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Authors: Brooke Hastings
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suppose you expect me to make you
dinner."
"Very perceptive," he drawled.
Her temper heated up a fraction more—she didn't
appreciate being ordered around—but then she gave a mental
shrug. The fact was, she was hungry, and she'd lay odds that she was a
darn sight better cook than he was. He left her to go back outside and
she started to unpack the carton of groceries, adding staples and
canned goods to the items already in the cupboards. A few minutes later
he returned with a large cooler, which he set on the counter. Randy
checked the refrigerator, found that it was still quite warm, and
decided that unloading the cooler should wait.
She took out some chicken breasts, boned and cut them up,
and assembled the ingredients for sweet and sour chicken. The stove was
gas and the nearest thing to a wok was a cast iron frying pan, but it
worked well enough. She also cooked some rice and heated some peas to
go along with the main course. As she worked the man who'd abducted her
sat in a chair by the dining area table and watched, his expression
giving no hint of his feelings. He opened his mouth exactly once, to
inform her that he'd taken the precaution of disabling the plane's
radio.
Randy had plenty of time to think as she cooked and was
honest enough to admit that she found her captor much too attractive.
The situation was even rather romantic—being alone in an
isolated cabin with a man who obviously wanted to make love to her and
just as obviously knew all there was to know about pleasing a woman in
bed. Linda would have loved every minute of it.
The problem was, she wasn't like Linda. Physical
infatuation had already led her into one disastrous love affair, and
she didn't want it to happen a second time. Her self-esteem, already
shaken by Sean Raley, would wind up shattered if she tumbled into bed
with some half-crazy stranger.
They ate their meal in silence, but there was nothing
hostile or uncomfortable about the lack of conversation. Randy felt
relaxed enough to help herself to seconds, and by the end of the meal
had decided to find out just what she was doing up here.
"Are you a friend of Brett's?" she asked.
He looked up from his plate. "Your ex-husband? No."
She tried a different approach. "Then what's your name?"
"You could call me 'sir.' Or 'my lord'—that has
a nice ring to it. Although," he said, lazing back in his chair, "I'd
hardly want you to whisper that in my ear if I decide to make love to
you later."
Randy contemplated her empty plate, grateful that she'd
waited till now to question him because she suddenly felt sick to her
stomach. She was almost sure he wouldn't force the issue, but the way
he was looking at her told her he wanted to touch her, and it bothered
her very much that she might permit him to do so.
She started to clear away the dishes, putting them into
the sink, and was about to begin washing up when he ordered, "Make some
coffee first. I take it black."
There was nothing to gain by refusing. Randy quickly
located a drip coffee-maker and an unopened can of coffee in one of the
cabinets. She'd had trouble with the can opener when opening the peas,
and had no more success with the coffee. After she'd fumbled with the
recalcitrant utensil for fifteen seconds the man got up and took it
away from her. "I'd resigned myself to the worst meals of my life up
here," he said as he opened the coffee and set it on the counter. "How
come you can cook like an angel but can't work a simple can opener?"
Randy turned her back to him and measured out the coffee.
"That thing must be an antique," she said. "I've never seen anything
like it." Actually she was pleased by his compliment, and had to smile
when she imagined Linda in these circumstances. Her sister probably
would have poisoned the man—unintentionally!
As they drank their coffee she continued to study him.
Something about him seemed familiar—his hair, perhaps, or the
masculine way he carried himself. At last it bothered her so much
dinner."
"Very perceptive," he drawled.
Her temper heated up a fraction more—she didn't
appreciate being ordered around—but then she gave a mental
shrug. The fact was, she was hungry, and she'd lay odds that she was a
darn sight better cook than he was. He left her to go back outside and
she started to unpack the carton of groceries, adding staples and
canned goods to the items already in the cupboards. A few minutes later
he returned with a large cooler, which he set on the counter. Randy
checked the refrigerator, found that it was still quite warm, and
decided that unloading the cooler should wait.
She took out some chicken breasts, boned and cut them up,
and assembled the ingredients for sweet and sour chicken. The stove was
gas and the nearest thing to a wok was a cast iron frying pan, but it
worked well enough. She also cooked some rice and heated some peas to
go along with the main course. As she worked the man who'd abducted her
sat in a chair by the dining area table and watched, his expression
giving no hint of his feelings. He opened his mouth exactly once, to
inform her that he'd taken the precaution of disabling the plane's
radio.
Randy had plenty of time to think as she cooked and was
honest enough to admit that she found her captor much too attractive.
The situation was even rather romantic—being alone in an
isolated cabin with a man who obviously wanted to make love to her and
just as obviously knew all there was to know about pleasing a woman in
bed. Linda would have loved every minute of it.
The problem was, she wasn't like Linda. Physical
infatuation had already led her into one disastrous love affair, and
she didn't want it to happen a second time. Her self-esteem, already
shaken by Sean Raley, would wind up shattered if she tumbled into bed
with some half-crazy stranger.
They ate their meal in silence, but there was nothing
hostile or uncomfortable about the lack of conversation. Randy felt
relaxed enough to help herself to seconds, and by the end of the meal
had decided to find out just what she was doing up here.
"Are you a friend of Brett's?" she asked.
He looked up from his plate. "Your ex-husband? No."
She tried a different approach. "Then what's your name?"
"You could call me 'sir.' Or 'my lord'—that has
a nice ring to it. Although," he said, lazing back in his chair, "I'd
hardly want you to whisper that in my ear if I decide to make love to
you later."
Randy contemplated her empty plate, grateful that she'd
waited till now to question him because she suddenly felt sick to her
stomach. She was almost sure he wouldn't force the issue, but the way
he was looking at her told her he wanted to touch her, and it bothered
her very much that she might permit him to do so.
She started to clear away the dishes, putting them into
the sink, and was about to begin washing up when he ordered, "Make some
coffee first. I take it black."
There was nothing to gain by refusing. Randy quickly
located a drip coffee-maker and an unopened can of coffee in one of the
cabinets. She'd had trouble with the can opener when opening the peas,
and had no more success with the coffee. After she'd fumbled with the
recalcitrant utensil for fifteen seconds the man got up and took it
away from her. "I'd resigned myself to the worst meals of my life up
here," he said as he opened the coffee and set it on the counter. "How
come you can cook like an angel but can't work a simple can opener?"
Randy turned her back to him and measured out the coffee.
"That thing must be an antique," she said. "I've never seen anything
like it." Actually she was pleased by his compliment, and had to smile
when she imagined Linda in these circumstances. Her sister probably
would have poisoned the man—unintentionally!
As they drank their coffee she continued to study him.
Something about him seemed familiar—his hair, perhaps, or the
masculine way he carried himself. At last it bothered her so much
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