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“Real
good.”
    When he gazed back at her, those brown
eyes sucked her in and she took a calming breath. “I’m making
enough for two, Mr. Windsor. I’ve been avoiding you and thought you
might like to join me for dinner. Consider it a peace
offering.”
    “ Only if you’ll call
me Blake.”
    She nodded. “Blake.”
    His grin spread and he ran his fingers
through his hair. “Hell, you can call me whatever you want. I’m
sick of canned stew and peanut butter.”
    “ It’ll be about half
an hour.”
    “ Let me get cleaned up
and I’ll help.”
    “ I’ve seen you cook.
How about if you set the table?”
    “ Smart woman. I’ll be
back.”
    Her hands trembled, but only a little,
as she poured the rice into the water. She hoped
Windsor—Blake—wouldn’t think her rude if she started on the wine
before he joined her. Too bad if he did. She took two glasses from
the cabinet and poured one, downing it like water before setting
the bottle and glasses on the dining table.
    Get a grip. It was only dinner. How
many times had she cooked for Charles’ business associates?
    She made sure her thoughts stayed away
from the times she and Charles had cooked, side by side. Sometimes
abandoning dinner for what he called a bedroom break. Images of
Robert intruded, his rugged face turned feral when he’d poised
himself above her. Her knees quaked and she leaned against the
counter, fighting nausea.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Blake rushed through his shower,
damp-dried, and found a pair of clean jeans. The thought of dinner
that didn’t come out of a can nearly had him out the door half
naked. He dug through his duffel bag and chose a navy blue
turtleneck, slowing down to think. To plan.
    Be cool. Why the sudden turnaround in
the Ice Princess? He wanted to give her the third degree. She might
have the same motives. He made sure his cover story was fresh in
his mind.
    Rubbing his jaw, he stepped back into
the cell-like bathroom. He needed a shave. While he lathered his
face, he laid out his plan to garner her trust and impress her with
his restraint. This would be an evening of civility, filled with
proper small talk of the project, with only the slightest venture
into her past.
    He finished dressing and strode down
the hall to the kitchen. Whatever she was cooking had his empty
stomach begging. He stopped short when he spotted Kelli leaning on
the kitchen counter, pale and shaky. She looked his way and
although she covered well, the pain in her eyes was unmistakable.
He felt another twinge in his chest.
    “ Are you all right?”
he asked. He took a step forward, arm outstretched, but dropped it
when Kelli backed away.
    Kelli sniffed and dabbed at her eyes
with the towel she’d tucked into her jeans. “Fine. Onions.” She
kept the towel to her face. “Wine’s on the table. Help
yourself.”
    She was reacting to more than onions.
Whatever had inspired her to invite him to dinner hadn’t eliminated
her need for distance. He poured, then picked up a glass and
extended it toward her, careful to leave room for her to take it
without touching his fingers.
    She released the towel and took the
wine. Her hands were steady. “Salad’s in the fridge. Dressing’s in
the jar.”
    He crossed behind her, not making
contact, but close enough so he smelled her over the cooking
aromas. Fresh and soapy. He took the bowl of salad from the
refrigerator, tossed it with the dressing and placed it on the
table. “I think I was volunteered to set the table too.”
    He gathered plates and silverware,
arranging them on the table. When he finished, he raised his
wineglass. “To Camp Getaway.”
    Kelli returned the toast and sipped her
wine. Once they were seated, he took a bite of chicken. Sweet and
tangy at the same time. He swallowed, wiped his mouth on his napkin
and sighed. “This is delicious. You think I could make it? What’s
in it?” He took another bite without waiting for an answer.
    “ It’s nothing
exotic—mostly orange juice, honey