Christine Flynn - Falling for the Heiress

Her request seemed to give him pause. Probably, she suspected, because he was accustomed to bulldozing ahead once he’d decided on a course of action and wasn’t used to anyone slowing him down.

She rather envied him that.

He finally muttered, “Fine,” as she set the ingredients by the tomatoes and pasta she’d left on the island. “Take off your jacket and get yourself an apron.”

“I’ll leave my jacket on.”

“You don’t want to ruin what you’re wearing.”

A white silk Armani wasn’t the most practical thing to wear for her first cooking lesson. She would, however, have to make do. She didn’t want to leave to change clothes. “It’s okay.”

Parker frowned at her slender back. Okay? he thought, absently watching her go through the drawers again. Okay because she could afford to stain two-thousand-dollar suits? Or okay because she was inherently stubborn and accustomed to getting her own way?

“Tomato sauce stains,” he warned.

An odd note of awkwardness slipped into her voice. “I don’t have anything on under it,” she explained, coming up with a white chef’s apron. “No blouse, I mean.”

His glance darted to the V of flesh exposed between her lapels as she held the white cotton apron by its inch-wide strings.

That was more information than he needed.

“Here.” Feeling chastised, he jerked his glance to what she held. He did not need to be imagining her standing there in a skimpy lace bra. “Turn around.”

Dutifully she did as he asked.

“Lift your hair.”

She did that, too, gathering the thick mane below the intricate clip already restraining it.

His fingers felt clumsy as he tied the strings behind her neck—quickly so he couldn’t think too much about the appealing curve of her shoulder, the baby-fine hairs below her nape. Her skin felt like warm satin to him, the brush of her hair against the back of his hand like strands of silk.

Her scent assaulted his remaining senses.

The tightness low in his gut seemed to make its way to his voice.

“The first thing you do is mince a clove of garlic.”

She dropped her hair as she turned. Stepping back, she met his oddly guarded eyes. “I don’t think Mikey will like garlic.”

“You can’t make a proper marinara without it.”

“Then, show me how to make an improper one.”

Tess could practically feel his eyes boring into her back as she hurried to gather a pen and notepad from the desk. “I need to write this down,” she explained. “I want to be able to do it again.”

She had the distinct impression that he was mentally shaking his head at her. At that moment, she really didn’t care. She would not have considered an ex-Marine who looked capable of bench-pressing her mom’s Mercedes to know his way around the kitchen. Since he did, she intended to take full advantage of his knowledge.

She also wanted to know how he’d acquired it.

“Where did you learn how to cook?”

“From my mom.”

“Is she a chef?”

“She’s first violin with the Philadelphia Symphony. You need to put a few tablespoons of olive oil in this,” he said, clearly changing the subject as he set a pot on the eight-burner stove in the middle of the island. “If we were doing this right, you’d put the garlic in next, then open the tomatoes and add them. Since we’re not, just add the tomatoes to the oil.”

“How much?”

“The whole can.”

“Oil, I mean.”

“A few tablespoons,” he repeated. “It’s a matter of taste. A little more or less won’t hurt.”

“Give me exact.”

With a pen poised above a notepad, she looked much as he imagined a young student might waiting for a teacher to proceed. Yet it wasn’t her expectation that struck him as he found measuring spoons for her and she dutifully wrote out his instructions before adding the ingredients precisely as he instructed. It was how young she looked each time she glanced up to make sure she’d done the step correctly or to ask what came next, how very innocent and how incredibly, unbelievably tempting.

The texture of her skin all but invited a man’s touch. Her lush lips fairly begged to be kissed. And a man would have to be dead not to notice the appealing concern in her lovely dark eyes when an uncertain, “Mommy?” had her abandoning everything to turn to the hallway.

“I’m right here,” she called. “Will that be all right?” she asked with a quick glance back at the pot.

He’d no sooner told her he would watch it than she headed for the sleepy-looking child who’d wandered toward the sound of her voice.

She scooped him up and turned, smiling, with him in her arms.

Parker had known beautiful women. They’d been arm candy for rich clients or the men’s daughters, wives or mistresses. He’d guarded female rock stars and models and on occasion found himself in the unenviable position of having to decline advances he wouldn’t have minded pursuing, on a purely recreational basis, had company policy not frowned on fraternization.

But recalling company policy wasn’t necessary as he deliberately dismissed the sharp physical pull he felt toward Tess. It wasn’t even necessary to remind himself that she was Cord Kendrick’s little sister and that the only reason he’d recommended Parker was because he knew he could trust him.

Shifting his attention to the boy as she set him down and took his hand, all Parker had to do was remind himself that she had robbed the child of a relationship with his natural father.

That alone was enough to dampen the heat.

The little boy with the button nose and big brown eyes stared at him uneasily. A tuft of his cornsilk hair stuck up in back.

His mom smoothed it down.

Snagging his slacks above his knees, Parker crouched down to bring himself more or less to the child’s level.

“Great shirt,” he said, smiling at the logo above the tiny pocket. “Do you play soccer?”

Smashed against his mom’s leg, Mikey nodded. “I have a ball.”

“You do?”

Fine blond hair brushed his eyebrows as he gave a vigorous nod.

“You’ll have to show it to me sometime.”

Without moving from where his arm wrapped his mom’s leg, he tipped back his head and looked up at her. “Do I have my soccer ball?”

“It’s not unpacked yet.”

“Can I show it to him when it is?”

“If Mr. Parker wants to see it.”

Parker gave the boy a wink.

Mikey grinned.

Planting his hands on his knees, Parker rose to tower over them both.

“That can simmer for a while,” he said, nodding toward her creation. With the little boy looking a little less wary of him, Parker pulled his professionalism back into place. “Where do you plan to eat?”

“It’s so nice outside, I thought we’d eat out there. Unless you’d prefer the dining room,” she offered, much as she might to a guest.

He was not a guest. He was her employee. “I’ll eat at the staff table.” Distance seemed prudent. So did boundaries. “Why don’t you show me around the house now?”

The unexpected ease Tess had started to feel with him vanished like smoke in a stiff wind. She had just been quite pointedly reminded that there were certain distances to maintain. Certain protocols to follow. She had thought they would eat together simply because it was only the three of them and it hadn’t seemed right that he should eat alone. Especially since he’d shown her how to prepare the meal.

The reserve he had just pulled into place brought a tug of embarrassment. The way his manner changed so quickly almost made it seem as if he thought she’d been coming on to him. She wasn’t sure she’d know how to come on to a guy even if she wanted to. Despite what Brad had told the world about her supposed inability to settle for one man, she was nowhere near as experienced as he’d portrayed her to be. Certainly not as experienced as the press had assumed in its relentless attempt to discover her nonexistent lovers.