Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,39

the gas and oil, and headed the old Jeep back to the Chance.

****

At six o’clock she heard a vehicle approaching. She glanced out the kitchen window, saw the Cherokee coming into the yard, and returned to the stove for a last check on supper. She’d expected Heath to go to his cabin and was surprised when the vehicle stopped at the Lodge’s back door.

When he stepped into the kitchen, she turned from placing a tray of biscuits in the oven and stopped, astonished. He was carrying a dozen yellow roses.

“Hello.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of the apron she was wearing over her jeans. Then, “You’re staring.”

“You’re cooking?” His tone reflected amazement.

“Sure.” She leaned back against a counter, crossed her arms, and shrugged. “My mother taught me. She’s famous for her dinner parties.”

“Do you think it might stretch to fill two plates? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Really?” She turned to check on a casserole in the oven. “I thought you might have had a lunch date with Dr. Henderson.”

“Jesse? Oh, we grabbed a bowl of oyster stew at O’Brien’s Cafe.” He advanced across the room. When Allison turned from checking the beef Burgundy warming in the oven with the biscuits, she found him almost touching her. “What would give you that idea?” Curiosity and suspicion colored his inquiry.

“Dr. Henderson’s mother remarked about your having a relationship when I went to the clinic looking for you.” Don’t look at me like that, as if you can see right through me, right through my ridiculous thoughts. “Dinner’s almost ready. And there is enough for two.”

“Thank you. By the way, these are for you.” He moved the roses into her arms.

“Really?” A rush of sexual anticipation overwhelmed her before suspicion took its place. What are you up to?

“They’re a peace offering. I’ve done some thinking and realized Jack would be miserable if he knew we were squabbling over all he held dear. Let’s leave it to the lawyers to hash out.”

It didn’t seem possible. Heath Oakes was behaving like a gentleman, even apologizing…sort of.

“We do need to talk…rationally,” she said.

“I agree. But not until after dinner. Whatever it is, it smells much too fine to be overshadowed by a business discussion.” He flashed her a smile designed to melt the hardest heart, then turned toward the door. “Give me ten minutes,” he called back over his shoulder. “I want to shower. Oh, by the way, those roses? They’re fresh.” He let the door slam shut behind him.

His words reviving the memory of the secondhand flowers he’d salvaged for a nasty rich girl years earlier, Allison watched from the kitchen as he strode across to his cottage in the early evening twilight. After the lights had flashed on, through the unshaded windows of both kitchens she saw him pull off his jacket, then his shirt, and pause, bare-chested, to get a glass of water at the sink.

Wow! I bet her royal rottenness wouldn’t scoff at him now. She looked down at the dozen golden blooms in her arms. Flowers. A shower before dinner. He’s definitely up to something. Tread carefully, Allison Armstrong. Tread very carefully. She steeled herself as she reached into a cupboard for a vase. Whatever it is, it’s not going to work.

She had placed the casserole and biscuits on the table and was returning to the kitchen to set up the coffeepot when he returned. She pushed through the swinging door as he stepped through the outer one. And caught her breath.

Instead of his usual bush pants he was wearing jeans—jeans that would have sold a million copies had he been the model for the brand—and a faded blue chambray shirt soft enough to emphasize every line of his broad shoulders and powerful chest. A hand-tooled brown leather belt at his narrow waist was inlaid with wildlife motifs. His hair, fresh from that shower he’d mentioned, had been brushed and looked so soft Allison felt a sudden, startling desire to run her fingers through its waves and curls.

“Dinner’s ready.” Damn. Her voice sounded surprised, squeaky.

“Good. I’ve brought wine.” He held up a decanter. “I opened it so it can breathe. It’s Jack’s homemade elderberry.”

****

“This is great,” he said half way through his second plate. “You’re full of surprises, Allison Armstrong. I never would have suspected you were a gourmet chef. More wine?”

“Please.” She extended her glass. Already it was helping to wash away her guilt about her lack of visits to her grandfather, her image of Heath with the