“Let me tell you one thing: there is nothing between Rachel and me. What there was, was convenient, occasional sex when we both wanted it, and an agreement to act as each other’s escort at certain functions. That’s it, that’s all it ever has been, that’s all I ever wanted, and now it’sover. It’sbeenover, except for the escorting part.”
“Oh.” Fiona settled back onto the counter stool from where she’d half risen in irritation and just looked at him. She took another sip of wine, narrowing her eyes as she glowered over the rim. “And what makes you think I’m going to believethatconvenient story?”
He settled on his elbows across the counter from her, and, leaning toward her, stared into her eyes. “Because you want to. And…because I don’t lie.” The words came from deep inside him, laced with some emotion he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. But he knew it was vital that she believe him.
She looked back at him, her eyes clear and steady, and he felt prickles of awareness travel up his spine. The situation couldn’t be more innocent, for a whole expanse of counter yawned between them, but tension zinged through the air as they gazed at each other.
Finally, she spoke. “Let me see your hand.” Resting her own palm on the counter, she opened her fingers to take his.
He obligingly offered his hand, and the prickles turned into a surge of heat when she began to examine the lines on his palm with her delicate, beringed fingers: tracing, smoothing over them with the pads of her fingers as she’d done in the restaurant. What did she think she’d see there? Whether he was telling the truth?
At last, she released his hand and returned hers to clasp the wineglass. She caught his gaze with her own, and he saw that her lids had dropped slightly, giving her a sensual, come hither look that set his blood racing to a particular, throbbing location. She smiled very slowly. “All right.”
He started to come around from his side of the counter, wanting only to yank her into his arms and dispose of that horrible t-shirt…among other various items of clothing.
“When are you going to show me your art?”
Her words, low and warm, stopped him cold three feet away. “What?” He stared at her, visions of having her sprawled on the stone counter scattering with the rest of his thoughts.
“You’re an artist, Gideon. I’d like to see your work. While you make us something to eat.” Her face was the picture of innocent interest, but he saw the way the corners of her mouth curled up in a smug smile.
“How…never mind.” He stared at her, fighting within himself the fear of exposing that part of him to someone he didn’t know well, but, who, it seemed, knew him even better than he could have imagined. He had no choice. “They’re in the den—my most recent ones. In the big drawer in the desk.”
She slid off the stool, brushing past him, sauntering out of the room as though she hadn’t just escaped being laid on his countertop. He watched her go, knowing he’d just lost the upper hand in this tête-à-tête…and wondering what she would do next to catch him off guard.
Then his stomach squeezed as he realized she would be looking at his work. He knew the drawings weren’t bad…but would she think they were good? Gideon took a healthy drink of wine and forced himself to open the refrigerator. Better to keep his mind occupied with tasks other than Fiona Murphy’s reaction to his most personal items.
He’d rubbed two filets with garlic and cracked peppercorns when she wandered back into the kitchen. “Something smells good,” she said casually, and he heard her slide onto the stool behind him.
Gideon forced himself to remain focused on preparing the steaks, refusing to turn to face her for fear he’d see disinterest, or even antipathy, for his work. A rejection of his creativity would also be a rejection of himself. “How do you like your steak?” he asked as he turned.
“Steak? Oh.”
He looked over to see that she was biting her lower lip. “Oh?” he repeated, standing there with two beautiful filets mignon on a plate—one-inch-thick, perfect dark pink steaks that would just round out that Cab he’d opened.
“I’m vegetarian,” she confessed, her eyes wide and apprehensive. “But I—”
Gideon, who considered himself the most patient of men, would have thrown up his hands in defeat if he hadn’t been holding the steaks. Perhaps he should just give up on this—on trying to connect with a palm reading, esoteric, disorganized New-Ager who didn’t know how to enjoy a good steak. How the hell did he think they could ever get over their differences enough to find their way to bed?
“How about some pasta, then?” he replied, eyeing the rich, aromatic steaks with regret. This was definitely not going as planned.
“Pasta is fine, but I…oh, Gideon, I’m sorry,” she wailed in frustration, “the truth is, I have a real weakness for filet…I can’t resist it…even though I haven’t had red meat regularly for years…or, well, at least since last New Year’s….”
He stared at her, more baffled than ever. She was a vegetarian with a weakness for filet mignon? Did that mean she would eat the steak…or not? He was almost afraid to ask.
Fiona rested her head in her folded arms, wondering why she couldn’t stop babbling such nonsense. She was making a complete idiot out of herself. “I’d love to eat the steak,” she managed to say, her voice muffled. “Medium.”
She was afraid to look up and see the incredulous expression that must be plastered on his face. She’d been as nervous as a cat since arriving at his home…and that tension had just about set her heart to choking her when he made his blithe announcement that there was nothing between him and Rachel. It had been all she could do to seize the opportunity to get away from him—from the chemistry that sizzled between them, from those hungry eyes that did not rest from taking her measure—and escape into the den.
And then when she saw his drawings, Fiona had been moved…and more unnerved than ever. The monochrome sketches were bold and expressive, almost alive.
And she’d recognized herself in two of them. Yes, she’d recognized herself—but as he saw her, and that made her stomach flutter even more. How could she possibly be—live up to—match?—that siren-like, sensual woman he’d drawn, with hooded, bedroom eyes and wild, erotic hair?
When she raised her head at last, her cheeks heavy and warm from being huddled in her arms, she first saw the heavy chopping board in front of her on the counter. As she watched silently, unwilling to speak, Gideon sharpened a serious looking knife and began to chop tomatoes and cucumbers into bite sized cubes.
“I love your drawings.”
The rhythm of his knife slowed, then sped up. He didn’t speak, and didn’t look at her—and it confirmed her suspicion that the artwork meant much more to him than he’d readily admit.
