The Inconvenient Bride - By Anne McAllister Page 0,40

evening.

Just like last night.

God, he didn’t want a rerun of last night.

Not that he was likely to get one. He figured she had probably cooked for herself and he was smelling what she’d already eaten an hour or two before.

It was after eight when he got there. He’d had a meeting with Kent and a couple of the men in his office that lasted until six-thirty. Then he’d taken his time going over what they’d discussed, making notes, leaving a recording for Shyla to type up tomorrow morning. He’d done it with the thorough deliberation with which he had always worked in his pre-Sierra days—those days when his mind had been blessedly unfogged by lust and desire and a woman with purple hair.

He tried telling himself that it had been unfogged tonight. But that wasn’t true. He still thought about her every minute or two. He just resisted the thoughts now. He refused to allow himself to dwell on what they’d do when he got home tonight.

He knew what they’d be doing. He’d be in the study working and she’d be in her room. If she even stayed home.

It was wondering if she’d be there that finally got him out of the office and hurrying on his way home. Not that he’d go looking for her if she wasn’t!

But he couldn’t deny he’d wanted to know.

And he couldn’t deny the shaft of pure relief he felt when he turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door to be greeted by mouth-watering smells emanating from the kitchen, and the soft Caribbean sounds of Jimmy Buffett on the stereo.

He set down his briefcase, then picked it up again, intending to take it to the study straight away. But before he could move, Sierra came out of the kitchen.

She wasn’t wearing his shirt.

No surprise there, of course. But he felt oddly bereft to see she was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a scoop-necked, long-sleeved pale pink T-shirt. She looked…normal. Except, of course, for the hair.

“I fixed some beef bourguignonne this afternoon,” she said casually. “Would you like some?”

What was he going to say? No?

“That’d be…good.” He hoped he didn’t sound as awkward as he felt. “I’ll just put my briefcase away.”

“Sure. We’re eating in the kitchen.” She disappeared again, leaving him to stare after her for a long minute before he gave himself a shake and carried his briefcase to his study and left it there. He washed up, then went back to the kitchen where Sierra had served the meal. She was already sitting on one side of the small table.

She looked up fleetingly when he came in and gave him a vague smile, then focused on her plate again.

Dominic sat down opposite her. “Looks good.” His voice sounded too loud for the small room. “Is this another of your mother’s recipes?”

He usually had no trouble at all making small talk. He’d been raised to make social conversation by both his parents. He could do it in his sleep. He couldn’t seem to do it with Sierra without feeling like a fool.

But she nodded gravely. “Mariah gave it to me. I was never interested enough in cooking before.”

Dominic wanted to ask, before what? but he didn’t dare. He took a bite of the meat dish and savored it. “Tastes even better than it looks.”

This time he got more of a real smile from her.

“There’s plenty,” she said, then sighed. “It makes enough to feed the French Foreign Legion. We’ll probably be eating it for a week.”

He took heart from that. She’d said we, and she’d said week. That didn’t sound like she was planning to leave him. The meal tasted even better after that.

He ate two big helpings and, she was right, there was still a lot left. Besides that, there was salad and some leftover garlic bread from last night, too. Also the rest of the bottle of the wine they’d drunk.

Neither of them mentioned last night.

Sierra, in fact, didn’t talk at all, which meant that things were definitely not normal. Still, he was glad she wasn’t holed up in her room, shutting him out, which is what he’d expected.

He studied her silently over his wineglass. Most of the time when he watched Sierra, it was with an eye to what was going to happen next—or more bluntly, he was busy gauging when he was going to get her into bed and what was going to happen when he got her there.

They were thoughts worthy