much, Marisol sat on the bar stool and asked, "What do we do now?"
"We eat and talk about it later. I need to put this problem on the back burner while I cook."
"How can you be calm? This guy scares me."
Clay's black eyes burned fiercely and his features were resolute when he stated solemnly, "You're safe with me."
"Thanks," she said, grateful this noble man had come into her life. She wished he hadn't stopped kissing her so abruptly because now she didn't know what to expect from him—or what he expected from her.
"I don't need this anymore," he said quietly, handing her the ice bag and going into her kitchen. "Where do you keep your frying pans?"
Marisol reached in the cupboard and handed him a large new Teflon skillet.
Clay's firm mouth quirked up at the corners. "Haven't had much use for it, have you?"
"I usually get home so late that I order in. But I love home cooking," she said, eager to taste his meal.
"Then you're in for a treat," he said with supreme male confidence as he unloaded the groceries and handed her some raw vegetables. "Here, slice these and I'll peel the shrimp."
"You're a tyrant even when you're cooking," she quipped.
"Two cooks are faster than one. You must be hungry like me, so get to work," Clay ordered in a mock stern tone as he took hold of her waist and turned her toward the counter.
She was hungry all right—for him. Marisol grabbed a kitchen towel and placed it around his waist, tucking the edges into the waistband of his low slung jeans. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around taut waist and lean her cheek against his back. Instead, she had to content herself with breathing deeply of his delicious male scent and that alone delighted her senses.
Clay turned and kissed the top of her head. "Thanks," he said as his keen gaze locked with hers briefly.
A jolt of pleasure tickled her spine as she stood beside him. "You're welcome," she replied huskily, disappointed when he returned to cooking. "I'll make some brown rice to go with it."
She poured water, rice, and salt into her rice cooker, and tried to concentrate on slicing the mushrooms and other vegetables, but Clay's strong, brown hands commanded her attention as they peeled the shrimp. They'd felt firm and supple over her dress as he'd stroked her during his hot and hungry kiss— what would they feel like on her bare skin? A lusty shiver of anticipation made heat rise to her face.
"What are you looking at?" he asked, interrupting her hot fantasy.
"Your hands. When did you learn Tai Chi?" she asked, striving for a nonchalant tone.
"Shortly after I turned ten."
"It's an unusual martial art form for a little kid to be interested in," she said, remembering how gracefully he'd performed the exercises.
"After Dad died, my mom remarried and we moved to a small town in North Florida. Mom enrolled me in Tai Chi because even though I was a skinny runt, I usually ended up in a fist fight when provoked. Unfortunately, that was often."
"Why?" she asked, puzzled. From what she'd observed about Clay, he was controlled and disciplined—almost too much.
"A group of kids used to make fun of my baby brother because he's mentally handicapped. It would really burn me up, so I used my fists a lot. My mom hoped the martial arts would teach me better discipline and self-control."
"Did it?"
His eyes turned brittle. "You bet. I won't tolerate anyone treating my brother, Jimmy, with anything less than respect. He's my one soft spot." A flash of raw pain briefly shadowed his face before his eyes turned tough and devoid of emotion.
Marisol would have liked to ask more, but Clay's shuttered expression stopped her cold. There was no sense in asking questions about Jimmy when Clay looked like he already regretted divulging his one weakness.
"The shrimp are ready now. Stand aside." Clay dumped the shrimp into the sizzling peanut oil and seasoned them while he stir-fried. When they turned pink, he emptied them into a bowl and stir-fried the
"We eat and talk about it later. I need to put this problem on the back burner while I cook."
"How can you be calm? This guy scares me."
Clay's black eyes burned fiercely and his features were resolute when he stated solemnly, "You're safe with me."
"Thanks," she said, grateful this noble man had come into her life. She wished he hadn't stopped kissing her so abruptly because now she didn't know what to expect from him—or what he expected from her.
"I don't need this anymore," he said quietly, handing her the ice bag and going into her kitchen. "Where do you keep your frying pans?"
Marisol reached in the cupboard and handed him a large new Teflon skillet.
Clay's firm mouth quirked up at the corners. "Haven't had much use for it, have you?"
"I usually get home so late that I order in. But I love home cooking," she said, eager to taste his meal.
"Then you're in for a treat," he said with supreme male confidence as he unloaded the groceries and handed her some raw vegetables. "Here, slice these and I'll peel the shrimp."
"You're a tyrant even when you're cooking," she quipped.
"Two cooks are faster than one. You must be hungry like me, so get to work," Clay ordered in a mock stern tone as he took hold of her waist and turned her toward the counter.
She was hungry all right—for him. Marisol grabbed a kitchen towel and placed it around his waist, tucking the edges into the waistband of his low slung jeans. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around taut waist and lean her cheek against his back. Instead, she had to content herself with breathing deeply of his delicious male scent and that alone delighted her senses.
Clay turned and kissed the top of her head. "Thanks," he said as his keen gaze locked with hers briefly.
A jolt of pleasure tickled her spine as she stood beside him. "You're welcome," she replied huskily, disappointed when he returned to cooking. "I'll make some brown rice to go with it."
She poured water, rice, and salt into her rice cooker, and tried to concentrate on slicing the mushrooms and other vegetables, but Clay's strong, brown hands commanded her attention as they peeled the shrimp. They'd felt firm and supple over her dress as he'd stroked her during his hot and hungry kiss— what would they feel like on her bare skin? A lusty shiver of anticipation made heat rise to her face.
"What are you looking at?" he asked, interrupting her hot fantasy.
"Your hands. When did you learn Tai Chi?" she asked, striving for a nonchalant tone.
"Shortly after I turned ten."
"It's an unusual martial art form for a little kid to be interested in," she said, remembering how gracefully he'd performed the exercises.
"After Dad died, my mom remarried and we moved to a small town in North Florida. Mom enrolled me in Tai Chi because even though I was a skinny runt, I usually ended up in a fist fight when provoked. Unfortunately, that was often."
"Why?" she asked, puzzled. From what she'd observed about Clay, he was controlled and disciplined—almost too much.
"A group of kids used to make fun of my baby brother because he's mentally handicapped. It would really burn me up, so I used my fists a lot. My mom hoped the martial arts would teach me better discipline and self-control."
"Did it?"
His eyes turned brittle. "You bet. I won't tolerate anyone treating my brother, Jimmy, with anything less than respect. He's my one soft spot." A flash of raw pain briefly shadowed his face before his eyes turned tough and devoid of emotion.
Marisol would have liked to ask more, but Clay's shuttered expression stopped her cold. There was no sense in asking questions about Jimmy when Clay looked like he already regretted divulging his one weakness.
"The shrimp are ready now. Stand aside." Clay dumped the shrimp into the sizzling peanut oil and seasoned them while he stir-fried. When they turned pink, he emptied them into a bowl and stir-fried the
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