber.’
‘You were that cool even at school?’ She opened the fridge and leaned in, taking her time so the cold air might help her think straight.
‘That might have been it or…’ he answered lazily.
‘Or what?’ She poured water from the bottle, keeping the door open with her body.
‘Maybe it was something to do with size…’
Size? The penny dropped. ‘Ugh.’ She slammed the fridge shut.
His laughter was low and dry and she sent him an evil look until he raised his hands in surrender. ‘Kidding.’ His laughter rumbled again as he looked at her still-fiery expression. ‘Got you, though, haven’t I?’
‘Got me what?’
‘Curious.’
She walked towards him. Deny, deny, deny—the heat in her body, the attraction to him. Maybe it was time she tipped the glass of ice and water over his way-too-hot body. It was like having a million-kilowatt heater in the room.
Eyes narrow and penetrating, he reached out and took the glass from her with a firm, steady hand. ‘Careful.’
She raised her brows at him, not trusting her voice.
‘If my jeans got that wet I’d have to take them off.’ He took a long sip. ‘And I’m not sure you’re ready for me to take my jeans off yet.’
In that instant she knew she had to back off, right away. He was only fooling around but every word had her getting way too excited. He was so undeniably gorgeous, so cheekily charming, so not for her. No more mistakes.
But she was in her kitchen and he was in front of her face and there was nowhere for her to go. She tried to stand and stare him out—pretty hard when he had all the confidence, when he oozed the promise of satisfaction and she was overcome by the desire to test it out.
There was silence in the still kitchen. The teasing glint in his eye had gone and she watched the kaleidoscope of gre-green in his eyes, the widening of his pupils so that the colour was merely a thin outer ring and the centre was serious intensity.
It was a look that had her wanting all kinds of things—all of them involving getting closer. Instead she gave herself a mental kick in the butt. This was his stock in trade. He knew exactly what he was doing to her with his pattern of bold, daring comments, the laughter and cheeky half-apologetic grin and then the intense, searing stare. No way could any woman hold immune to it. She was drawn like the proverbial moth to the flame, and Cally still had scars from the last time she got singed.
But it was Blake who stepped away, breaking the stare, the burning light fading. Cally looked down to the bench. She fully regretted the soup invite, but good manners dictated she couldn’t backtrack now. ‘I’ll call you when lunch is ready.’
‘Sure.’ She could feel his easy grin. ‘I’ll go finish out there.’
You do that, buster. She was going to keep her distance from now on. Cally focused on the chopping board as he turned to leave, but couldn’t stop lifting her head again to appreciate the view as he exited the room. She could look, couldn’t she? Especially when he wasn’t watching. Especially at his butt.
When she called him back in Cally was initially relieved to note his shirt was back on. Unfortunately it was wet in patches and clung a little too tightly to his fit frame. She gripped the knife a little firmer.
‘I’m done out there. You want to come and inspect?’
‘No, I’m sure you’ve done a great job.’
She bent back to her task of chopping the herb garnish. He made himself right at home in her kitchen. Sending her a slight smile, he moved to inspect the pots simmering gently on the hob. He lifted the lid on one and sniffed.
‘So this is the stuff you sell?’
She hid the surprise. So he’d done some homework between the auction and now. ‘Sure. Gourmet soup. Made with the freshest and the best of ingredients, blended to perfection.’
‘Smells good.’ He turned the wooden spoon in another. ‘And you make it all?’
‘Why sound so surprised? You think I can’t actually cook? You think I just add my name to someone else’s recipe?’ She’d done a degree in food science. She knew what was nutritionally valuable and what wasn’t. And she loved experimenting with flavours and tastes. She’d taken the comfort eating thing and turned it into something positive. With a mother like Alicia, what choice did she have? She’d been put on that many diets.
He raised his brows. ‘Did I say all that? Did I even suggest it?’
She felt faint warmth in her cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone implied that I’ve only used my connections to make a success of my business.’
‘Well, I didn’t imply anything of the sort. And from what I see here I can guess you make a success of your business all by yourself.’
She sent him a quick look of suspicion, but he didn’t seem to be teasing so she gave him the humorous history that she didn’t usually share. ‘When I was a teen my mother decided a cabbage-soup diet would be the one to finally shed my puppy-fat.’
‘Cabbage soup?’
She could hear his disgust and once she’d have totally agreed. She’d never hated her mother more than when she’d told her to detox for three days with nothing but some vile broth made from only onions and cabbages. She’d never felt so sick in her life. And so she’d gone into the kitchen, starving, and made her own soup. Then when her mother had grilled her on what she’d eaten that day she had been able to answer honestly—‘just some soup’.
‘I took to making it myself—played with the ingredients.’ She’d added cheeses, meats, spices and flavouring to soup and turned something spartan and simple into something succulent and calorifically sinful. Her products had intense flavour, were highly sought after, and sold as soup for the connoisseur.
She moved to stand next to him at the hob, stirred the other pot and grinned at the recollections. ‘Now my cabbage soup is one of my biggest sellers.’ She looked up, forgetting that eye contact with him was dangerous to her mental agility. ‘It has a full cup of cream in every pack.’
‘Naughty Cally.’
She batted her lashes. ‘What can I say? Subversive is sometimes the only way.’
‘Subversive,’ he echoed softly. ‘I must bear that in mind.’
Staring up at him, she felt the heat from his gaze far more than the heat from the element that was threatening to burn the soup. Then, of all the ridiculous things, she shivered. Immediately his eyes darkened, and she sensed rather than