Diana Palmer - Heart of Ice

“Do you usually stay out this late?” Egan asked from the living room. He was standing by the window with a glass of amber liquid that looked like whiskey in his hand.

She stared at him. “I’m twenty-five,” she reminded him. “I stay out as late as I like.”

He moved toward her slowly, gracefully, his eyes holding hers. “Do you sleep with him?” he asked.

She caught her breath. “Egan, what I do with anyone is my business.”

He threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass on a small table in the hall, moving toward her until she felt like backing away.

“How is he?” he asked lazily. Then he caught her by the shoulders and held her in front of him, looking down quietly, holding her eyes.

Her lips parted as she met that intimidating stare. “Egan…”

His nostrils flared. The lean fingers that were holding her tightened. “Is he white all over?” he continued in a faintly mocking tone. “City boy.”

“Well, there aren’t many cattle to herd up here,” she said tautly.

“No, but there are too damn many people. You can’t walk two steps without running into someone,” he complained. “I couldn’t survive here. Answer me. Do you sleep with him?”

“That’s non—” she began.

“Tell me anyway. Does he do all those things to you that you write about in your books?” he asked, studying her. “Does he ‘strip you slowly,’ so that you can ‘feel every brush of his fingers…’”

“Egan!” She reached up to press her fingers against his lips, stopping the words as she flushed deeply.

He hadn’t expected the touch of her fingers. He caught them and held them as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His eyes held hers.

“Is that the kind of man you like, Katriane Desiree?” he asked, using the full name that she didn’t know he’d ever heard.

She watched him helplessly. “I like…writers,” she managed.

“Do you?” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed its warm palm softly, slowly. His teeth nipped at her slender forefinger.

“Egan,” she breathed nervously.

He took the tip of her finger into his mouth and she felt his tongue touching it. “Afraid?” he murmured. “Don’t they say that a woman is instinctively afraid of a man she thinks can conquer her?”

She wrenched away from him like an animal at bay. “You’d be lucky!” she whispered. Was that her voice, shaking like that?

He stared at her, sliding his hands into his pockets, and the action stretched the fabric of his trousers tight over the powerful muscles of his legs. “So would you,” he returned. “But one of these days I might give you a thrill, honey. God knows, my taste never ran to virgins. And an experienced woman is…exciting.”

She felt the blood rush into her face, and she whirled on her heel. If she stayed there one second longer, she’d hit him! Boy, wouldn’t the joke be on him if he ever tried to take her to bed! Egan, in bed…

She went straight into the bathroom, oblivious that she might wake Ada, and ran herself a calming cool shower.

Chapter Three

Kati didn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the hard grip of Egan’s fingers on her shoulders, the touch of his mouth against her hand. She hated him, she thought miserably; that was why she couldn’t sleep.

She dragged into the kitchen just after daylight, with her long gold and beige striped caftan flowing lovingly over the soft curves of her body. Her tousled hair fell in glorious disarray around her shoulders, and her dark eyes were even darker with drowsiness.

With a long yawn, she filled the coffee pot and started it, then she reached for the skillet and bacon and turned on the stove. She was leaning back against the refrigerator with a carton of eggs in one hand and butter in the other when the kitchen door opened and Egan came in, dressed in nothing but a pair of tan slacks.

He stopped at the sight of her and stared. She did some staring of her own. He was just as she’d imagined him without that shirt—sexy as all get-out. Bronzed muscles rippled as he closed the kitchen door; a mat of hair on his chest curled down obviously below his belt buckle. His arms looked much more powerful without a concealing shirt, as did his shoulders. She could hardly drag her eyes away.

“I thought I’d fix myself a cup of coffee,” he said quietly.

“I just put some on,” she said.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Does that mean I have to wait until you drink your potful before I can make mine?” he asked.

She glared at him. So much for truces. “There’s a nice little coffee shop down on the corner,” she suggested with a venomous smile.

“I’ll tell Ada you’re being unkind to me,” he threatened. “Remember Ada? My sister? The one whose Christmas you said you didn’t want to spoil?”

She drew in a calming breath. “Do excuse me, Mr. Winthrop,” she said formally. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down? I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”

“Not until you tell me where you plan to pour it,” he returned.

“Don’t tempt me.” She reached up into the cabinet for a second cup and saucer while he pulled out a chair and straddled it.

When she turned back with the filled cups, she found him watching her. It unnerved her when he did that, and she spilled coffee into one of the saucers before she could set them on the table.

“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asked pleasantly.

“No,” she said. “I’m not used to sleeping late. I’m at my best early in the morning.”

A slow, wicked smile touched his hard mouth. “Most of us are,” he commented.

It didn’t necessarily mean what she thought it did, but she couldn’t help the blush. And that increased her embarrassment, because he laughed.

“Will you stop!” she burst out, glaring at him. “Oh, why don’t you take your coffee and go back to bed?”

“I’m hungry. Don’t I smell bacon?”

“Bacon!” She jumped up and turned it just in time. It was a nice golden brown.

“Going to scramble some eggs, too?” he asked.

“No, I thought I’d let you drink yours raw,” she said.

He only laughed, sipping his coffee. “I like raw oysters, but I draw the line at raw eggs. Want me to make the toast?”

“You can cook?”

“Don’t get insulting.” He stood up and found the bread and butter. “Get me a pan and some cinnamon and sugar.”

She stared at him.

“Cinnamon,” he said patiently. “It’s a spice—”

“I know what it is,” she grumbled, finding it. “Here. And I’ve lined the pan with aluminum foil. It’s all yours.”

“Ungrateful woman,” he muttered as he mixed the cinnamon and sugar in the shaker she’d handed him. He buttered the bread and spread the mixture on top.

“Don’t get conceited just because you can make cinnamon toast,” she mumbled. “After all, it isn’t exactly duckling a l’orange .”

“I’d like to see you cook that,” he remarked.

She cleared her throat. “Well, I could if I had a recipe.”

“So could I.” He turned on the oven and slid the toast in under the broiler. “Get me a pot holder.”

“Who was your personal slave yesterday?” she asked, tossing him a quilted pot holder.

“I liked the old days,” he murmured, glancing at her. “When men hunted and women cooked and had kids.”

“Drudgery,” she scoffed. “Women were little more than free labor….”

“Cosseted and protected and worried over and loved to death,” he continued, staring down at her. “Now they’re overbearing, pushy, impossible to get along with and wilder than bucks.”

“Look who’s talking about being wild!” she burst out.

He stared down his nose at her. “I’m a man.”