At The Playboy's Command: Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress. Robyn Grady

of his design rolled through his head, his thoughts working through the exterior structure then the overly rustic properties of each room. He could see where he’d gone wrong now.

      “Too many textures and dimensions harking back to the good ol’ days,” he admitted. “Too stereotypical.”

      Damn it, too cheesy. His fingertip began to draw geometrical shapes over the counter. Helped him to think.

      “I get that the committee wants to retain the club’s original flavor,” he went on, “while positioning it firmly in the twenty-first century. I need to find that balance.”

      Elizabeth rounded the timber counter and didn’t stop until her heavenly scent had claimed his personal space and was hijacking his bloodstream. The impulse to edge closer and breathe a little deeper was something he had to work at to contain.

      An eyebrow arched, she rested her crystal flute on her chin while those dazzling smoky-shadowed eyes searched his. “You sound as if you might have a few ideas.”

      “Earlier today, so did you.”

      “I confess, I do possess a fascination for design.”

      “You studied it?”

      “Not officially.”

      She rotated to lean back against the counter. With her weight preferring one shapely leg, elbows propped up on the counter on either side, she looked so sultry, so classic … Hell, if he’d been an artist, he’d have begged for an easel and brush.

      “I have majors in psychology and literature,” she told him.

      “I’d have guessed a business degree would’ve been the logical choice, given one day you’d be running all this.”

      Besides other things, when he’d inquired, Abigail had told him Elizabeth was an only child.

      Some of the light in her eyes waned at the same time her gaze dropped to the original polished timber at her feet. “I wasn’t that interested in the ranch back then. When my folks passed away, I began to see things differently. There’s always time for more study.”

      He set his glass carefully down. “Abigail mentioned about your parents.” A tragic automobile accident. “I’m sorry.”

      She nodded then shucked back her slender shoulders. “How about you, Mr. Warren? Do you have family?”

      Daniel’s insides knotted. Given the thread of their conversation, it was an obvious question. Now he would avoid giving a straight answer, because he didn’t discuss that facet of his life. His past. Not with anyone.

      Before he could maneuver the conversation in another direction, they were interrupted.

      “Sorry to barge in, folks.”

      Daniel rotated toward the accented female voice. A woman, late sixties in a printed apron and matching slippers, was taking her time crossing the room.

      “Just wanta say,” the woman said, peering at Daniel through lenses that covered a good deal of her face, “dinner’s on the table.”

      Elizabeth moved to join her. “Nita Ramirez, this is Mr. Warren. The architect from New York City I told you about.”

      “Please, Elizabeth, Nita, the name’s Daniel.” Making his way over, he extended a hand, which Nita Ramirez readily shook—and for quite a time. “I hear you’re a fabulous talent in the kitchen,” Daniel added.

      Nita patted her jet-black shoulder-length hair. “That compliment’ll earn you a second helping of my specialty dessert, Daniel. How does caramel apple cheesecake sound?”

      He almost licked his lips. “My sweet tooth and I can hardly wait.”

      Pleased, Nita sent over a hearty wink then spoke to Elizabeth. “Dining room’s all set, Beth. I set a match to the fire, too.”

      As Nita strolled off, Elizabeth offered her arm to her guest. “I sure hope you’re hungry.”

      At the end of the meal, Elizabeth dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, to hide her grin more than anything. A man of Daniel’s means would dine at the best restaurants around the world, and while guests regularly swooned over Nita’s culinary triumphs, her current guest’s reaction to rib eye roast and baked potato salad was priceless. No question. Daniel Warren appreciated good home cooking.

      “I’m sure there’s more,” Elizabeth offered, “if you can fit it in.”

      He set his knife and fork down on the gravy-smeared plate. “I’m tempted. But I need room for that dessert.”

      “Be warned. Caramel apple cheesecake is addictive.”

      “I’m an advocate of the saying, you can never have too much of a good thing.”

      When his gaze held hers a moment longer than was necessary, heat climbed up Elizabeth’s neck and she had to drop her gaze, catch her breath. She wasn’t one to titter. She didn’t normally blush like a schoolgirl when a man flirted. But, sitting here with Daniel, she felt something new, unexpected and highly pleasurable playing tag with her senses.

      As they’d talked through dinner—about music, politics, how cool the weather was for this time of year—her awareness of every facet of his presence had grown until the buzz she’d felt from the moment they’d met had cranked up to high. Whenever he looked at her the way he had just now, all over her skin, through her blood, she tingled. Frankly, she wanted to surrender to a long sigh and fan herself.

      With Daniel Warren she felt as much like a teenage girl as a woman.

      When the tips of her breasts began to harden and heat, clearing her thoughts, Elizabeth set down her napkin and inhaled a leveling breath. Get back on track. He was looking forward to dessert.

      “I’m guessing you don’t cook,” she said, fighting the urge to cross her arms, contain that heat.

      “Not much.” Sheepish, he tugged his ear. “Not at all.”

      “And there I was, imagining you sweating over a gas cooker, tossing the escargot.”

      His mouth turned down. “You like snails?”

      “I’ve indulged, but only when I visit a particular café on the Rue de la Villette.” As his eyebrows knitted and he gave a curious grin, she cocked her head. “You’ve been to Paris?”

      “Me? Sure. Beautiful city. Although it’s always good to get back home.”

      “To the States?”

      “To New York.”

      Elizabeth almost forgot herself and frowned. Nothing wrong with being precise. Still, if she hadn’t known better, she might think that reply was pointed. That perhaps Abigail had clued him up on more than her parents’ misfortune. That she might have confided in her situation with regard to that condition of their will.

      Which was crazy. Abigail wouldn’t break that kind of confidence, and he couldn’t have found out anywhere else—Chad Tremain, for example. Obviously her thoughts—those sensations he stirred—were running away on her, filling her head with fancies.

      Elizabeth set her mind back on the conversation.

      “New York has some incredible restaurants.”

      He ran an appreciative eye over his plate. “None that serve food like that.”

      “Is your mother a good cook?”

      His smile froze for a heartbeat before he reached for his wine. “Mom could cook.”

      “Do your parents still live in Carolina?”

      “No.” He pushed back his chair and glanced around as he took a mouthful of red and swallowed. “The decor in here is interesting.”

      “Early American,” she replied, thinking not of furniture but the fact he’d