Killian's Passion. Barbara McCauley

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      Not that he’d actually seen anything. He’d only been there a moment before he handed her the towel, and she’d been behind the shower curtain the entire time. For all he knew, she had a gun back there, and if he’d tried anything, she would have blown his head off.

      No, he didn’t think she had a gun, nor did he think she intended to kill him. She’d been watching him, that was all he knew. And he intended to find out why.

      Right about—he glanced at his watch, followed the second hand as it swept up to the twelve—now.

      He was turning toward the bathroom when she came out, dressed in jeans and a white, untucked, buttoned shirt rolled to her elbows. She’d combed her hair away from her face and the wet ends lay heavy on her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was flushed from her shower, her cheeks rosy and green eyes bright.

      She brought the fresh, clean smell of wet raspberries with her from the shower. It filled the room, made him want to breathe deeper and drag the scent fully into his senses. Still not completely recovered from touching her in the bathroom, he decided it would be best to keep his distance.

      “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Mr. Shawnessy.” She tossed him a smile. “People are going to talk.”

      “Thanks to you, they already are.” He ignored the drops of water sliding down her neck into the vee of her shirt and kept his gaze carefully locked with hers. “Nick’s a regular Gertrude Gossip.”

      “I didn’t think it would benefit either one of us for me to drag him into our—” she hesitated “—situation.”

      “Tell me, Miss Sinclair, what exactly is our situation?”

      “That’s what we’re going to talk about.” She padded toward the kitchen in her bare feet. “But I’m starving and we have to eat first. Are you hungry?”

      Incredulous, Ian watched her walk away. Cara Sinclair was one cool woman. In spite of himself, she fascinated him. And anyway, he thought, turning on his heels to follow her, he was hungry. He’d left Tanner’s before ordering food, and he hadn’t eaten anything since the ham sandwich he’d made around noon, exactly eight hours ago.

      But even if he had eaten, the smells emanating from the kitchen were so incredibly mouthwatering, he would have been tempted, anyway. His stomach grumbled as he drew in a lungful of the delicious aroma.

      Cara stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand, stirring a large pot. The back of her shirt was wet from her hair, nearly making the fabric see-through, and he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. The woman was as mouthwatering as the smell of food and equally tempting, he thought reluctantly, which triggered another response from his body, lower than his stomach.

      Annoyed at his unwanted reaction to her, he looked away and noticed she’d set the small kitchen table for two. He glanced back sharply at her. “Expecting company?”

      “I knew you’d be here sooner or later,” she said with a shrug. “I hate to eat alone.”

      He didn’t. In fact, he preferred it. He’d had a couple of steady relationships over the years, but his job kept him away for long periods of time, and even the most patient woman had her limits. He’d gotten used to living alone. It was easier—fewer complications.

      But this woman was intent on playing out this little scenario her way, so he sat. For now he’d let her have her way. Short of violence—which he still hadn’t ruled out—it seemed to be the quickest way to find out what he wanted to know. And if what she was cooking tasted half as good as it smelled, the wait just might be worth it.

      She set two bowls of steaming chili on the table. “Dig in.”

      He hesitated. “How do I know it’s not laced with arsenic?”

      She smiled. “You don’t.”

      He decided she didn’t look like a murderer and scooped up a big bite. It was all he could do not to moan with pleasure as the spicy concoction rolled over his tongue.

      He suddenly felt ravenous.

      He was on his second bite when she moved back to the stove and, using a kitchen towel as a hot pad, pulled a tray of corn muffins from the oven. Plucking them carefully into a small wicker basket, she then scooped another bowl of chili and set everything on the table.

      “Good?” She sat beside him.

      He shrugged. “It’s all right.”

      Scooting her chair in closer, she grinned at him. “It’s better than all right, Flash. I didn’t win the Bloomfield AllCounty Chili Bake-off two years running for nothing. Consider yourself lucky.”

      He reached for a muffin. “I’ve been spied on, had my vacation interrupted, bruised and nearly lost the ability to ever have children. Of all the things I consider myself, Miss Sinclair—” he broke open the muffin and slathered it with butter “—lucky is not one of them.”

      “I apologize for all that. You shouldn’t have sneaked up on me like you did.” She took a muffin herself and nibbled on it. “But you shouldn’t have tied me up, either. That was incredibly rude.”

      “Sweetheart, if you think that was rude, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He was getting tired of bantering with her. And now that his stomach was nearly satisfied, there were questions he wanted answered. “Cut to the chase, darlin’. I want to know who you are, who you really are, and I want to know who sent you here.”

      With a sigh Cara got up and retrieved two cans of soda from the refrigerator. She handed him one, then popped the top of her own and sat back down. “My name really is Cara Sinclair, just like my driver’s license stated. Give or take a pound, I won’t say which way, my weight is also accurate. So is my height and address.”

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