Sherryl Woods - Twilight

“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose that is exactly what we are.”

It was too bad, too. What she was in desperate need of these days was an ally.

7

Rick leaned back in the booth at Tico’s and studied the woman opposite him. He’d waited for disdain to fill her eyes all morning, first when she had met the kids at Yo, Amigo and minutes ago, when they had entered the tiny, unpretentious neighborhood restaurant. So far, she had surprised him.

She had been polite, if guarded, with the teenagers. Inside the door of Tico’s, she had drawn in a deep breath, and a positively rapturous expression had crossed her face. Once they’d found an available booth in the crowded room, she had grabbed the typed, laminated menu eagerly. For five minutes after that she had pestered him with questions about unfamiliar items.

She had ordered with such abandon that even the unflappable Tico had been startled. She would be stunned to discover that her meal would be enough to stuff a truck driver. Tico’s place might not be much for atmosphere, but he never stinted on his portions, especially not for a customer who demonstrated so much enthusiasm. Rick had had to hide his amusement at his friend’s bemused expression.

What a complex woman Dana Miller was, he thought, a little bemused himself as he watched her. This side of her was far too alluring, far too dangerous, when he was already having difficulty resisting the effect she had on his body.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s not polite to stare?” she inquired, squirming just a little under his gaze.

He liked knowing that he could rattle her. “Not that I can recall,” he said, enjoying her uneasiness. She had caught him totally off-guard the night before. He figured it was only fair that he return the favor. “I don’t think it applied to circumstances like this, anyway.”

She regarded him quizzically. “And what circumstances would these be?”

“Two people each trying to figure out what makes the other one tick.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?”

Rick smiled. “Aren’t you?”

“I already know what makes you tick, Mr. Sanchez,” she said with evident bitterness. “You have a passion for just one thing—that program that you have poured your heart and soul into.”

It was essentially true, but Rick was vaguely insulted just the same. No man liked to hear himself described as so one-dimensional. “You see no more in me than that?”

“Is there more?”

“Maybe we should let you discover my other passions as we go,” he said softly, and watched the color climb into her cheeks.

The taunt came as naturally as breathing, before he could stop himself. It drew a spark of pure fire in her eyes that intrigued him, despite his best intentions. Dana Miller was a woman with passions of her own. Whatever they might be, though, they were off-limits to him. Honoring his friendship to Ken demanded it.

“This isn’t personal between us,” she said, her teeth clenched.

“Oh, no? You blame me for the death of your husband. You want to destroy something I love, something I’ve worked hard the past few years to get off the ground. I’d say that makes it pretty personal, Dana.”

“I meant—”

He couldn’t resist trying to shock her. “You meant there would be no sex, isn’t that right?”

The pink in her cheeks deepened. “How crude of you to put it so bluntly.”

“I don’t waste a lot of time dancing around the obvious, if that’s what you mean.” He leaned forward. “As for the sex, I think it’s a little too soon to rule anything out.”

She glared at him. “You are every bit as despicable as I’d imagined, Mr. Sanchez. My husband is—”

“Dead,” he reminded her, then cursed himself when the color washed out of her face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I should never have said that.”

“I think we should go now,” she said, her eyes shadowed with unbearable pain. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

Rick wondered only briefly whether he should accede to her wishes. Perhaps if she remained very angry with him, if she thoroughly despised him, she would stay away from Yo, Amigo, after all. He knew better, though. She wouldn’t allow anything—not even her dislike of him—to get in her way. She might avoid him, but she would be back.

He met her gaze squarely. “Suit yourself, but my appetite is just fine, and I’m not about to let Tico’s food go to waste.”

Their meal arrived as if on cue, plates loaded down with fragrant, spicy concoctions that blended meat and cheese and chili peppers in ways that fast-food chains had never imagined. As furious as Dana was with him, she eyed the plates avidly. He wondered if she would be stubborn enough to leave the food untouched to spite him.

For a moment or two, she did exactly that, hands folded primly in her lap, her chin tilted defiantly, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond him.

But as he continued to eat, slowly and deliberately savoring each mouthful, he could see her wavering. Finally, with a soft sigh of resignation, she picked up her fork.

She took one tiny, tentative bite at first, still resisting the idea of enjoying her meal. That bite was quickly followed by another, larger one, and then another.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “This is heavenly.”

Rick grinned. “See, not even I can ruin the taste of Tico’s enchiladas.”

She ignored the comment. “Do you think he would give me the recipe? What’s in this mole sauce? How many chilis?”

“I have no idea, and I doubt if he’d tell you. I think he would rather you came here often,” Rick said, and immediately regretted his own foolhardiness. He was practically begging to make things more personal, more intimate between them. How many meals could they share without the undeniable sparks between them leading to something neither of them wanted? Her violent response to his taunting comment just moments earlier proved that she was not half as immune to him as she wanted to be. No doubt she believed that such a significant spark of attraction made a mockery of her mourning, whereas he believed it was simply a life force exerting its pull.

“For more of this,” she said, holding up a forkful of savory meat, “I would spend time with the devil himself.”

For one brief second, Dana Miller was just an attractive, intelligent woman, a woman whom his body responded to, even when his head told him nothing could ever come of it. There were depths to her that it would be fascinating to explore, depths he would never know. That being the case, it was better to remind them both of why they were together at all.

“Ken always loved it here, too,” he said.

Rather than pain at the mention of her husband’s name, though, something soft and wondering lit her eyes. “He came here?”

It was as if he’d offered her an unexpected connection to the man she had lost. “Often,” Rick said. “He loved the food and the people. Tico was one of our first success stories when we began four years ago.”

Astonishment spread across her face. “Tico was in a gang?”

“He led one of the gangs,” Rick corrected, then added somberly, “until one of the members of his own gang killed his little brother, claiming he was a snitch.”

She gasped at that. “How horrible!”

“But out of that tragedy came some good. Tico was ready to listen to what Yo, Amigo had to say, to what Ken had to say. His mother was an excellent cook. Tico took her recipes and began to experiment with them. He fixed several suppers for everyone at Yo, Amigo. Everyone was wildly enthusiastic. Ken found a few people in the restaurant business, invited them over one night and, after tasting some of Tico’s wizardry with Mexican food, they came up with the money to back this place.”