At Your Service (Silhouette Desire) (10 page)

“What are you saying? That they wanted to—”

“Watch you bend over?” Her grin could scarcely fit on her face. “You bet.”

Tyler felt himself flushing. He was used to flirting, enjoyed it, and thought he was good at making a woman feel special, attractive. But this was something else. The thought that three women were calculatingly setting him tasks for the sole purpose of watching his butt was highly embarrassing.

“And I suppose when they accidentally dropped their money on the floor when they handed it across the bar to me, that wasn’t really an accident.”

Grace laughed hard enough to lose her breath and shook her head. “Not hardly.”

Good Lord. He wanted to fan himself, his face was so hot.

“What did you say to make them stop all this?”

Her eyes widened. “Not a thing. You just told me to get rid of them.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. It did nothing to hide her smile. “I’m afraid they’ll be dropping dollar bills on the floor for a long time to come.”

“Grace,” he growled at her.

“Don’t worry, they’re just teasing, especially after I told them how great it was that they were such steady customers of the tavern. You know, since most restaurants run in the red for the first five years. And since you’re undoubtedly going to be broke as a college student for the next couple of years, it’s sweet of them to help you out.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “They promised to come in at least three times a week for lunch, and they’ll bring their friends.”

Tyler needed to confirm what he was hearing. “Because they think I’m a charity case?”

“Do you care?” Grace shrugged at him. “They’re nice ladies, but they
are
serious husband-hunters. This way, they’ll still come here and spend money, but you’re basically safe from the total come-on.”

He just gaped at her, torn between gratitude and being offended.

Meanwhile, Grace had started tapping her fingernails sharply against the varnish of the bar. Her eyes locked on her rapidly moving fingers.

“Is that night off you mentioned still available?”

“What? Yes. Of course it is. Tomorrow will be crazy, but take Sunday night off. Monday, too, if you want it. You’ve certainly put in enough hours in the last week, and you should have some regular days off anyway.”

“So should you, you know. You ought to think about a night off yourself.”

What was this sudden concern on her part? Grace looked edgy and still kept her head down. “I might, at that. Spencer offered to watch the bar for me on Sunday night, since it should be quiet.”

As he watched, she twisted a cocktail straw until it was tied in knots. She stopped abruptly as if suddenly noticing what her hands were doing, and threw the straw in the trash with a grimace.

Her eyes, when she turned her face toward him, were not quite happy.

“Why don’t you come over for dinner on Sunday, then?”

“W
hat on earth was I thinking?”

Grace demanded the question of her closet, standing in front of the open door for the sixth time on Sunday morning. She’d already raced through two loads of laundry and an hour at the ironing board in a desperate attempt to find something suitable to wear for dinner with Tyler. Crossed off the list were jeans and a T-shirt or shorts and a halter top, both too casual. Slacks and a blouse, too much like work clothes. The one short, cocktail dress she’d brought with her, God knows why, was much too dressy.

Even when she considered going out and buying something specifically for this evening, a thought that made her shudder, the idea of having an unlimited selection did not help. Apparently there was nothing on earth that made sense when you were cooking dinner for a man who was not only your boss but also someone who had told her he might be tumbling into caring about her.

But probably was not.

And what on earth was she doing cooking dinner for him, anyway?

Grace still wasn’t quite sure exactly what had possessed her on Friday afternoon to invite Tyler over for a dinner that was now less than eight hours away. Temporary insanity, perhaps, inspired by the fun she had teasing him about being a sex object. Or by the odd possessiveness she felt lately toward him, tempting her to keep an extra glass of Cabernet on hand just in case she needed to conveniently spill it on the nearest over-aggressive flirter.

Regardless, she was now standing in front of a plundered closet, clothes strewn about the room, one forgettable blouse flapping like a windsock on the rotating fan, and it seemed increasingly likely that she would be cooking in the nude.

Deciding that the tornado-blast look of her bedroom was a cry for help if she ever saw one, Grace went to call in the Marines.

Sarah’s bedroom door hung invitingly half open. Grace clutched the door frame and leaned into the room, letting a thread of panic leak into her voice.

“Help,” she croaked. “Please help.”

Sarah sat huddled on her bed, intently curled over a thick textbook, a pencil clenched between her teeth. Her eyes slowly focused on Grace. “Did you say something?”

“Help. No clothes. Making dinner for your brother. Must not be naked.”

Sarah slammed the textbook closed with a resounding
whap
and promptly threw it across the room. She popped up off her bed like a cork shooting from a champagne bottle and raced over to clasp Grace’s hand in her own. “Bless you. If I had to memorize the Latin name of one more intestinal parasite I might have thrown the towel in on veterinary medicine altogether.”

“My pleasure. I am in dire need of fashion inspiration, or else I’m going to be standing over a stove in nothing but an apron.” Grace looked at her watch. “In less than eight hours.”

“Fortunately for you,” Sarah announced as she flung her closet door open with a flourish, “I adore dressing other people.” She glanced down at her daily uniform of jeans and a T-shirt and then shrugged. “Not that you could tell by the way I dress myself.”

Fifteen minutes later, after a quick buzz throughout the slim selection in Grace’s own wardrobe, she was dressed. And dressed perfectly.

They stood in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror together. Sarah had talked Grace into the long straight column of a black jersey skirt and a spaghetti-strap tank top in ice-blue silk, combined with casual black sandals and a chunky silver necklace.

“See? Perfect,” Sarah said as she finagled the clasp on the necklace. “The skirt’s a little demure, the tank top a little sexy. Sandals to show you’re not trying too hard, and the necklace because I like it.”

“I may be crazy, but I look terrific.” She hugged Sarah to her for a moment. So this is what it felt like to have a sister. “Thank you, Sarah.”

Sarah surveyed her creation with pride. “I told you. I love dressing up other people.” A quick tug on the skirt straightened its fall. “In fact, I still think you two should go someplace swanky, because that scarlet slipdress I’ve got would look incredible on you. And the poor thing is begging to be worn out on the town. I never have the time.” She grimaced. “Or the date.”

Grace heeded the frown and refrained from quizzing Sarah about her love life. Hoping to distract her, and to nip any misconceptions in the bud, Grace told her, “This is not a date. I’m just cooking dinner for Tyler because I can’t afford a gift to say thank-you for taking me on, and because…” She struggled to come up with another reason. “Because the man needs someone to make him take a night off.”

“Whatever you say, sister.” Sarah stood behind Grace, pulled her shoulders back and pushed her chin up. “My work here is done. And intestinal parasites wait for no woman. Knock him dead.”

All Grace could think, staring at herself in the mirror, was that if Tyler made fun of how she was dressed, she’d knock him on his ass.

The little voice in her head that she normally listened to, the voice that was sane and conservative and in charge of keeping her safe, was apparently locked in the cellar of her mind, not to be let out for the time being.

But Grace could hear it pounding on the door, warning her of danger ahead.

The only thing that let her remain calm, her safety net, was that she was cooking dinner for Tyler at Sarah’s place.

I suppose I should think of it as
our
apartment. But the important thing is that even if Sarah isn’t here, Tyler isn’t likely to try some kind of grand seduction if his little sister can walk in the door at any moment. She’d realized that fact as the words inviting him over had tumbled from her lips. Tyler probably wouldn’t be thinking of sex in his sister’s apartment.

Or, better put, he wouldn’t actually plan to
have
sex in his sister’s apartment. There was no telling what the man might be thinking.

She, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about Tyler and sex and her room at all. Or to be more honest,
her
room, the bathroom, the kitchen table…

At three o’clock in the afternoon on a clear-sky Sunday in late October, blessedly warm with an Indian summer breeze, without a moment’s warning, the safety net vanished.

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” Sarah apologized, pacing the floor in the kitchen. She had just hung up the phone. “But Todd never calls me up and asks to come over. And he definitely never tells me that he ‘wants to talk.’”

“Of course you have to see him. Don’t worry, I understand.”

“I just don’t know if he’s coming to break up with me or to ask me to marry him.”

Grace tilted her head to the side and wrinkled her nose.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense, but those are the only two things I can think of that would make him do this. What I don’t get is, why it has to be here.”

“Well, don’t make yourself crazy worrying about it.” I’ll just make myself crazy wondering if I’ll ever work up the nerve to do this again.

“I know. But, Grace, your dinner plans are ruined. I feel like such a jerk.” She dropped into a chair at the tiny kitchen table and cradled her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled by the long fall of her hair. “Todd is the jerk. The last-minute jerk.”

Grace let out a breath and shrugged mentally. “It’s okay. Really. The whole evening probably wasn’t a good idea to begin with.”

“Shut up. It was a great idea, and it would’ve been a great dinner if that sauce in the fridge I stuck a finger into was anything to go by.” Sarah grinned out at her from between spread fingers, hiding her face. Then she jumped up out of the chair— “Wait a minute!”—and sprinted out of the room. Grace heard a drawer open and papers rattle, as if subject to a frantic search. “Aha!” And then Sarah was dancing back into the kitchen, a set of silver and gold keys on a ring dangling from her pointed finger.

“Guess who these belong to?”

Pushing a chair in front of her like a lion-tamer, Grace held her off.

“Absolutely not, Sarah. No way.”

“Chicken. I’ll even help you carry everything over there.”

“No way,” she repeated, frantic for a way out of this. “He won’t have something, salt, pepper. Plates. It’ll never work.”

“Hey, my brother’s a modern man. I bet he even has his own cheese grater.” Sarah broke into a slow waltz around the kitchen with an imaginary partner, leering at Grace over her shoulder. “Besides, it’ll be so much more private.”

Exactly what I don’t want.

“I am not cooking dinner for Tyler at his place. Impossible.”

An hour later she watched as Tyler’s apartment door closed behind Sarah. She flipped the dead bolt closed reflexively and then stood frozen, staring at a featureless white door. After a moment, she rotated slowly on one heel, took a deep breath and walked slowly toward the kitchen.

Along the way, she trailed a hand along the back of a long, deep couch in the main room. A velvet nap, in navy, to balance out the feminine feel perhaps. The clack of her sandals on the hardwood floor disappeared in the thick pile of an Oriental rug blanketing the floor. A few pieces of wood furniture, with Shaker simplicity, were scattered around the room. In the same spare fashion, framed black-and-white photos decorated the plain white walls.

Feeling enough like a Peeping Tom already, she deliberately averted her eyes as she walked past Tyler’s open bedroom door. Not, however, before she noticed an unmade bed and a pillow abandoned on the floor. Reassuring signs of mess in what was otherwise a terminally neat apartment.

Once in the kitchen, she discovered that Sarah was indeed correct. Tyler not only did possess his own cheese grater, but also a variety of pots and pans, colanders in
three
different sizes and every tool from a garlic press to a twenty-function food processor.

Undoubtedly, the man could cook.

What was already an attack of nerves threatened to mature into a full-blown panic.

Don’t think. Just cook.

She peeled and then grated fresh ginger, shredding the tough lemony fibers against the rough steel perforations. Diced onions with her eyes clenched almost closed and hoped she wouldn’t end up bleeding on the vegetables. Julienned carrots and cut up cauliflower into bite-size florets. Whisked tarragon-infused white-wine vinegar with a flurry of spices.

After half an hour of prep work, she decided that what she really needed was a glass of wine, so she uncorked the spicy Australian Shiraz she’d brought and poured herself one.

“Besides, the wine really ought to breathe.” She toasted herself and made sure the oven was preheating. Then she went to invade Tyler’s CD collection.

Kansas City jazz was wailing brassily from the speakers and the scents of richly spiced dishes permeated the air when Tyler unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped into his fantasy.

He kicked off his shoes at the door and walked with silent, padded footsteps to the kitchen doorway. Pausing there, he watched Grace sway in place to the music, standing in front of the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. The tips of her blond hair skimmed her shoulders, catching briefly on the skinny straps of her tank top. Ignoring the spoon, she dipped a finger into a pot for a sample.

“It smells delicious. How does it taste?”

She whirled around. Wide bright eyes and her finger still stuck in her mouth gave her the look of a startled five-year-old. She pulled the finger out, sucking on it reflexively. “Delicious. You know, if you scare the cook into a heart attack, dinner might arrive a little late at the table.”

“Sorry.” He walked over to where an open bottle of wine and an empty wineglass sat on the counter. “May I?” The garnet liquid flowed richly into the glass. “So, what are you concocting over there, mademoiselle chef? Or should I call you mem’sahib?”

“Let’s put it this way. If you don’t like Indian food, it’s going to be a long, hungry night.” She picked her own glass up off the counter and sipped it.

He stepped closer, deliberately crowding her, watching her back up a pace before deciding to hold her ground. With a slight movement, he clinked his glass delicately against hers.

“Fortunately, I happen to love Indian food. Anything spicy appeals to me.”

Her mouth opened slightly, small teeth glistening wet behind bare lips. A moment passed. She pressed her lips firmly together and stepped around him to turn off a flame on the stovetop. “Good. Because it’s just about done.” She looked up at him and bit her lip. “I wasn’t sure where we should eat. Your kitchen table is a little small for all the plates.”

“We’ll eat in the living room,” he told her, and was immediately happy he’d bought the ridiculously tiny kitchen table Maxie had suggested. “You finish up in here and I’ll set the table.”

At least the cleaning lady came on Saturday mornings, he thought at the sight of his orderly living room. Then he began to set the scene.

In the kitchen, Grace let out a pent-up breath in a rush of air and sagged gently against the warm stove edge. Even after her heart had restarted itself from the shock of him suddenly there in the doorway, her nerve ends had refused to settle down. Sizzling beneath her skin until she swore she could feel the air move on her neck when he lifted his glass across the room.

Shake it off, Grace. Remember, this is just a friendly dinner. Don’t panic.

Panic! Panic!
the voice of caution locked in the cellar was shouting, lips pressed to a crack in the door. Grace ignored it.

She got to work, transferring the various dishes from pots and pans to bowls and platters, and then stepped back to survey her work. A baked, marinated, fall-off-the-bone chicken dish.
Dal,
a staple Indian food made from lentils, and basmati rice. Spicy corn and a tangy carrot and cauliflower pickle. Flat
nan
bread, and
raita,
the ever-present yogurt sauce in Indian meals, cool and refreshing.

Good grief. I’ve made enough food for an army.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” she called to the other room and picked up four plates at once, in true waiter style. She strode into the living room. “But you can always eat it for lunch tomorrow. And dinner and—”