Lead Me Home

Aurelia glanced at him. “Not until you’ve had a proper meal.” When Matthew laughed, she realized how anal that had sounded. “Sorry, I’ve been dealing with teenagers for a week. If you want dessert first, you certainly can have it.”

“That’s okay.” His smile creased his tanned cheeks. “I’ll wait on the figs.”

She had the insane urge to stand on tiptoe, clutch that smiling face, and plant one right on his gorgeous mouth. He was way too handsome for his own good.

But kissing him after knowing him for five minutes wasn’t a great idea. Instead she walked over and clicked the oven knob before opening the industrial-sized refrigerator. “Then I’ll warm up the leftover brochettes aux rognons, de foie et lardons we had for lunch.”

“My French is pretty sparse, but I think I’ve had that before.”

She turned, the foil-covered platter in her hand, and stared at him. “You have? I’ve never met anyone who’s eaten it before.”

“Tell me what’s in it and I’ll know for sure.”

“Kidneys, liver and bacon on a skewer.”

Matthew nodded. “That was my guess. Sounds great.”

“Where did you have it?” Now she was nervous. Maybe the version he’d eaten had been better than what she’d fixed today.

“A restaurant on the Left Bank.”

“In Paris?” Now she was really nervous.

“Yes. Ever been to France?”

“No. I’m not really into travel.”

“You’re not? Why?”

She shrugged. “I like the comforts of home too much, I guess. Traveling just doesn’t appeal to me.”

“But you could sample the food cooked by natives.”

“I’d rather try making it at home myself.” She wished she’d offered him something else, but too late for that now. Transferring several skewers to a baking dish, she flicked on the oven and slid the dish inside to heat. “But since I’ve never tasted the real thing like you have, my version may not be what you’re used to.”

“I’m sure it’ll be terrific.”

“I hope so. Reheated won’t be quite the same as when they were first broiled.” She gathered up her cookbooks so he’d have a place to eat. “Go ahead and sit.” Then she had an inspiration. “Would you like some wine? It’s not French, but Sarah always keeps some good California reds on hand.”

“Only if you’ll have a glass with me.”

“Well … okay.” She knew Sarah wouldn’t mind. She’d have a little, to be hospitable. “Be right back.” She opened the door to the walk-in pantry and ducked inside. Once there, she dithered over the wine selection, trying to imagine what a man who’d been to Paris would prefer.

“Want me to pick one?” Matthew walked into the pantry and the space instantly shrank.

“Um, sure. That makes sense.” She stepped away from the wine rack, but there really wasn’t anywhere to go. Once he moved in front of it, they were practically touching. The small space filled with his scent—a crisp, manly aroma that jacked up her pulse rate.

She became aware of his steady breathing as he pulled out a couple of bottles, checked the labels and moved on. She was afraid they weren’t to his liking. “I know it’s not a huge selection.”

“No, it’s great! I just don’t want to drink up the pricey stuff.”

“But you should! Take the most expensive bottle! From the way everyone’s talked about you, they’d be honored for you to have it.”

“I don’t know what they’ve said, but the truth of the matter is that I’m an ordinary guy who can drink six-dollar wine and be perfectly happy. Here we go.” He pulled out a bottle and showed it to her. “This will do fine.”

She took a shaky breath and hoped he couldn’t tell how his nearness affected her. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” He gestured toward the pantry door. “After you, mademoiselle.”

Dear God, he even said it with a French accent. She brushed past him, aware of every point of contact with his solid body. She couldn’t tell if he was attracted to her, too, but it really didn’t matter.

He was here to train a horse and he’d spend his evenings at the bunkhouse, according to what Sarah had said. Tonight might be the only time she’d be alone with him for the rest of his stay. Considering they were from completely different worlds, that was probably for the best.

2

SHE WAS DYNAMITE, the ultimate definition of the word hot. Matthew wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d walked into the kitchen to meet Aurelia Imogene Smith, but it certainly hadn’t been a blonde with a drop-dead figure and eyes that sparkled like dew on spring leaves.

He understood immediately why nobody had criticized her food. Besides being great to look at, she was earnest about her job and achingly vulnerable in her need for validation. Telling her that most everyone hated her food would be mean.

He uncorked the wine and poured them each a glass.

“How about a salad?” she asked.

“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.