For some reason the answer did not matter at that moment.
“What’s the cure?” she asked softly.
A wicked expression, barely visible in the eerie light given off from the instrument panel, flickered across his face. “Come home with me, my sweet, naïve little dupe, and I will show you.”
She knew the smart answer to that invitation. The only intelligent, sane, reasonable, logical, suitably Harte-like response was to tell him that she had to get home to her dog.
“Okay,” she said instead.
She finished the last of the key lime pie and put down her fork with a sigh of mingled satisfaction and regret. The pie had been delicious, tangy and smooth on the tongue, with a flavor that conjured up images of the tropics. The slice had been arranged with artistic precision on the plate and trimmed with a paper-thin almond wafer and a slice of lime.
She looked at Rafe, who was sitting on the other side of the old oak table. He had removed his tie, unbuttoned the collar of his pristine white shirt, and rolled the sleeves up to the elbows. Nothing had changed since that night on the beach, she thought. He wasn’t the handsomest man she had ever met, but he was far and away the sexiest.
“The pie was incredible.” She tried to focus on something other than sex. It wasn’t easy when she was near Rafe, she had discovered. And the problem seemed to be growing worse.
“You don’t think I went a little overboard with the lime zest?” he asked.
“You can never have too much zest, I always say.”
He nodded. “It’s sort of like sparkle, I guess.”
“You know, when it comes to cooking, you’ve got a real talent. Why haven’t you ever opened a restaurant?”
“I’ve been waiting until the time was right.”
She put her elbows on the table. “Okay, I can’t stand the suspense any longer. If you aren’t the owner of a five-star restaurant, how did you finance the Porsche and all this free time you seem to have on your hands?”
He gave her a cryptic smile. “Starting to wonder about all those rumors you’ve heard concerning my career as a gangster?”
“It never crossed my mind for one second that you might be a gangster.”
“Yeah?” He thrust his legs out in front of him, leaned back in the chair, and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Why not?”
“Wrong clothes. Everyone knows gangsters wear shiny suits with big lapels.”
“That’s East Coast gangsters you’re talking about. Out here on the West Coast, your average wise guy prefers a more laid-back look.”
“Huh. Well, that blows that theory. So what have you been doing for the past eight years? And don’t give me that line about working in a hotel.”
“I did work in a hotel. For a while. I’ve also done a little investing.” He paused. “Day trading.”
Computer stock trading took nerves of steel and a fine sense of timing, she thought. “I’ve heard that’s an easy way to lose your shirt.”
“It is.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t.”
She grinned. “Of course not.”
“I’m out of the market now,” he said evenly. “I took my profits a few months ago and stuck them into nice, boring bonds and my own portfolio of high techs.”
“Stop.” She held up a hand. “You’re scaring me. It’s disconcerting to hear a Madison talk seriously about sound financial planning. Ruins the image of wild, impulsive behavior.”
“If you think I’m bad, you ought to talk to Gabe sometime. He’s obsessed with making money and doing deals.”
She smiled. “A cold-blooded Madison? Hard to imagine.”
“Gabe has his share of the Madison hot blood. But he’s channeled it into Madison Commercial.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Hannah hesitated. “Ever cooked for your grandfather?”
He looked genuinely startled. “No. Bryce does all the cooking at Mitchell’s house.”
“Why don’t you invite Mitchell to dinner here at Dreamscape?”
His jaw tightened. “What put that idea into your head?”
“I’m not sure. It just occurred to me that your interest in cooking parallels his in gardening. Creative outlets that you both approach with passion.”
“Huh.”
“I think you should invite him to dinner.”
Rafe contemplated her for a long, brooding moment. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he said at last. “You can’t resist handing out the advice.”
She exhaled slowly and sank back into her chair. “You’re right. I can’t seem to stop. Do you think I should seek professional help?”
“Waste of money. You’d probably end up giving advice to the therapist on your own dime.” He got to his feet and stacked the dishes. “Go on into the solarium. I’ll bring the coffee out there.”
Bemused and feeling oddly flattened, she got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.
She wandered into the glass-walled room, not bothering to turn on the lights. Drawn by the darkened view, she went to stand at the windows. Rafe was right. She really ought to stop handing out advice to all and sundry. Nobody ever took it anyway.
Morosely she gazed out across the expanse of the curving bay toward the lights of the small harbor and the pier. Music stole softly into the dark shadows of the solarium, curling around her with a lover’s touch. It was a slow, sultry number that sounded as if it had been born in a smoky nightclub and had never seen the light of day.
Rafe came through the doorway with a tray in his hands. Without a word he set the coffee and the mugs down on a table. Then he straightened and walked toward her.
A chill of intense awareness swept through her.
So it was dark and there was a torchy tune swirling in the air. So there was a sexy man who could cook like an angel in the immediate vicinity. So what?
Think of Winston.
Rafe came to a stop directly behind her. “Did I tell you how good you look in that dress?”
“Mmm.” Noncommittal. That was always a safe way to play it.
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her slowly around to face him. “You look fantastic in it.”
Think of Winston.
Rafe took her into his arms and began to move, very slowly, to the very slow music.
He might as well have been making love to her, she thought. The effect was the same. It felt like things were melting down below. Unable to resist the temptation, she put her head cautiously on his shoulder.
