Someone to Watch Over Me. Roz Fox Denny

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ he’d been caught, Gabe tried to cover a sheepish look. He managed a rueful shake of his head; she was more observant than he would’ve suspected.

      Now Isabella was quite sure this man had reasons other than food for showing up at her shop. She should probably confront him with that very question. Except that, deep down, she didn’t want to know his reasons. She just needed to keep him at arm’s length. Once Julian had pursued her, too, and she’d been flattered. She’d been so wrong about him. For six interminable years, she’d tried every way possible to fix their marriage. Now, every day she was faced with knowing she should’ve tried harder. If she had, maybe Toni and Ramon wouldn’t have paid the ultimate price for her weakness in giving up and walking out on Julian.

      Her eyes stung as they always did when she thought of her children. Her hands shook so hard, she almost dropped the hot pan of polvoróns.

      Gabe saw, hoping his presence wasn’t the cause of her distress. He cleared his throat, endeavoring to sound nonthreatening. “It was after midnight when I got back from driving my friends to the airport. I overslept and figured it was too late to indulge in a big country breakfast. The clerk at the Inn said I might be able to get something light here.” And his nose might grow a foot for that big fib.

      “I’m afraid the only breakfast dish I have left is migas.” Isabella managed to gain control of her emotions. “I can add a thick slice of jamón if you like. It’ll cost you four-fifty total. The unsmoked imported Jabugo ham I use is costly, but once you taste it, I guarantee you won’t ever settle for less again.”

      “Terrific.” Gabe refused to show his ignorance, even if he didn’t have a clue what migas might be. Jamón, he deduced, was ham. A thick piece would definitely tide him over until lunch.

      “Find a table. I’ll bring it right out,” Isabella said, wanting him to stop hanging over her kitchen door. Something about Gabe Poston unnerved her, and his smile sent shock waves to her already jittery stomach. In an attempt to still the butterflies, Isabella rubbed her belly. The next time she looked up after warming the breadcrumb, herb, hot pepper and tomato mixture she’d cut into generous squares, he’d disappeared from her doorway.

      Thank heavens. Otherwise she might not trust herself to slice the ham with the meat knife her brother Rick had sharpened to a razor’s edge just last night.

      Gabe smiled hugely when she delivered his piping hot meal. “Since you aren’t brimming over with customers, how about joining me for a cup of coffee? I’m sure you’ve already eaten, or I’d offer to share my breakfast.”

      “But…I couldn’t. Just because I don’t have customers right now doesn’t mean I’m not busy. I’m catering a business lunch for the Apple Growers’ Association. There’s only me to assemble sandwiches until my sister Trini gets out of her class at eleven-thirty.” A mask slid over her features as she turned away from Gabe’s table.

      “Okay, suit yourself.” He picked up his fork and dug into his food as if her refusal was no big deal. In case she glanced back to check his reaction, he made a show of calmly spreading out the morning paper he’d bought at the Inn. Once he knew she was gone, he stared blankly into the murky depths of his coffee instead of popping that first bite into his mouth. Gabe called himself all kinds of fool for going to such trouble to befriend a woman who clearly would rather he take a flying leap off a short pier.

      So why was he expending the effort? Had his recent birthday precipitated some major life crisis? Not wanting to fully examine his intentions toward Isabella Navarro, Gabe swallowed his first forkful of the still-steaming migas.

      He gasped. His tongue felt on fire. His eyes watered. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Yelping feebly, Gabe attempted to haul in a deep breath, which only increased the burning. Gagging, he stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping to beg a glass of water.

      He exploded into Isabella’s kitchen, which sent the swinging doors crashing into the walls. One hand was outstretched; the other he’d wrapped around his throat.

      The minute she caught sight of his red face and bulging eyes, she dropped the carving knife with which she’d been cutting thick slices of home-baked bread. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Are you choking?” She reached for the wall phone.

      “H…ot!” Gabe managed to get a word past his blistered vocal cords. He stood there dancing from foot to foot, pointing repeatedly at her sink. Isabella finally got the message. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, reached into the fridge and poured him a tall glass of milk. “Here, drink this. Slowly. It’ll coat the inside of your mouth and throat.”

      Once he’d done that and the pain had subsided, letting his tense features relax, Isabella chewed nervously on her lower lip. “I’m really sorry. We Basques throw Rocoto chiles into practically everything. They’re not even at the top of the chile heat scale. You are okay, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah,” he croaked. But he downed the rest of the milk and held out his glass for more. She filled it again, this time in full control of her shaking hands.

      “I think you fed me a ball of fire on purpose.”

      “No. I swear.” She frowned faintly. “I didn’t know what was wrong with you. But if you could’ve seen the look on your face…” She broke off, tightly hugging the gallon milk container.

      In a remote portion of his brain, it registered with Gabe that he’d finally broken through her shell. He’d probably presented quite a sight barreling through the swinging doors like a lunatic.

      Conciliatory again, Isabella waved a hand toward the door. “Go on back and eat before your food gets cold. I’ll bring a pitcher of milk to your table.”

      “Somehow I doubt that stuff’s gonna get cold anytime soon,” Gabe muttered. “So, milk is better than water to put out the fire?”

      “According to chile tests, yes. Although the burning sensation rarely lasts more than a minute.”

      “Says you. Seemed a lot longer.” At the moment Gabe wasn’t up to sparring with her on the subject of chiles. He retreated with his glass of milk and as much dignity as he could scrape together. He said nothing when she arrived at his table bearing milk and more information he didn’t care about.

      “The Rocotos are the small, dark-red pieces in the migas. You should have no trouble picking them out. Habanero and Santaka chiles are several times hotter,” she said, setting the cut-glass milk pitcher on top of his newspaper.

      Gabe shook his head. “Don’t most restaurants put triple stars or something on the menu to flag food that’s extra spicy? You need a fire truck painted next to this stuff.” With that, he moved the pitcher and began separating sections of his newspaper. He’d bought it because he wanted to relax over a cup of coffee and take a gander at the real estate section.

      Isabella took the hint, and slipped his bill under the pitcher. After a last worried frown aimed at his bent head, she returned to the kitchen.

      Damn, but his tongue still felt numb. Picking up the fork he’d dropped at the start of his fool’s dance, Gabe prodded the innocent-looking side dish. He wondered about Isabella’s impression of him and decided he must’ve come across as a complete jerk. He grimaced at the thought.

      Gabe dug into his migas with a new determination. If Isabella and her family ate five-alarm stuff like this regularly, he was damn well going to choke it down with a straight face.

      It СКАЧАТЬ