It was the music that enveloped him first. The dulcet tones of Nat King Cole singing “The Christmas Song.”
Next came the aroma of baking bread, wafting around him softly and getting his taste buds working in response.
Gage let the door click shut behind him as he walked into the penthouse, his brow furrowing.
He came to a stop at the archway to the loft-like living area, arrested by the sight of a huge Christmas tree standing sentry by the fireplace.
His tree, except this one was well on its way to being decorated with pink and gold ornaments.
He never did pink.
And that’s when he realized she was humming.
He glanced over to the kitchen area and caught sight of Jane beyond the waist-high marble countertop, her back to him as she bent over the range of his chef’s oven, unaware he’d come home.
Unbidden, the cozy scene had him making comparisons to holidays past.
Breaks from his New England boarding school…his parents, civil but distant and all too perfect…the house in Greenwich, Connecticut, decorated up to the chimney but emitting no real warmth.
Unlike the scene unfolding before him.
Damn it.
He set his briefcase down on a glass-and-chrome console table, and shed his overcoat.
“I’m home,” he called out.
He felt ridiculous even as the words came out. This wasn’t a scene from some TV sitcom of domestic bliss.
On the other hand, something like Sex and the City he could deal with. A vision flashed through his mind of Jane in sky-high heels and skimpy lingerie, bracing one leg on his bed and crooking her finger at him, beckoning.
He felt himself getting aroused, and cursed under his breath.
Just then, Jane swung away from the stove, her eyes going wide, a tea towel grasped in her hands.
Abruptly, he was called back from his fantasy.
It irked him that she always looked at him wide-eyed.
He jerked his head toward the tree. “Been busy?”
“Uh…yes. Yes, I have.” She came around the kitchen counter, drying her hands and then setting down the towel.
“Do you…” She hesitated. “Do you like it?”
“It’ll do.”
Her continued wariness, and his damned unwanted attraction, made him brusque.
Her eyelids lowered, concealing the expression in her eyes. “Good.”
He sized her up.
Today, she wore sensible black pants, a jade cotton top that stretched over her breasts, and what looked like ankle boots. Her hair, as usual, was caught back with a barrette.
He’d rather see her in silk, cashmere or satin. Her hair loose…
He reined in his wayward thoughts.
She bit her lip as they stood facing each other, several feet apart, squaring off as they often seemed to do.
She gave a nod over her shoulder. “It’s potatoes au gratin, filet mignon and fresh bread. I was waiting for you to get home to sear the filets in a cast-iron pan.”
She could sear his fantasies, he wanted to tell her.
Instead, he raised his brows. “Sear them in a cast-iron pan?”
He wasn’t even aware he owned a cast-iron pan.
Her lips tilted upward at the corners. “It’s a cooking trick I learned. Sear and broil.”
“You said filets, plural.”
She blinked. “Yes. They’re on the small side and the specialty market on Lex was selling them in pairs—”
“Then you’ll have to dine with me.”
Her eyes went wide again, as if he’d suggested she strip off her clothes.
Actually, it was an enticing thought.
“Oh, I—”
“That’s what they did in medieval times, you know.”
“What?”
“Have a taster for the lord of the manor.” He allowed a brief grin. “To make sure the food wasn’t poisoned.”
He pretended to look around. “And since there’s no one else, I guess you’ll have to fill in as the official food taster, as well as the cook and housekeeper.”
She looked flustered. “Are you suggesting I’d poison you?”
“Or allow me to choke on a cloud of dust,” he returned, one side of his mouth turning up.
He’d been teasing about the poison and the dust, but as he watched her redden, he sobered.
He needed to remember who he was and who she was. His maid, for Christ’s sake.
“It’ll be an opportunity for us to discuss the cocktail party I’m planning for the end of the week,” he said.
And he hated dining alone. On the occasional night he was home for dinner, his thoughts had always drifted to Jane in the maid’s quarters.
He’d wondered what she was doing and had had an unholy temptation to make her keep him company.
But his point about the cocktail party wasn’t off the mark, either.
At least as far as household matters were concerned, their relationship had hit its stride.
In fact, he’d gotten used to leaving her notes around the apartment about what he wanted done. Need shaving cream. We’re out of coffee.
Feel free to hop naked into my bed.
He stopped short and rewound. Wrong memory.
Still, despite his overactive imagination, their communications had taken on a familiar rhythm as she’d left him notes in return.
Leftovers in the fridge. I picked up your suit from the cleaners.
Almost like love notes. Except not.
They stared at each other.
He started forward, and she simultaneously stepped back.
He reached up to loosen the knot of his tie, and he watched her gaze fix on his actions.
As he moved past her, he murmured, “Smells delicious.”
Looks delicious, too, he added silently. And I’m tired of dining alone.
