Reluctant Deception - Cambria Smyth Page 0,60

had taken a very low priority lately.

The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell of chicken fajitas that bubbled enticingly in a special sauce on the stove. A variety of toppings--sour cream, salsa, shredded cheese, and black olives--sat in small bowls on the counter. As Chris pulled out a chair from the antique oak claw-foot table in the center of the room, Libby gently stirred the Spanish rice and black bean casserole warming in the oven.

"I hope you like Mexican food, since that's what we're having."

"It smells great. I'm starved," he announced, watching Libby sprinkle cheese on top of the casserole and put it back in the oven.

Turning back, she saw him carefully observing every detail in her kitchen, ignoring the thick stack of paperwork on the table waiting his perusal.

On top of the kitchen cabinets was a museum-like display of items she and her mother had collected over the years. Tea pots, trays, tin boxes, woodenware, all antique and all hand-painted. Libby also used the space for salt-glazed crocks and handwoven baskets passed down from both sides of her family. Several nick-knack shelves holding antique toys, glassware, family memorabilia, and ceramics hung on the walls. Any wall space remaining was crammed with antique prints and samplers, more often than not the craftsmanship of an ancestor.

Chris got out of his chair and walked over to a short pine shelf near the refrigerator. Gingerly, he brought down a small, unusually shaped wooden object--a thin disk with V-shaped notches carved along its edge, held between two wooden pins.

"What the heck is this?" he asked, holding it up to Libby.

"Everybody asks about that one," she said, uncorking the bottle of wine he'd brought. "It's used for edging noodles or pie crusts. The notched edge makes a decorative pattern in the dough. My great-grandfather carved it from a cherry tree in front of his farmhouse in the late 1800s."

Chris gently placed it back on the self, then walked around the kitchen surveying the rest of Libby's eclectic display.

She watched him from a discreet distance, so intent on his actions that the wine she was pouring into two glasses spilled onto the counter. Silently scolding herself for letting her attention wander, Libby wiped up the mess and handed one of the glasses to Chris.

He accepted it without comment and toasted her silently. "You've got quite a collection."

"I do, don't I?"

She pointed out several family pieces, including a drawer shelf her grandfather helped her to make and an egg basket her paternal great-grandfather had woven.

"Your house is just how I imagined it would be," he said.

"And how is that?"

"Like Harte's Desire. Full of old things." His tone was neither mocking or condemning, just matter-of-fact.

"This house belonged to my grandparent's. They left it to me." Libby took a cautious sip of the tart, but smooth vintage wine, mellowed to perfection.

"They gave it to the right person. It's definitely you."

Libby basked in the warmth of his approval. "I've always thought that peoples' homes and what they put in them reflect pretty accurately who they are. Mine's no exception, is it? I mean, could you see me living in a brand new tract house?"

"No way," Chris declared emphatically, a smile lighting the handsome planes of his face.

“What’s your apartment like,” she asked, “or do you have a house?”

He grew serious again. “An apartment. What do you think it looks like?”

“If I had to guess,” she said, “I’d say modern, clean, lots of straight lines and angles."

“That about sums it up.”

“Any family photos?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “A few, in my living room. Why do you ask?”

"You may have a hard time admitting it, Chris, but those photos tell me there are some things from your past that you treasure."

Chris sipped his wine slowly. "I've told you a bit about my unpleasant childhood. Aside from my work, my personal life has largely been full of disappointment," he related candidly, raising his glass again.

Libby followed the wine glass to the firm line of Chris's mouth. His lips, strong and smooth, slowly parted before taking a sip of the fine chardonnay he brought tonight. He swirled the wine lightly in his mouth then swallowed. The act was done so naturally but with such sensuality that Libby felt the familiar jolt of desire overtake her senses.

Deciding she'd break the somber mood that had descended thick and silent around them, Libby laughed gently. "See what happens when I start philosophizing? I lose all track of time! Dinner's ready and I haven't even set the