The Liar

She laughed, shook her head as she turned to him. “What I mean is, I knew you were good at your work. I’ve seen it, and I’m seeing what you and Matt are doing for Mama. But this isn’t just changing something, or making it better, prettier or more functional. It’s bringing something back to life so many others left for dead.”

“I came to see the property on a whim, and fell in love at first sight.”

“I think it’s been sitting here pining all these years, so it must love you back.

“I don’t know what smells so good, but I hope it’ll hold just a bit more. I’d love to just sit out here awhile.”

“It’ll hold. Give me a second.”

“What are we having?” she asked as he went in to turn off the burner.

“I hope it’s going to be penne in a spicy tomato sauce with black olives and basil.”

She smiled as he walked back out to her. “And how did you know that’s one of my favorite pasta dishes?”

“I’m psychic?”

“I don’t think so. It was sweet of you to find out what I like and go to the trouble.”

“You can tell me I’m sweet after you eat it, in case it’s terrible.” Which, he could admit, was a genuine concern. “I didn’t make the cannolis, so they’ll be fine.”

“We’re having cannolis?”

“Which I didn’t make, and I didn’t make the loaf of Italian bread. And the salad’s from a bag o’ salad. I hit the wall on the pasta.”

“You’re the first man to make me dinner, and it sounds perfect.”

“What?”

“It sounds just perfect.”

“No, the other.” He circled a finger in the air, signaling a rewind. “I’m the first man to make you dinner?”

“Well, my daddy, of course, and Grandpa’s done some heroic grilling over the years.”

“I . . . If I’d known this was a first, I’d have bought fancy plates or something.”

“I don’t want fancy plates. I’ve had fancy plates. Food tastes the same on them as it does on everyday.”

He considered a moment. “I’ve got two reliables when I want to cook and impress a woman. One’s your basic steak on the grill, massive baked potato and the ever popular bag o’ salad. The other, when I seriously want to impress, is this chicken thing in wine. I’m pretty good at that one.”

“Why aren’t we having a chicken thing in wine?”

“Because I didn’t want to go for the usual with you. And I didn’t do this when you first got here because I wanted to give you time to settle in first.”

He took the wineglass from her, set it down, put his own beside it, then drew her in.

He thought she smelled like the mountain sunset. Fresh, breezy, with shimmering edges. He combed his fingers through the long, luxurious length of her hair, all those tumbling curls.

And reminded himself to go slow, go easy, as he laid his lips on hers.

He drew back. “That was just in case you thought I forgot to kiss you hello.”

“I didn’t think—can’t. Don’t— Oh, damn. Damn.”

The next thing he knew she surged against him. She knocked him back on his heels, kicked every rational thought out of his head, and flashed a wire in his blood in one fell swoop.

He stumbled back two steps before he regained his balance, wrapped around her to keep them both from pitching off the porch. And barely stopped himself from yanking the dress up and over her head.

She was an earthquake, an explosion of reckless heat shooting bolts of fire everywhere. His brain fogged in the ash and smoke.

He whipped her around, slapped her back to the post. Now that his hands were free, he used them, shooting them under the skirt of her dress, running them over her hips, over the heat, down again.

She quivered, moaned against his mouth, then nearly snapped the last thin thread of control by rocking her hips against him.

He had to pull back. “Wait.”

She had a good grip on his hair, and pulled his mouth back to hers. “Why?”

He got lost again, for a moment, for a lifetime. “Wait,” he repeated, then rested his forehead on hers. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“No, me. I meant me.” He took that breath, then another. “Okay.”

She obviously took that as a green light as she pulled him back again.

“No, I mean . . .” He solved his dilemma by gathering her up, holding her close. Jesus, did she have to be so long and soft and slim right this minute? “Okay. We’ll take a breath. We’ll just take a couple breaths.”

He had steady hands, he thought. Rock steady. Freaking surgeon-steady hands. So why were they unsteady now?

He gripped her shoulders with them, drew back an arm’s length. Just look at her, he thought, those big, dazzling eyes, nearly purple in the softening light.

He reminded himself how rough she’d had it, how rough she had it still.

“Maybe we should . . . I don’t want to rush you.”

Something sparked in those twilight eyes, and caused his throat to go dry as dust. “Did it feel like you were rushing me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The thing is, if we don’t take a minute, a breath, a . . . something, we’re going to end up naked on the porch.”

“All right.”

“Okay, so . . .” He dropped his hands, took a cautious half step back. “We’ll take a minute.”

“I mean it’s all right if we end up naked on the porch.”

He lost his breath again. “You’re killing me, Red.”