The Marriage Beat. Doreen Roberts

as he was now.

      If he were real honest with himself, he’d admit that it wasn’t the way Megan Summers stirred up his irritation that bothered him half as much as the way she stirred up his primitive urges. That, he thought worriedly, was where the true problem lay and that could get him into more trouble than he could handle.

      Here he was, planning on spending the next week or so in the more or less exclusive company of a woman who could make him forget all the reasons why he’d sworn off any more serious relationships. He’d just have to start thinking—and acting—like a monk for the next few days, and try not to notice that the woman drove him nuts.

      Something told him that it wasn’t exactly going to be a piece of cake.

      Chapter Three

      “I still think it would be easier just to pick up a hamburger or something,” Megan said, as Tyler weaved his way through the traffic on the Banfield Freeway.

      “You can’t eat fast food every night for two weeks. You’ll end up with stomach ulcers. If I’m going to cook for you I might as well start now.”

      She eyed him doubtfully. “How good a cook are you?”

      “Mediocre, but I get by.”

      The closer they got to her apartment, the more worried she was getting. The idea of Tyler Jackson cooking dinner in her tiny kitchen gave her goose bumps. “You cook for yourself?” She’d assumed that he lived alone, but it wouldn’t hurt to confirm it.

      “Sometimes.”

      “What do you do the other times?”

      He sent her a wary glance. “I eat fast food.”

      “How come you don’t have ulcers?”

      “Men have stronger stomachs than women.”

      And thicker heads, Megan added inwardly. She was a pretty good cook herself. She just hoped that his cooking was at least edible. “Hamburgers would be quicker,” she said, refusing to give up without a fight.

      “No hamburgers. You need something more nutritious than that. You’re sick.”

      “I’m not sick. I just hurt my arm.”

      “You’ve been injured. Your resistance is down.”

      He was wearing it down, Megan thought mutinously. She should never have agreed to this ridiculous idea. She closed her eyes briefly as Tyler jumped lanes. For a cop he was an erratic driver. Unless all cops learned to drive that way. “I’m not sure I have anything for dinner in the fridge,” she muttered, giving it one last shot.

      “I’ll find something.” His tone warned her that was the final word.

      She gave up, and spent the next five minutes trying to remember what food she had in the house that wouldn’t present too much of a challenge.

      “I’ll need directions from here,” Tyler said, as he took the off-ramp.

      She gave them to him, directing him to her apartment building. He pulled up in her parking space and looked around with the same expression her mother had worn when she’d first seen it.

      Annoyed with his attitude, she said defensively, “It may be small, but it’s cheap and I like it.” She reached across her injured arm for the door handle.

      “Wait!” He shook his head at her. “I’ll get that. Just sit tight.”

      She did her best to fight back her irritation. After all, she thought, as he leaped out of his seat and strode around to her side of the car, he was worried about her. He wanted to make sure she didn’t aggravate her injury. She just wished he would give her a little more credit for taking care of things herself.

      The door flew open and Tyler leaned in. “All right, feet first.”

      For the sake of peace she did what she was told. She swung her feet down and allowed him to take her good arm as she climbed out.

      “There.” He looked far too smug. “Now, where’s your keys?”

      “In my purse.” She slipped it off her shoulder and handed it to him.

      He looked at it as if it were about to explode.

      “You can open it,” Megan said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. “There’s nothing in there to bite you.”

      He sent her a scathing glance and opened the purse, dug out the keys, then handed it back to her. “All right. Which way?”

      She pointed to the main door. “Through there, up the stairs and take a left. Number twenty-four.”

      “Got it.” He took her good arm and guided her toward the door.

      A couple of young women passed them on the stairs. They both gave her bandaged arm a cursory glance, then a much more thorough and appreciative inspection of the man at her side.