After Dark. Wendy Etherington

batted her lashes. “All for little ol’ me?”

      “Yes.”

      He looked so pleased with himself, her breath caught. If the man was going to start being charming, she was in big trouble.

      You’re already in big trouble.

      “Sorry I wasn’t ready when you got here,” he said, moving closer. “We were on a roll today.”

      She swallowed as her heart rate picked up speed. “The banister to the stairs is up.”

      His silver eyes flashed with pleasure. “You noticed.”

      “Of course. It’s beautiful.”

      “It makes a difference. The other railing was rickety, possibly dangerous, and now it looks finished.”

      “And welcoming,” she said.

      He drew his brows together. “Welcoming, huh? You don’t think people will want to come over and look at it, do you?”

      Charm was clearly a brief and impulsive state for him. The man was warily unsociable in the extreme. “Gee, wouldn’t that be horrible?”

      “Yes.” His gaze searched hers. “Really, it’s only your opinion that matters.”

      Seriously? She smiled. Maybe she was making an impression. Maybe—

      “Because of your connection to the historical committee,” he added.

      Then again, maybe not. “Of course.”

      Yet he’d invited her to dinner. He was obviously attracted to her. He was certainly interested in her. Whether he liked her—or anybody else—was another subject entirely.

      He’d been through a traumatic time lately. Parents’ deaths. Violent crime. Media frenzy. They were bound to throw even the strongest off stride. And she suspected Aidan was the one who usually threw others off balance.

      As did she.

      He was a loner. If not before, certainly now. And she was very socialable. Between her dad, her friends, her work and her committees, she was rarely alone.

      But she liked being alone with him.

      She had no desire to go to a crowded restaurant or music-blasting club. She was content with spaghetti at his kitchen table.

      Maybe they weren’t so far apart after all. But was that a good thing?

      She fought for a casual tone. “So I’ll start on the salad while you take your shower.”

      “Okay.” His gaze roved her face for a second before he said, “I haven’t done this in a while.”

      “Showered or eaten?”

      He laughed. Actually, laughed. Her body went hot and tingly.

      Oh, boy. She was in big, big trouble.

      “Had a date,” he said lightly, while she scrambled to remember the dark, angry man she’d met less than a week ago.

      “I bet it comes back to you.”

      His lips tipped up at the corners. “I hope so.”

      After he left, she began assembling the salad—and thinking hard about the step they were taking.

      It’s a simple date. What’s the big deal?

      Simple. Of course. Yet it didn’t feel uncomplicated or straightforward.

      She still sensed his pain, forced right beneath the surface, hovering there and waiting for a chance to spring. And while part of her wanted to know the real story behind the speculation about him, part of her didn’t care. She sort of wanted him to talk about his family and what had driven him to change his life so drastically, but in some ways it didn’t matter. She wanted to know who he was now. She wanted to live only in the moment.

      The sexual tension between them was palpable. If that kiss the other day was any kind of guide, their chemistry was incredible. Did she really want to complicate things with deep conversations about suppressed feelings?

      No. She really didn’t. Chemistry was welcome. Heat was enough.

      Besides, with Davis back in town, she had drama and emotional confusion all on her own.

      By the time Aidan returned, she’d opened and poured the wine. And crammed her worries into the back of her mind.

      “The sauce is ready,” he announced. “All we have to do is boil the pasta.”

      “Good. I’m starving.” She handed him a glass of wine, her pulse skipping a beat. He smelled of musk, oak and sandalwood, and his hair was still damp, jet-black waves brushing his forehead. “When did you have time to make sauce today?”

      “I took a break around three.” He leaned against the counter next to her. “Are you impressed by my talents in the kitchen?”

      She sipped wine to ease her dry throat. She was sure he had talents in lots of areas. “Very.”

      He raised his glass to her. “You like the wine?”

      “It doesn’t have the burn of whiskey.”

      “Subtlety is better sometimes.” He glanced at the liquor bottle, sitting several inches away. “Wine suits my mood better tonight.”

      Did that mean he was going to stop scowling at her? Did that mean the pain of whatever was driving him to whiskey the other night had eased?

      Did she really want answers to either of those questions?

      “Show me what you did today,” she said lightly, once again ignoring any thoughts that led to complex conversations and hidden emotions.

      As they headed out of the kitchen, he asked, “Is this my official visit for the week?”

      “I think this is about my third visit this week. I’m already breaking my word to not become a nuisance.”

      He captured her hand and squeezed. “You’re not. I like having you here.”

      She stopped and stared at him. “You do?”

      He frowned, looking as surprised by his admittance as she felt. “Sure.”

      “I thought you wanted to brood alone in your dark and scary castle.”

      Tugging her hand, he led her into the foyer. “You’ll have me as the lead in a gothic novel pretty soon.”

      “Pretty soon? I’m already there, Mr. Williams.”

      “Williams?”

      “As in Tennessee. If we’re going to talk gothic, we have to stay in the South.”

      “Fine by me.” Standing in the doorway to the dining room, he smiled at her. “I figured it was time to let some light into my dark and scary castle.”

      As he spoke, he flipped the wall switch, and the chandelier now dominating the center of the ceiling exploded with light.

      She’d been distracted when she arrived, which was the only rational explanation for not noticing the fixture before. Dozens of candles with crystal tips simulating flames rested on curved pipes finished in burnished copper. The facets of light flickered so realistically, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hold her hand toward them and feel heat. The entire room glowed with soft, romantic light.

      “Wow,” she managed to say.

      “It would have been real candles or gas lights back then, of course,” Aidan said. “So I commissioned an artist in New Orleans to replicate the effect.”

      Still staring up, Sloan walked around to look at the chandelier from other angles. “The detail is amazing.” It would look fantastic on the historical society brochures.

      If Aidan ever let a photographer within fifty feet of it, of course.

      “You’re