Lead Me Home. Vicki Thompson Lewis
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“Sounds good. Want help?”
“No, thanks. Go ahead and sit down. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
He took a seat at the table while she put together greens of various types with efficient motions that told him she was no novice in the kitchen. She didn’t ask him the ranch-or-thousand-island question, either. Instead she mixed up some vinegar, olive oil and spices before tossing it with the greens.
So far he was inclined to think she was the real deal and the cowboys didn’t have the kind of educated palate to appreciate her efforts. Still, he mentally crossed his fingers.
If the food was good, he’d have an easier task correcting the situation. If it was bad, he’d have to get creative. But that wasn’t his only issue and probably not his biggest hurdle. Aurelia Imogene Smith turned him on.
His intense physical reaction to her defied logic. He’d dated a string of international beauties, skinny supermodels and jet-setters whose lifestyles mirrored his and who thought a man who trained horses was sexy. He didn’t get that, although one girlfriend had taken great pains to explain that a man astride a horse evoked knights in armor and good guys in white hats, which appealed to women who craved romance.
Fortunately not all women who craved romance wanted permanence. Matthew had focused on a certain kind of woman—rootless, well-traveled, sophisticated and definitely tall because he liked that attribute. He was at the height of his career and had no intention of changing anything about his life.
Maybe someday, when he was tired of traveling or the offers stopped coming, he’d use the money he’d stashed away to buy a ranch and settle down. But until that time, he sought women who had the same rolling-stone philosophy as his own. Less chance of a broken heart that way.
Aurelia didn’t fit the profile. He could tell from the way she’d reacted to his comment about Paris that she’d never been there. He’d be willing to bet she hadn’t traveled much at all.
Her outfit—a white cotton peasant blouse over jeans and athletic shoes on her feet—suggested she wasn’t particularly sophisticated, either. As for her height, he’d be amazed if she was much over five foot five. She was nothing like his usual girlfriends, and the total opposite of Elsa, the Swedish supermodel he’d broken up with a month ago.
And yet, from the moment he’d walked into the kitchen, he’d been assaulted by images of rolling naked with her on a mattress. The intensity of his reaction embarrassed him. He considered himself an evolved man who appreciated women for their minds as well as their bodies.
But if he were honest with himself, he didn’t much care what was going on in Aurelia’s mind. He just wanted to get his hands on her. That was unacceptable and he wouldn’t follow through on the urge, but it was there, a humbling reminder that he wasn’t quite as evolved as he liked to think.
Taking the baking dish from the oven, she transferred the meat from the skewers to a plate that already held a mound of salad. As she handed him the plate, he got a brief glimpse of cleavage. His johnson stirred, seeking Aurelia the way a divining rod seeks water. He ignored that unmannerly response and breathed in the aroma of the food, which smelled promising.
She pointed a finger at him. “Napkin. You need a napkin.” Hurrying to one of the drawers in the array of oak cabinets, she pulled out a hunter-green cloth napkin and handed it to him.
“Thanks, but I can use paper.”
“Not in this house. Sarah believes paper napkins have eroded the elegance of the dining experience, not to mention cluttering up the landfill, so it’s a rare occasion when she allows them.”
“I respect that view.” Matthew spread the napkin across his thighs. “This looks and smells delicious.”
“Like I said, I’m not a trained chef. I just like to cook.” She sat across from him, her expression anxious.
He raised his wineglass, which he hadn’t touched because he’d been waiting for her to sit down. “Here’s to your passion for cooking.”
“I guess I can drink to that. It has brought me pleasure over the years.” She touched the rim of her glass to his and took a sip of her wine.
He followed suit before setting the glass down and picking up his fork. He could feel her apprehension from across the table and knew that even if the food tasted like swill, he’d praise it to the skies.
It didn’t taste like swill. Closing his eyes, he savored the first bite of gourmet food he’d eaten in some time. Then he looked at her. “This is awesome.”
The tension went out of her shoulders and her smile lit up the room. “Really? You’re not just saying that to be nice?”
“Hell, no. You have a gift, and I plan to enjoy it, so pardon me if I don’t make conversation for a few minutes.” He tucked back into the meal.
Her sigh was audible. “I’m so relieved. You know, I’m probably too sensitive, but I’ve had the feeling since I got here that not everyone loves my cooking. But, like I said, I’m probably imagining it.”
No, you’re not. But he said nothing. He had a mouthful of food, and besides, he hadn’t quite decided on his approach.
“I did see one of the kids smuggling his lunch into a plastic bag once, and I heard another one saying something about the dogs.”
“Mmm.” He couldn’t eat and talk, but he could eat and admire the way her shoulder-length blond hair caught the light from the lamp hanging over the kitchen table. That glorious hair would look terrific spread out on a pillow.
“I’ll bet the boys think it’s fun to give the ranch dogs a treat,” she said. “We’re not allowed to feed table scraps to Sarah’s bassett hound because he’s a couch potato. The other two, though, Butch and Sundance, get tons of exercise so a few handouts are okay. The kids are always playing with them.”
Matthew was beginning to come up with a strategy. He took another bite, partly because he liked the food immensely and partly because he’d read somewhere that chewing helped a person think.
But he took a moment between mouthfuls to get in a comment. “It seems a shame for wonderful food like this to be given to a dog.”
“They’re kids, and disadvantaged kids at that. They don’t know it’s special.”
“I’m not sure the cowboys do, either.” He forked up another portion.
“Maybe not, although they seem appreciative that I’m cooking for them, and the food all disappears, so they must like it okay.” She took a swallow of her wine.
He watched the movement of her lovely throat and imagined brushing it with his mouth, then nuzzling…. Hell. Just like that, he’d drifted from his charted course. He finished chewing and pulled his focus back to the problem. “If the ranch hands were better educated about food, they’d be raving.”
“Would they? I thought cowboys were the strong, silent type.”
“Not when it comes to food.”
She gazed at him, her green eyes serious. “Are you saying they really don’t like what I’m fixing?”
“I’m not saying that.” And he wouldn’t say it even if somebody shoved slivers under his fingernails. “I only have Jeb to go by, because he’s the one I talked to on the drive from the airport, but since he didn’t brag about the food here, I think it might be a little too sophisticated for his taste buds.”
“Hmm.” She took another sip of wine. “You could have a point.”
“But maybe it’s just Jeb.” He returned his attention to his plate.
“I don’t think so. Mary Lou left some recipes for me, but they were all so boring that I put them away. I know what you mean about the lack of enthusiasm from the cowboys, but I thought maybe they just didn’t care that