Mary Baxter - The Millionaire Comes Home

Both women turned and watched as Ed strolled in. Grace frowned, thinking something was not quite right about him, but she couldn’t say what. For starters his color wasn’t good; he looked almost pasty. She wondered if Zelma had picked up on that. Should she express her concern? No. It could just be her imagination which meant she would set off an alarm for nothing. But what if it wasn’t?

“Ed, are you okay?” Grace asked.

“Yeah, honey,” Zelma said, frowning in his direction. “You look—”

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Ed interrupted. He winked at Grace. “You’re feeding me too good. That’s the problem.”

Still not convinced, but deciding to let the matter drop, Grace smiled. “So you two go ahead and shake all the legs you want. I’m heading for the bathtub.”

“We’ll see you later, then, hon,” Ed said, taking Zelma’s arm and steering her out.

Grace watched as they left the room, then turned her attention back to the cake batter, noticing that it had lumped on her. She began stirring it harder than ever.

“Why didn’t you take them up on their offer?”

Grace’s hands stilled, but her pulse didn’t. It spiked to an all-time high. She raised her head. He was standing just inside the kitchen, looking and smelling much more appetizing than the cake batter in front of her. He had on a white knit shirt and a pair of casual slacks that left no doubt as to the strength of his muscles.

Judging from the dampness of his hair, he’d apparently just showered, which should have made him appear more rested. It didn’t. It was obvious that he was tired, the grooves cutting deeper than ever into his eyes and mouth.

“I didn’t want to dance, that’s why,” she finally said, dragging her gaze off him.

“It sounds like fun.”

“I’m sure they’d let you tag along,” she said for lack of anything better to say.

His lips quirked as he stepped closer. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you hungry?” she forced herself to ask. She had to dispel the sudden burgeoning tension.

“No, thanks.”

“Just tired, huh?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me it is.”

“Maybe that’s because you know me so well.”

Her eyes flared. “I don’t know you at all.”

“I haven’t changed that much.”

“Oh, please,” she muttered, feeling as if she just stepped off into quicksand, and it was about to suck her under. But then that was the effect he’d always had on her from the first day she’d met him. Apparently, the years hadn’t changed that, much to her chagrin.

“I like your kitchen.”

His mentioning such a mundane thing was like being thrown a lifeline. She brightened and said, “Since I love to cook, I wanted it to be special.”

And it was, with the large airy windows that went from ceiling to floor, letting in warmth and light and greenery from the outside. One seemed to be embraced the instant one walked in. Another attraction were the updated countertops and the polished hardwood cabinets.

“It feels like you’ve brought the outside in,” Denton said, plopping down on the bar stool in front of her.

It was all Grace could do not to flinch visibly as his body seemed to envelop her. Unable to meet his direct gaze, she took a quivering breath, then pretended to stare outside. “I take that as a real compliment because that’s exactly what I strove to do.”

“So you decorated the house?”

His question drew her back around. “Most of it. Couldn’t afford to hire anyone.” Afraid she might sound as if she was whining, she added hastily, “But I wanted the responsibility, loved every minute of making this old place come back alive after sitting vacant for several years.” She paused. “I’m not through, though, not by a long shot. There’s so much else I want to do that needs to be done.”

“I have faith in you,” he said in a low tone.

Had that been his breath she felt caress her cheek? Swallowing against the clamoring going on inside her, she asked, “Sure you aren’t hungry?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“What you have to offer.”

She expelled a shaky breath but it did little to relieve the pressure inside her. He was deliberately toying with her emotions. But if she hit him with that accusation, he’d deny it. Or would he?

God, what an intolerable situation. Drawing back, she said, in what she hoped was a perfectly normal but standoffish tone, “I have some cold cuts, salad—”

“Thanks but no thanks,” he said abruptly.

She watched as he reached in his pocket and pulled out his pack of antacids.

“That’s obviously your diet of choice.”

His lips thinned as he rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. “It gets the job done.”

“I hope the job’s worth it,” she said, holding on to her normal tone, though it was hard, especially when she wanted to reach out and touch those grooves in his forehead, soothe them away. Then, realizing where her thoughts had wandered, she shut them down.

“It is.” His tone was definitely clipped.

“Did I hit an exposed nerve?”

He scowled. “So you obviously don’t like pressure. Well, I do. Otherwise, I’d be bored.”

“Good luck.”

His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“On convincing yourself.”

A smile of sorts softened his lips. “You don’t pull any punches, do you? Okay, so things aren’t going so well right now. I’ll admit that.”

“The boss is not happy you’re here.” It was a statement of fact.

Denton’s laugh was humorless. “That’s putting it mildly.”

She didn’t dare ask him when he was leaving. She didn’t want him to go, but she was afraid for him to stay. And why that was so, she dared not ask herself. Having him in front of her, within touching distance but not touching him, was playing havoc with her emotions, a complication she didn’t need or deserve.

“So, is making more money your goal?”

He almost smiled again. “That and making partner in the firm.”

“I guess that makes Mummy and Daddy proud.” She had purposely avoided asking about his parents, whom she partly blamed for their breakup. They had never liked her, never thought she was good enough for their son. However, she couldn’t blame then totally. Denton could have bucked them, but he hadn’t. He’d gone right along with his dad’s wishes. Then his dad had had a stroke, which had further complicated matters.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” he said, drawing her back to the moment at hand.

“Is that on the horizon? Becoming partner, I mean?” she said, deliberately changing the subject.

“It’d better be. If I nail this client, then I feel I’m a shoo-in.”

“Then I hope it happens.”

He delved into her eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

She flushed, stirring harder. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?” he asked in a innocent tone.

Innocent, hell. He’d never been innocent. “Assuming you can read my mind.”

“What are you making?” he asked, his tone having dropped to a sultry pitch deep in the danger zone.

“Uh, a cake,” she responded, clearly thrown off-kilter by his unexpected change in subject.

He chuckled suddenly, and his eyes heated.

Her system went haywire. “What’s…so funny?”

“You’ve got a glob of batter on your face.”

Before she could respond, a finger reached out and scooped it off. Then, without removing his hot gaze, he deliberately licked his finger, making a sucking noise.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach.

He should’ve kept his hands to himself, dammit. He didn’t know what had possessed him. Yes, he did. That same old lust, smoldering deep in his gut had spurred him into action. Too, she’d looked so delightful with that glob of batter on her cheek, almost dead center on the dimple, that he couldn’t resist touching her.