Vendetta. Meredith Fletcher

      Taking out her iPAQ/phone, Winter checked the time. It was 12:43 p.m. “Have you had lunch?”

      David frowned again.

      Even his frowns are sexy. Winter gave herself a mental shake. Do not get derailed. Focus on getting the journals.

      “What difference would my having lunch make?” David asked.

      “If you hadn’t eaten, I thought I could tell you the story over lunch.”

      “I’ve got too much to do to leave here.” David gestured at the desk.

      “Surely this big house has a kitchen. If you don’t know the way, maybe we could ask Gary.” Winter resented the sarcasm at once, but it was far too late. The genie was out of the bottle. She scrambled for something to say that would take the sting out of her words.

      David pushed up from the desk. “I know the way to the kitchen. But you’re going to have to produce a strong argument to get at my mother’s journals.” He strode through the door without a backward glance.

      Curbing a response, Winter silently watched him walk away. The khaki pants fit him well, and it was obvious he kept himself in great shape. After a moment, she followed.

      “You know how to cook?”

      David resented the question. He pulled his head out of the massive refrigerator and glared at Winter. She sat demurely at the island and looked as if the question was more casual curiosity than a thinly veiled insult.

      “Yes, I know how to cook. My mother taught me. So did my father.” David took a deep breath as he looked around the spacious kitchen. “This is one of the places where I miss her most. When she was at home, she often spent part of the day in here. On good days, Allison and I got to prepare a meal with her.”

      Winter had the decency to look contrite. “I apologize. I didn’t mean—”

      “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and you didn’t. But you did intend to be crass, and you were.”

      Winter looked as though she were going to say something, then thought better of it. She broke their gaze and looked down at her P.D.A.

      And you’re not exactly the charming host, either, are you? David could hear his mother remonstrating him over his manners.

      Marion Gracelyn had always believed the kitchen was a safe haven for everyone. He’d seen her entertain belligerent dinner guests over steaming pots and pans. Most of the time she’d managed to reach some accord right there in the kitchen.

      “Look,” he said finally, “maybe we’re both getting on each other’s nerves a little.”

      “You think?”

      The reply was smart-ass, but David sensed there was no malice attached. “Yeah. So what are you in the mood for?”

      Her hesitation surprised him. As he recalled, Winter Archer had always had an answer for everything.

      “Surprise me,” she replied finally.

      “I missed breakfast this morning, too. Maybe we could have a really late brunch.”

      “All right.”

      “While I cook, maybe you could talk.”

      By the time Winter finished reiterating what she’d learned about Colonel Thomas Marker’s murder and the strange woman who had briefly taken Marion Hart prisoner in the county jail, David had prepared blueberry waffles from scratch, omelets, spicy diced potatoes and onions and bacon and link sausage. He’d even prepared the link sausages by boiling them in water in a covered frying pan instead of frying them.

      “Not exactly what my nutritionist would have recommended,” Winter commented as she finally surrendered and pushed her plate away.

      “Maybe next time you could cook,” David growled.

      For a moment Winter was so lost in the idea of a next time and the possibility of cooking breakfast she forgot to be slightly insulted. That had been the intention, though.

      “I can cook,” Winter replied.

      David glowered at her doubtfully.

      “I didn’t mean that as an insult. I enjoyed breakfast. It was good.”

      Slightly mollified, David nodded. He finished the last bite of blueberry waffle and pushed his plate away.

      Without a word, Winter got up and started clearing the dishes.

      “What are you doing?” David asked.

      “You cooked. The least I can do is clean up the mess.” Winter opened the taps at the sink and looked around for dishwashing liquid.

      “You don’t have to do that.”

      “I don’t want to leave it. Gary probably has enough to do.” Winter looked under the sink.

      “There’s a dishwasher.”

      “There aren’t that many dishes.” After finding the dishwashing liquid under the sink, Winter squeezed some into the sink and turned the water on.

      “Are you always this pigheaded?” David growled. His chair scraped as he got up.