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“Pardon me?” Donovan’s attention snapped back to the walking sexpot. Sure, she’d tried to cover her curves with the shirt and the sweatshirt she’d wrestled with a moment ago, but Donovan recognized her stunning beauty.
“I remember where the kitchen is,” she said, inclining her head down the hallway. “C’mon, I don’t mind if you want to watch me cook something for you. It will give us a second to talk.”
She did ask him to follow her. Donovan took full advantage of the view she offered. This time it was the hypnotic sway of her hips. Damn. And he’d told Ramon to send his staff home. Geez, the things he could do with her for a week alone...
“I feel like I haven’t been here in forever,” she said.
“Well, it’s been a few days, I’m guessing,” he replied as they entered the large, open space of the kitchen. Donovan waited where the black-and-white tiles of the hallway met the hardwood of the kitchen.
“What are you in the mood for?”
You, he thought. “How about your name?” Donovan asked.
“British,” she said, extending her hand.
He narrowed his eyes on her hand. Why had he thought the chef had two first names? Was it because the taxi driver who’d dropped him off at the hotel was named June Bug? The oversize diamond on her left hand, placed on her hip, caught his attention, disappointing him at the same time. So much for his next move, which would have been to kiss the back of her hand. Donovan didn’t do married women. “That’s an unusual name.”
“Well,” British replied, “Joan Woodbury, my mother, is a very unusual woman. And you are...?”
“Not an unusual woman,” Donovan answered with a half grin, easing into the friendly banter. “I’m Donovan.” He left off his last name for some reason. Since British didn’t blink at his scar or in recognition of him, he wanted to remain as anonymous as possible while he was here.
“Nice to meet you, Donovan. Now that we have our names straight, what can I get for you?”
“I’m starving. I could eat anything.”
British’s laugh was light and airy. He liked it. “You’re in the country, Donovan. You ought to be careful about saying ‘anything.’”
“A little roadkill never hurt anyone,” Donovan, affected by her humor, chortled.
“We could skip breaking out the pots and pans and head over to the Roadside Kill Grill.” She reached for her sweatshirt but Donovan patted the counter.
“I’m good with a tuna melt.”
British winked. “Good to know. That’s one of my specialties. But while you’re in town you ought to give it a try. Summer barbecues never end in Southwood.”
Surely the wink was meant to be teasing. To be safe, Donovan frowned and shook his head. “I’m good, really.”
“Suit yourself,” said British. She turned her back to him and headed for the cabinets, opening them one by one, as if she wasn’t sure where to find anything.
“Have you always liked to cook?” Donovan asked. He propped his elbows on the counter and watched her search the cabinets for food. “Been doing it long?”
“Oh, all my life,” she said. “What about you? Hasn’t anyone taught you how to cook?”
“I can cook.” Donovan felt the need to clarify when she stopped to gather a can of tuna, a jar of relish and a loaf of bread. She used her foot to kick the cabinet door closed and gave him a questioning look. “This just isn’t my kitchen to rumble through, other than the microwave for all the meals you left me, which were delicious, by the way,” he added.
As if she didn’t know how to take a compliment, British pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply. Her large doe-like eyes briefly roamed to the chandelier before returning to meet his gaze. “Well, um...”
“Besides,” Donovan went on, not wanting to embarrass her, “I know how chefs are about having other people in their kitchens. I didn’t want to step on your toes.”
“This is very true.”
After she found the right size bowl, British’s lovely hands stirred her ingredients together. She wore a pale pink polish on her nails, which were chipped, and she didn’t bother once to hide them from him. She was imperfectly perfect and he admired that. Other than standing behind halfway opened doors, there was no way to hide his scar. Maybe he’d give it a try one day. Donovan needed to remind himself that she was someone else’s wife.
“With you being a full-time chef,” he began, “do you still like to cook for your husband?”
Not looking up, British stopped stirring. Her shoulders rose, chest lifted, and then sagged back down. “My husband passed away a while back.”
So young to be a widow. An ache crept through Donovan’s rib cage. His brother had recently wed. His parents had been married since the beginning of time. But he’d never known anyone who looked so young to have lost a spouse. “I’m sorry.”
