Roomful of Roses

“Beef bourguignon. Do you like it?”

She stared at him. “You didn’t mention that you did gourmet dishes.”

“You didn’t ask.” He turned on the stool to study her. His shirt was open down the front, and she kept her eyes carefully averted. McCabe, stripped, was a devastating sight. She’d seen him that way at the pool, of course, wearing brief trunks that left his massive body all but bare. He was exquisitely male. All bronzed flesh and hard muscle with curling thick hair over most of it. Wynn didn’t like seeing him without a shirt. It disturbed her. Seeing Andy the same way didn’t, and that disturbed her, too.

“You look bothered, honey,” McCabe commented, flicking open another button, almost as if he knew!

She cleared her throat. “I need to change first, before I start this,” she said, leaving everything sitting on the counter while she escaped to her bedroom.

She closed the door and slumped back against it heavily. What was wrong with her, anyway? McCabe was the enemy. Unbuttoning his shirt wasn’t going to change that, for heaven’s sake! Was she an impressionable girl or a woman? She shouldered away from the door. A woman, of course!

Ten minutes later, she went back into the kitchen and McCabe stopped with a spoon in midair above the stew and just stared.

The dress was emerald-green jersey. It had spaghetti straps that tied around her neck and across her back, leaving it bare to the waist behind. It outlined her high breasts, her small waistline and the deep curve of her hips with loving detail, and clung softly to her long legs when she walked. With her long hair piled atop her head and little curls of it hanging around her neck and temples, she was a sight to draw men’s eyes.

“Do you wear dresses like that often?” McCabe asked, scowling.

“Of course I do,” she said softly, and turned away. “Are you through with supper? I’ll finish making the dressing.”

“Not in that dress you won’t,” he said curtly. He moved, leaning heavily on his stick, and was behind her before she knew it. One big warm hand caught her waist firmly and held her away from the counter. “It would be a crime to ruin it.”

Her body tingled wildly under his hard fingers, as if she’d waited all her life for him to touch it and bring it to life. She felt herself tremble and hoped he wouldn’t feel it.

“You...shouldn’t be standing,” she reminded him.

“You sound breathless,” he murmured, and she felt his warm breath in her hair, like a heavy sigh. His fingers moved experimentally to her hip and back up again, as if they were savoring the feel of her. She wanted to lean back against him and let them inch up, slowly....

She gasped and moved jerkily away from him. “I...I’ll get an apron,” she faltered. “Andy will probably be here any minute, he’s almost always early!”

McCabe didn’t say a word. He stood quietly by the counter, leaning against it and the cane, and watched her with darkening eyes that didn’t leave her for a second.

She glanced at him nervously as she fumbled with jars and bowls and spoons. “Say something, will you?” she laughed.

“What is there to say?” he asked softly.

She tried to speak, tried to find words to diffuse the tension between them, but instead she looked into his eyes and ached all the way down to her toes.

Before she could move, or run, the doorbell rang sharply and saved her the effort.

She turned and walked like a zombie to the front door and opened it.

Andy’s brown hair was rumpled, as if he’d been running his hands through it angrily, and his dark eyes were troubled. He stared down at Wynn, but didn’t really seem to see her at all.

“Hi,” he murmured. “Supper ready? I’m starved.”

She sighed and led him back toward the dining room. “Come and say hello to McCabe first,” she said.

Andy made an irritated sound. “Does he really cook?”

“Of course I do, Andy,” McCabe said from the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. He’d done up his shirt and looked presentable again, the picture of the courteous host. Like a lion bleating, Wynn thought wickedly.

“Good to see you again, Andy,” he said. He extended his left hand, the right one being busy with the cane.

Andy automatically put his own hand out, but reluctantly. “Hi, McCabe,” he said coolly. His eyes ran up and down the bigger man. “Got shot, I hear.”

McCabe’s eyebrows went up. “Did you? I thought it was a torn ligament in the paper.”

Andy flushed and glared at Wynn. “You said...”

“No, I didn’t,” she said curtly. “Did you call Ed? You did, didn’t you? You couldn’t take my word—?”

“Now, children,” McCabe said smoothly, “suppose we dispense with the squabbling until after supper? Heated-over beef bourguignon is so tacky, don’t you think?”

Andy gaped at him. “Beef bourguignon?”

“In my humble way, I enjoy gourmet cooking,” the bigger man said with disgusting modesty, almost blushing. Wynn was ready to choke him. McCabe, sounding like a society leech...

But Andy was falling for it headfirst. He laughed easily and grinned at Wynn. She could read the thoughts in his mind, the sarcasm. Big-time war correspondent. Adventure novelist. He-man. And he makes beef bourguignon and uses words like “tacky.”

“Sit down and I’ll bring it in,” McCabe told them.

But Wynn was horrified at the thought. “You sit down,” she said coolly, glaring at him. “I don’t want stew all over my floors. How in the world do you expect to manage a tureen of that plus your cane?” She went into the kitchen, still muttering.

By the time she had everything organized and started carrying in the filled coffeepot and service, the heated rolls and beef bourguignon and salad, there was an odd silence in the dining room. McCabe was leaning back, smoking a cigarette, and Andy was looking...

“What’s wrong, Andy?” Wynn asked quickly.

He glanced at her and blushed. “Uh, nothing. Can I help?”

“No, I’ve only to bring the dressing.” She shot a glare at McCabe as she went to fetch it.

Supper was a quiet affair. She nibbled at her beef bourguignon—which was truly excellent, wine red and thick and full of melty bits of beef and vegetables and salad—and wondered why Andy was so quiet.

“We had a bad wreck today,” she mentioned, trying to break the cold silence. “Some out-of-state people—”

“For heaven’s sake, not while I’m eating!” Andy burst out, making a face at her.

McCabe’s eyebrows went up sharply. “Are you still squeamish, Andy?” he asked politely. “Yes, I seem to remember that you never enjoyed our biology class coming just before lunch.” He leaned back with his coffee in hand and pursed his lips. “The formaldehyde was nauseating, wasn’t it? And those dissections...”

Andy had turned green and was putting down his spoon. He grabbed his ice water and drank and drank.

“Stop that, you animal,” Wynn growled at McCabe. “How could you?”

“I like science,” he replied imperturbably, watching Andy. “Did I ever tell you about the food I had in South America when I was covering the conflict down there a few years back? I went deep into the Amazon with some soldiers and we camped with a primitive tribe in the jungle. We had snake and lizard and some kind of toasted bugs—’

“Excuse me,” Andy gasped, leaping to his feet with a napkin held tightly over his mouth. He ran toward the bathroom and slammed the door.

“McCabe!” Wynn burst out, banging the table with her hand.