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She flushed from her wanton thoughts and smiled. “I see. Then I’ll meet you downstairs later.”
Without any further protests, Zane left the room. Tiffany waited until she heard him on the stairs, then she slowly closed the door to the bedroom and locked it.
A few minutes later she heard water running in the guest bathroom at the other end of the hall, and she smiled. “You’re a fool,” she whispered to herself as she stripped off the vibrant red robe, flung it carelessly on the foot of the bed and walked into her private bathroom. “A stranger just spent the night in your room, and if you had your way, he would be back here in a minute malting furious, passion-filled love to you.”
After turning on the shower, she shook her head and smiled at her unfamiliar and traitorous thoughts. “Tiffany, my friend,” she warned her reflection in the steamy mirror, “this fascination with Zane Sheridan can only spell trouble.”
Dropping her silvery nightgown on the floor, she stepped into the hot spray of water.
* * *
After braiding her hair into a single plait, applying just a little makeup and dressing in her favorite pair of faded jeans and a loose sweater, Tiffany headed downstairs to the kitchen. The airy room was bright with copper pots and pans suspended over the stove, plants arranged strategically on the gleaming tile counters, and oversized windows offering a view of the pasture near the broodmare barn.
The coffee was perking, muffins were baking in the oven and the previous night’s dishes had been placed in the dishwasher before she heard Zane on the stairs. The inviting aromas of baking bread, coffee and cured ham wafted through the large kitchen.
“Efficient, aren’t you?” he stated, offering her a lazy grin.
“I try to be.” She glanced over her shoulder and felt her heart begin to pound irregularly as her eyes were caught in the silvery web of his gaze. Zane’s black hair was still wet from his shower, his shadow of a beard had been shaved off to reveal the hard angle of his jaw and he was dressed casually in tan cords and a teal-blue sweater. Without his formal attire, he appeared more rakishly handsome than ever. Looking at him caused an uneasy fluttering in Tiffany’s stomach.
He leaned against the counter, seemingly content to watch her work. Turning back to the coffee, she poured a cup and tried to hide the fact that her hands were unsteady.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine.” He took an experimental sip, all the while observing Tiffany over the rim of the stoneware mug. “What happened to your cook?”
“She doesn’t come in every day—remember? Only a couple of days a week to keep the house up, and on special occasions.”
Zane observed her sure movements. God, she wasn’t what he’d expected in Ellery Rhodes’s wife. “You’re a bit of a mystery,” he thought aloud as his eyes wandered from her braid, past her slim waist to the inviting swell of her jean-clad hips.
“Ha. And what about you? Appearing on my doorstep with an offer on the farm and a wild tale about Devil’s Gambit being kidnapped by Ellery. . . .” She let her voice trail off. She couldn’t think that Ellery was alive, couldn’t deal with it now. Ellery wouldn’t have left. He couldn’t have. Not when he knew that she would think he was dead! Though their marriage had been less than ideal, certainly Ellery cared for her in his own, distant way. He wouldn’t have put her through the pain of the funeral, the adjustment to widowhood, the problems of running the farm alone....
“Not to mention dead husbands,” he offered, as if reading her thoughts.
Tiffany’s shoulders flexed, and she held back the hot retort forming on her tongue. It wouldn’t be wise to anger him, not yet. She had to find out what he wanted, what kind of game he was playing with her. With an effort, she turned her attention to the boiling water on the stove. Carefully she cracked and added the eggs.
“My husband isn’t alive,” Tiffany whispered, as if to convince herself.
“You’re sure?”
She didn’t answer him right away. She removed the muffins from the oven, and, when they were cooked, spooned the poached eggs from the pan. Only then did she say, “Ellery wouldn’t let me think he was dead—he wouldn’t put me through that kind of pain,” she insisted, her quiet dignity steadfastly in place.
“Ellery Rhodes was a bastard.” Zane’s words were soft, but they seemed to thunder in the small kitchen.
“Your opinion.”
“Granted, but correct nonetheless.”
“And one I think you should keep to yourself!”
His bitter smile grew slowly from one side of his arrogant face to the other. He took a long swig of his coffee and noticed that Tiffany had paled. “Did you love him so much?”
“I don’t understand,” she began, but under his direct gaze, she changed the course of her thoughts. “Of course I loved him.”
“Enough to cover up for him?”
Her simmering anger ignited, and pride took control of her tongue. “Wait a minute, Sheridan. You’re way out of line.”
He studied the honesty in her deep blue eyes and frowned into his mug. “My apologies,” he muttered, before downing the rest of his coffee.
