Read Online Sharp Edges by Jayne Ann Krentz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
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more and glanced inside with an apprehensive air. Then she visibly relaxed.
"Thank God," she said. "An espresso machine."
Cyrus looked over her shoulder. "Hot damn, an electric can opener."
Rain, the steady summer kind, struck shortly before midnight. Eugenia was aware of the time because she was sitting up on one side of her bed, gazing at the glowing numerals on the face of the French cut-glass clock that sat on the glass nightstand.
After nearly two hours of determined effort, she had abandoned the attempt to sleep. She was restless and strangely tense after spending the evening alone in the house with Cyrus. Leonard Hastings had not put in an appearance.
Given the atmosphere of watchful challenge that existed between herself and Cyrus, dinner had actually gone surprisingly well. Both of them had brought sacks of groceries. Hers had been filled with pasta, little jars of pesto sauce, bottled spring water, a loaf of good Seattle bread, and a couple of bottles of sauvignon blanc and zinfandel wine.
His had been loaded with a dozen cans of tuna fish, frozen microwavable dinners, and a couple of six-packs of Pacific Express beer.
"I probably shouldn't ask," Eugenia said, "but what do you intend to do with the tuna fish?"
"You'd be amazed." He removed a plastic-wrapped bag of sandwich bread from one of the sacks. "A little mayonnaise, some pickles, and a couple of slices of bread and you've got dinner."
"It sounds more like a tuna fish sandwich."
"Same thing." He eyed the package of pasta in her hand. "What are you planning to eat tonight? Macaroni and cheese?"
"Not exactly." She put the pasta down on the counter and reached back into the sack. "It's been a long day. I think I'll just whip up something quick. Maybe some fresh asparagus and pasta with pesto sauce."
"Fresh asparagus, huh?"
The wistful note in his voice made her glance up quickly. She frowned when she saw the way he was looking at her asparagus. "Don't get any ideas."
"Your asparagus is safe." He sounded hurt. "I promise I won't steal any of your pesto, either." He turned to stack his tuna fish cans in a cupboard.
Eugenia flushed. If he had tried to make her feel churlish, she thought, he had succeeded. "I suppose there's enough asparagus for two."
"I wouldn't think of taking some of it. Besides, I don't know any recipes for tuna and asparagus."
She glared at his broad back as he continued to stack cans of tuna. "Oh, what the heck. I've got enough pesto sauce for both of us. If you like, I'll cook dinner tonight."
Cyrus paused, a can of tuna in his hand. He did not turn around. "That's real nice of you."
"But you have to clean up afterward."
He finally turned to face her. He looked sincere and grateful, but there was a suspicious gleam in his green eyes.
"Deal," he said.
She wondered if she had just been had.
At the end of the meal, he had surprised her with his apparently genuine appreciation. She was tempted to ask him when he'd last had a good, homecooked meal, but she had ruthlessly crushed the nurturing instinct. Her intuition warned her that she must not show any weakness around Cyrus Colfax. He would be quick to take advantage.
They had broken bread, her excellent chewy sourdough, not the cheap, aerated white stuff that he had brought with him, in relative harmony. After two glasses of zinfandel and a couple of cans of Pacific Express, they had reached the mutual decision to delay a detailed exploration of Glass House until the following day.
Eugenia had gone to bed exhausted, but she was too keyed up to sleep.
She got to her feet and went to the massive armoire on the far side of the room. The black jeans she had unpacked earlier were draped over a hanger inside. She took them down and stepped into them. Next she pulled on a black top and slipped her feet into a pair of black ballet-style slippers.
She reached inside a suitcase for the small flashlight she had packed. Better not to turn on any lights, she thought. Cyrus might
"Thank God," she said. "An espresso machine."
Cyrus looked over her shoulder. "Hot damn, an electric can opener."
Rain, the steady summer kind, struck shortly before midnight. Eugenia was aware of the time because she was sitting up on one side of her bed, gazing at the glowing numerals on the face of the French cut-glass clock that sat on the glass nightstand.
After nearly two hours of determined effort, she had abandoned the attempt to sleep. She was restless and strangely tense after spending the evening alone in the house with Cyrus. Leonard Hastings had not put in an appearance.
Given the atmosphere of watchful challenge that existed between herself and Cyrus, dinner had actually gone surprisingly well. Both of them had brought sacks of groceries. Hers had been filled with pasta, little jars of pesto sauce, bottled spring water, a loaf of good Seattle bread, and a couple of bottles of sauvignon blanc and zinfandel wine.
His had been loaded with a dozen cans of tuna fish, frozen microwavable dinners, and a couple of six-packs of Pacific Express beer.
"I probably shouldn't ask," Eugenia said, "but what do you intend to do with the tuna fish?"
"You'd be amazed." He removed a plastic-wrapped bag of sandwich bread from one of the sacks. "A little mayonnaise, some pickles, and a couple of slices of bread and you've got dinner."
"It sounds more like a tuna fish sandwich."
"Same thing." He eyed the package of pasta in her hand. "What are you planning to eat tonight? Macaroni and cheese?"
"Not exactly." She put the pasta down on the counter and reached back into the sack. "It's been a long day. I think I'll just whip up something quick. Maybe some fresh asparagus and pasta with pesto sauce."
"Fresh asparagus, huh?"
The wistful note in his voice made her glance up quickly. She frowned when she saw the way he was looking at her asparagus. "Don't get any ideas."
"Your asparagus is safe." He sounded hurt. "I promise I won't steal any of your pesto, either." He turned to stack his tuna fish cans in a cupboard.
Eugenia flushed. If he had tried to make her feel churlish, she thought, he had succeeded. "I suppose there's enough asparagus for two."
"I wouldn't think of taking some of it. Besides, I don't know any recipes for tuna and asparagus."
She glared at his broad back as he continued to stack cans of tuna. "Oh, what the heck. I've got enough pesto sauce for both of us. If you like, I'll cook dinner tonight."
Cyrus paused, a can of tuna in his hand. He did not turn around. "That's real nice of you."
"But you have to clean up afterward."
He finally turned to face her. He looked sincere and grateful, but there was a suspicious gleam in his green eyes.
"Deal," he said.
She wondered if she had just been had.
At the end of the meal, he had surprised her with his apparently genuine appreciation. She was tempted to ask him when he'd last had a good, homecooked meal, but she had ruthlessly crushed the nurturing instinct. Her intuition warned her that she must not show any weakness around Cyrus Colfax. He would be quick to take advantage.
They had broken bread, her excellent chewy sourdough, not the cheap, aerated white stuff that he had brought with him, in relative harmony. After two glasses of zinfandel and a couple of cans of Pacific Express, they had reached the mutual decision to delay a detailed exploration of Glass House until the following day.
Eugenia had gone to bed exhausted, but she was too keyed up to sleep.
She got to her feet and went to the massive armoire on the far side of the room. The black jeans she had unpacked earlier were draped over a hanger inside. She took them down and stepped into them. Next she pulled on a black top and slipped her feet into a pair of black ballet-style slippers.
She reached inside a suitcase for the small flashlight she had packed. Better not to turn on any lights, she thought. Cyrus might
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