Heart of Ice

She went straight into the bathroom, oblivious that she might wake Ada, and ran herself a calming cool shower.

Chapter Three (#ulink_ec9bde75-f2e4-520a-82a3-c6db96b31d04)

Kati didn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the hard grip of Egan’s fingers on her shoulders, the touch of his mouth against her hand. She hated him, she thought miserably; that was why she couldn’t sleep.

She dragged into the kitchen just after daylight, with her long gold and beige striped caftan flowing lovingly over the soft curves of her body. Her tousled hair fell in glorious disarray around her shoulders, and her dark eyes were even darker with drowsiness.

With a long yawn, she filled the coffee pot and started it, then she reached for the skillet and bacon and turned on the stove. She was leaning back against the refrigerator with a carton of eggs in one hand and butter in the other when the kitchen door opened and Egan came in, dressed in nothing but a pair of tan slacks.

He stopped at the sight of her and stared. She did some staring of her own. He was just as she’d imagined him without that shirt—sexy as all get-out. Bronzed muscles rippled as he closed the kitchen door; a mat of hair on his chest curled down obviously below his belt buckle. His arms looked much more powerful without a concealing shirt, as did his shoulders. She could hardly drag her eyes away.

“I thought I’d fix myself a cup of coffee,” he said quietly.

“I just put some on,” she said.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Does that mean I have to wait until you drink your potful before I can make mine?” he asked.

She glared at him. So much for truces. “There’s a nice little coffee shop down on the corner,” she suggested with a venomous smile.

“I’ll tell Ada you’re being unkind to me,” he threatened. “Remember Ada? My sister? The one whose Christmas you said you didn’t want to spoil?”

She drew in a calming breath. “Do excuse me, Mr. Winthrop,” she said formally. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down? I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”

“Not until you tell me where you plan to pour it,” he returned.

“Don’t tempt me.” She reached up into the cabinet for a second cup and saucer while he pulled out a chair and straddled it.

When she turned back with the filled cups, she found him watching her. It unnerved her when he did that, and she spilled coffee into one of the saucers before she could set them on the table.

“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asked pleasantly.

“No,” she said. “I’m not used to sleeping late. I’m at my best early in the morning.”

A slow, wicked smile touched his hard mouth. “Most of us are,” he commented.

It didn’t necessarily mean what she thought it did, but she couldn’t help the blush. And that increased her embarrassment, because he laughed.

“Will you stop!” she burst out, glaring at him. “Oh, why don’t you take your coffee and go back to bed?”

“I’m hungry. Don’t I smell bacon?”

“Bacon!” She jumped up and turned it just in time. It was a nice golden brown.

“Going to scramble some eggs, too?” he asked.

“No, I thought I’d let you drink yours raw,” she said.

He only laughed, sipping his coffee. “I like raw oysters, but I draw the line at raw eggs. Want me to make the toast?”

“You can cook?”

“Don’t get insulting.” He stood up and found the bread and butter. “Get me a pan and some cinnamon and sugar.”

She stared at him.

“Cinnamon,” he said patiently. “It’s a spice—”

“I know what it is,” she grumbled, finding it. “Here. And I’ve lined the pan with aluminum foil. It’s all yours.”

“Ungrateful woman,” he muttered as he mixed the cinnamon and sugar in the shaker she’d handed him. He buttered the bread and spread the mixture on top.

“Don’t get conceited just because you can make cinnamon toast,” she mumbled. “After all, it isn’t exactly duckling a l’orange.”

“I’d like to see you cook that,” he remarked.

She cleared her throat. “Well, I could if I had a recipe.”

“So could I.” He turned on the oven and slid the toast in under the broiler. “Get me a pot holder.”

“Who was your personal slave yesterday?” she asked, tossing him a quilted pot holder.

“I liked the old days,” he murmured, glancing at her. “When men hunted and women cooked and had kids.”

“Drudgery,” she scoffed. “Women were little more than free labor….”

“Cosseted and protected and worried over and loved to death,” he continued, staring down at her. “Now they’re overbearing, pushy, impossible to get along with and wilder than bucks.”

“Look who’s talking about being wild!” she burst out.

He stared down his nose at her. “I’m a man.”

She drew in a breath and let it out, and her eyes involuntarily ran over him.

“No argument?” he asked.

She turned away. “Your toast’s burning.”

He took it out—nicely browned and smelling sweet and delicate—and put it on a plate while she scrambled eggs.

“I like mine fried, honey,” he commented.

“Okay. There’s a frying pan, grease is in the cabinet. If you’re too good to eat my scrambled eggs, you can mutilate your own any way you like.”

He chuckled softly, an odd sound that she’d never heard, and she turned to look up at him.

“Firecracker,” he murmured, his eyes narrow and searching. “Are you like that in bed?”

She jerked her eyes away and concentrated on the eggs. “Wouldn’t you like to get dressed before we eat?”