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She was elbow-deep in her preparations when her skin began to tingle. She didn’t need to look up to know who was striding towards her. His scent alone easily gained superiority over the aroma of rich bechamel sauce and ragu.
For a long moment Ares leaned against the marble counter, only raising an eyebrow to address her when her compulsion to look at him won.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘What does it look like? I’m making lasagne.’
‘I have a house full of staff, including a Michelin star cook. Whom I’m told you have sent away?’ He looked around, his brow twitching at the mild chaos around him.
‘Yes, I did. He’s French. He doesn’t make lasagne like my mother did.’
‘Your mother?’ he echoed, with a slight softening in his eyes.
She nodded. ‘It’s one of the few memories I have of us,’ she whispered, then shook off the shaky emotion. ‘Anyway, she used a secret recipe I intend to pass on to my son or daughter. I can’t have your chef around.’
She passed her hand over her stomach and his expression changed again. He looked disarmed. Shocked. Affected.
But a moment later his feelings were back under tight control, his gaze sliding to the melting, mouth-watering bechamel and the meat sauce bubbling gently on top of the stove. His tongue slid to the tip of his lower lip and Odessa was sure he didn’t realise he was doing that.
She curbed a smile and didn’t revel too long in the satisfaction welling inside her. Picking up a spoon, she scooped up a taste of sauce, blew on it, then held it up. ‘Try it.’
He tasted it, and cursed under his breath.
She bit her tongue to keep from smiling openly. ‘Is it that bad?’
His mouth twitched. ‘It’s adequate.’
‘Hmm... Well, I’m guessing that’s why you’re licking your lips?’
He harrumphed. And Odessa knew she was at high risk of being lost when she realised that she thought it the sexiest sound in the world.
He remained silent as she finished layering the pasta and sauces and slipped it into the oven. Then... ‘Is this to be a regular occurrence?’
‘Why? Let me guess... You’re going to object to me lifting a finger?’
He shrugged. ‘Lifting a finger, no. Exerting yourself too much, yes.’
She sighed. ‘I’m not going to be lounging about drinking fruit punch and demanding pedicures for the next nine months, so kill that idea immediately.’
Deeper amusement flitted over his lips before he shook his head. ‘I didn’t think you would be. But I have an idea.’
She paused in tossing the salad, setting the tongs down almost warily. This was the first time they were having a conversation that wasn’t either fraught with past recrimination or thick with sexual tension. It was almost...congenial. So much so Odessa was concerned the slightest wrong move would shatter it.
She followed his gaze to the timer on the oven clock, then he held out his hand.
‘We have time. Come.’
Her wariness morphed into a different sort of apprehension. They hadn’t touched properly recently, besides the occasional brushing of fingers when he helped her up or down the stairs. Deliberately holding his hand felt...far too intimate.
He started to frown.
Not wanting to lose this lightness between them—because it was new and, yes, because she wanted it to remain a little too desperately—she slid her hand into his.
The almost pained glance he sent their clasped hands a moment later swelled a sensation far too close to her heart.
She was still grappling with it when he walked her into his study and over to the mini-conference table set beneath the window across from his desk. As she neared it, she saw several miniature replicas of Zanelis buildings.
As impressive as they were, it was seeing her sketchbook on the table that rattled her.
