High Stakes. Barbara Dunlop

dark flood of sensuality instantly filled her senses. Derek might be pompous and overbearing, but he was also sexy as sin. Her thighs tingled under his fingers. Her body softened and resistance was replaced by desire.

      Too soon, he set her down on the tile floor. As his hand left the small of her back, a taut gaze passed between them, weakening her knees. Her breath stopped for a split second. But then he blinked, and his expression neutralized.

      Turning abruptly, he headed for the walk-in freezer, grabbing the lever handle and yanking it forward. The heavy door groaned open, and he flipped the light switch and stepped inside.

      Candice followed more slowly, forcing herself to shake off the unsettling feelings. A few seconds of fantasy was one thing, but this was Derek. Derek.

      He was everything her mother had warned her against—an entrepreneurial shark who only existed to make money and gain power. He ate women like her for lunch.

      “Let’s scope out our choices,” he said from inside the freezer. “Filet mignon, rack of lamb, sockeye salmon, baby back ribs…”

      She rubbed her shoulders and curled her toes against the chill of the floor as she gazed at the packed shelves lining the freezer room’s walls. “You know how to cook all this stuff?”

      “Sure. Don’t you?”

      Growing up with both a cook and housekeeper on staff had left some definite shortcomings in Candice’s homemaking skills. “I’m pretty good with a microwave.”

      Derek gave her a disapproving frown. “You survive on processed food?”

      “Not always.” Her teeth chattered for a second. “When I visit my parents, Anna-Leigh sends care packages home with me.”

      “That’s pathetic.” He shrugged out of his tux jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

      She shook her head, pushing it off. This was getting way too cozy.

      His hands held it firm against her shoulder. “Don’t be stupid.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Your teeth are chattering.”

      “We’re in a freezer.”

      He sighed heavily. “Do you have to be so stubborn?”

      “Do you have to be so stubborn?”

      “You wear my coat, I’ll make you dinner.”

      “That’s—”

      “A deal?”

      “Fine.” She pushed her arms into the sleeves and wrapped the big jacket around her. She had to admit, the body heat lingering in the soft lining felt like heaven. The weight of the fabric pushed comfortingly down on her shoulders.

      He flicked open the buttons on his white shirt cuffs and rolled the sleeves over his forearms. Then he moved farther into the hallway-like freezer. “You can’t even cook a steak?”

      “I don’t like steak.”

      “What do you like?”

      “Seafood.”

      “Hmm.” Derek took a few more steps down the shelves.

      She stayed put near the open freezer door, soaking up every whiff of warm air that crept in from the kitchen.

      He smiled, retrieving a couple of plastic packages. “Lobster ought to do it. You check the refrigerator for butter. I’ll light the grill.”

      “You’re going to cook lobster?” Not that she was an expert, but lobster sounded even trickier than steak.

      “You bet.” He hustled her out of the freezer and closed the door behind them.

      She rubbed one cold, stocking-covered foot against the opposite calf, trying not to feel outclassed. “Didn’t you have a cook when you were a kid?”

      “Sure we did. Doesn’t mean I can’t read a recipe book. Go into the fridge and get me some butter, and…” He glanced around the kitchen. It was cluttered with crates and boxes full of new equipment. None had been unpacked yet, since the bulk of the work so far had been in the dining room.

      “Never mind,” he continued. “I’ll find the spices.”

      By the time Candice got back from the walk-in refrigerator, Derek had the grill flaming and he was stirring a pot on the big stovetop.

      “What’s that?” She peered around his shoulder, sniffing at the mixture.

      “Chocolate.”

      “You’re making chocolate lobster?” Maybe he’d overstated his cooking expertise.

      He grinned. “Chocolate mousse for dessert.”

      “No way.” She did cake from a mix sometimes, brownies on an adventurous day.

      He slanted her an accusatory look. “Your faith in me is not particularly inspiring.”

      “But, you always act like such a pampered, spoiled…” Candice bit her lower lip. Here the man was making her a fabulous dinner, and she was insulting him.

      “Don’t jump to conclusions about people,” he said softly.

      “Considering how much time we’ve spent together over the past three months, I didn’t think it was jumping.” Culinary expertise aside, she had ample evidence to back up the fact that he was pampered and spoiled.

      He adjusted the flame under the open grill, then flipped a switch to start an exhaust fan above it. “It takes two to tango.”

      Candice stilled for a split second, overtaken by an image of tangoing with Derek, right here, right now, on the dining room floor. She shook it away. The fact that he could cook didn’t make him any less dangerous.

      “You argued with me over the wood stain,” she pointed out.

      “You argued right back.”

      He was right, but she knew you couldn’t give an inch with Derek. And it wasn’t quite the same thing.

      “Honey gloss?” she scoffed. “Natural satin blends with the entire theme, and it’s only a halftone off the color you’re fighting to the death for.”

      Derek slowly stirred the pot of melting chocolate. “And honey gloss is only a halftone off the color you’re fighting to the death for.”

      Candice compressed her lips. “It’s not the same thing.”

      “It’s exactly the same thing.”

      He just didn’t get it. Natural satin was part of a complex color design. His honey gloss was merely an uninformed, untrained whim.

      Or else he was being obstinate. Quite frankly, she suspected the latter. “What about the wainscoting?” What was his excuse for that?

      “Your choice is what? A quarter of an inch wider than mine.” He unwrapped the lobster tails and set them on the grill. Then he swiftly set out a small pot of butter to melt.

      “I’m going for authenticity. Believe me, it makes a difference.” She watched his quick, clean movements. “You need some help with that?”

      “I’m fine.” He crossed the room and retrieved a basting brush from a cutlery drawer. “It makes a whole quarter of an inch difference,” he said as he walked back toward her, brandishing the brush for emphasis. “Not to mention several thousand dollars.”

      “Thanks for not mentioning that.”

      “No problem.” He swirled the brush in the melting butter.

      “Why do you care so much?” she asked.

      “Why do you care so much?” he countered.

      “I’m the decorator. It’s my job to worry about the