The Texan's Tiny Secret

To his surprise, instead she turned her back to him and resumed her stirring. “If you’re lost, the party’s on the other side of the door.”

“I’m not lost. I’m hiding.”

She whacked the spoon against the side of the pot, set it aside, then crossed to the refrigerator, wiping her hands on a bib-style apron two sizes too big for her petite frame. “Well, hide someplace else. This kitchen’s small enough without you in here cluttering things up.”

Though her tone was anything but friendly, Gil decided he preferred her porcupine-disposition to the phony graciousness he’d experienced from the political elite gathered in the other room. Crossing to the range, he watched as she opened the refrigerator and stretched to retrieve something from its depths. As she moved, the back of her apron parted, exposing a cute little tush and well-shaped legs covered in leopard-print spandex capris. At the sight, he puckered his lips in a silent, admiring whistle.

When she turned from the refrigerator, he quickly dipped his head over the pot she’d been stirring, pretending interest. His mouth watered at the decadent scent of melted chocolate that rose to tease his taste buds. “Need some help?”

“Yeah, right,” she said dryly, and shouldered him out of her way to add milk to the mixture. “Like the governor of Texas would actually stoop to scullery work.”

Clucking his tongue, Gil shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it over a stool. “Just proves you can’t judge a book by its cover…or its title,” he added pointedly, as he loosened his tie. He tucked a dish towel into the waist of his slacks, then plucked the spoon from her hand and tipped his head toward the island. “Why don’t you take that tray of caviar out to the guests before they come in here looking for it and discover my hiding place?”

She snatched the spoon right back. “My staff takes care of the serving,” she informed him coldly, “and I do the cooking.”

Gil lifted his hands and stepped aside, hiding a smile. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“If you want to be helpful, you can get out of my—”

The swinging door banged open behind them and a young woman staggered into the kitchen, weighted down by a large tray of dirty dishes. She angled the tray onto the stainless steel island and blew a weary breath up at her bangs. Bracing a hand against the counter, she lifted a foot to slip her shoe off her heel.

“I swear, Suzy,” she complained, “if you hadn’t promised that I’d get to see the governor up close and personal, I never would’ve agreed to work this gig.” The shoe hit the floor and she moaned pitifully, squeezing her fingers around her aching toes. “No man’s worth this much pain. Not even the governor.”

Another insult hurled his way. Gil couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. “Are you sure about that?”

The young woman snapped to attention, her gaze meeting his, then quickly ducked behind the island, but not before he saw her cheeks flame. Gil heard her muttered curses and fumbling as she struggled to squeeze her swollen foot back into her shoe. Seconds later she popped back into view.

“S-sorry, Governor,” she stammered, as she smoothed her skirt back over her hips. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

Smiling, he pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone. I’m hiding.”

“Hiding?” Peering at him curiously, she rounded the island. “From who?”

Gil nodded toward the door. “Them.”

She squinched her nose. “I don’t blame you,” she whispered. “Nothing but a bunch of browners out there.” She wiped her hand on her skirt, then offered it to him along with a wide grin. “Hi. I’m Renee.”

Taking her hand, Gil bowed slightly over it. “Gil Riley, Renee. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Suzy muttered, and pushed her way through their joined hands, breaking the contact. She crossed to the island, grabbed the tray of caviar-topped crackers and shoved it at her assistant. “If you’re done with the formal introductions, you can serve these to the browners.”

Renee turned for the door with a long-suffering sigh.

“Remember,” Gil called after her. “Mum’s the word.”

Bracing a hip against the door, Renee tossed him a smile and a wink over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Governor. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Chuckling, Gil picked up the spoon Suzy had abandoned and began to stir as the door swung shut behind Renee. “Cute girl.”

“Hands off. She’s jail bait.”

Gil shrugged as a timer sounded, and Suzy headed for the oven. “Cute jail bait.”

She shoved a tray of miniature pastry shells onto the countertop next to the range, then snatched the spoon from his hand. “Men,” she grumbled.

Fascinated by this woman, but unsure why, Gil propped a hip against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “You have something against men?”

“Nothing a mass castration wouldn’t solve.”

He flinched. “Ouch.”

She tipped her head toward a plastic tub filled with utensils. “If you’re staying, make yourself useful and hand me that ladle.”

He retrieved the requested item and passed it to her. “Anything else, boss?”

“Yeah,” she snapped. “Don’t call me boss.”

“What should I call you?”

“Suzy.”

“Suzy…?” he prodded helpfully, hoping she would reveal her last name.

She slanted him a quelling look. “Just Suzy.”

“Okay, Just Suzy. I’m Gil.”

She rolled her eyes as she ladled thick chocolate into the shells. “Like I don’t know who you are.”

“Which obviously doesn’t impress you overly much.”

“Why should it?”

He could’ve hugged her for that response alone. “Why, indeed,” he replied, smiling.

The timer sounded again, and before Suzy could stop him, Gil removed another tray of pastry shells from the oven, placed it on a rack to cool, then resumed his position at the counter, watching as she continued to fill the shells.

He had always thought a person’s work habits revealed a lot about their personality and mood, and saw that this little lady was no exception to the rule. She tackled her duties with a confidence and an economy of motion that indicated she was no stranger to a kitchen. Yet he noticed a jerkiness in her movements and a tenseness around her mouth that told him his presence annoyed the hell out of her. She was also independent, he noted, zeroing in on the determined set of her jaw, the stubborn thrust of her chin, which told him that she was a woman who wouldn’t need or want anyone’s assistance…especially, it seemed, his.

But, dang, if she wasn’t a pretty little thing, he thought—if a person took the time to look past the garish makeup and the wild hairdo. Intrigued, he watched her hunch a shoulder to her heat-flushed cheek to brush away a wayward strand of hair and was tempted to help her out by tucking the lock behind her ear. But he refrained from doing so, mindful of her comment about castration and the number of knives within easy reach.

Wondering what had given her such a low opinion of men, he let his gaze drift to her mouth, pursed at the moment in an irresistible blend of annoyance and concentration…and found his thoughts shifting to wonder what she would taste like, what kind of response he could arouse from her if he were to give in to the sudden impulse to kiss her. If all her passions ran as deep and volatile as her temper, he suspected he’d be in for one hell of a ride.

“Do you work for the catering company?” he asked, hoping to discover her identity.

“I am the catering company.”

“Should I be impressed?”