"Are you telling me you're cooking me dinner?"
"It's the quickest way, without physical contact, to get a woman into bed. The kitchen through there?"
When she'd managed to close her mouth, she followed him into the galley-style kitchen off the dining el. "Doesn't that depend on how well you cook?"
Appreciating her response, he smiled as he began pulling ingredients out of the bags. "You'll have to tell me. Got a skillet?"
"Yes, I have a skillet." She took a large cast-iron pan from its cupboard, then lips pursed, tapped it against her palm.
"You conk me with it, you'll miss out on my ziti with tomato and basil."
"Ziti?" After running her tongue around her teeth, she set the skillet on a burner. "I'll wait until after I eat." She got out a second pan for the pasta and handed it to him.
Once he'd added water and set it to boil, she watched him wash greens for a salad.
"Where'd you learn to cook?"
"We all cook. Chef's knife? My mother didn't believe there was women's work and men's work. Thanks," he added and began chopping with a quick, negligent flair that had Regan lifting her brows. "There was just work," he continued.
"Ziti doesn't sound like farm food."
"She had an Italian grandmother. Can you stand a little closer?"
"Hmm?"
"You smell good. I like to smell you."
Ignoring that, and the little twist in her stomach, she picked up the wine he'd brought along. "Why don't I open this?"
"Why don't you?"
After she'd set it on the counter to breathe, she scooted behind him to reach the cupboard to get a salad bowl. When he asked for music, she slipped back into the living room and put Count Basie on low. Why, she wondered, did a man look so sexy with his sleeves rolled up, grating carrots into a salad?
"Don't open that olive oil," she told him. "I have some."
"Extra virgin?"
"Of course." She tapped a long-spouted copper pitcher on the counter.
"Count Basie, your own olive oil." His eyes met hers, laughed. "Want to get married?"
"Sure. I've got time on Saturday." Amused that he didn't have such a quick comeback for that, she reached overhead for wineglasses.
"I was planning on working Saturday." Watching her, he set the salad aside.
"That's what they all say."
Lord, she was one terrific piece of work. He moved closer as she poured the wine. "Tell me you like watching baseball on TV on hot summer nights, and we've got a deal."
"Sorry. I hate sports."
He moved closer still, and with a wineglass in either hand, she moved back. "It's a good thing I found this flaw now, before we had five or six kids and a dog."
"You're a lucky guy." Heart jittering, she backed up again.
"I like this," he murmured, and traced a finger over the little mole beside her mouth. Inching closer, he ran his finger down to flip open the buttons of her blazer.
"Why are you always doing that?"