The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

from having performed it so many times. Sipping the juice, she perched on one of two stools at the center island and watched him at the stove.

      “I hope eggs and toast are okay.” He glanced over his shoulder and nearly dropped the spatula at the sight of such a tousled, stunning woman in his kitchen. “I guess I should have asked.”

      “It’s fine. I don’t do whacked-out diets or lament about animal rights. I just eat.”

      “I like that in a woman.”

      “I like a man who cooks.”

      They traded scorching hot glances until the scent of toast filled the air. He pulled it from the toaster and plated everything, then sat next to her at the island.

      This was the first time he’d eaten a meal with a woman in...too long to recall. He’d missed the simple pleasure of awaking to warm female, of sharing a bathroom. Laughing and making love whenever the mood struck.

      He missed being married, more than he’d realized. No amount of wishing, cursing, grieving or wandering could bring Amber back, though he’d irrationally tried it all. He could only embrace what was possible.

      “So,” he said after swallowing a bite of toast. “Do you have plans for the weekend?”

      “It’s Wednesday. The weekend is a long way off.”

      At home, his calendar filled months in advance and he lived by his schedule. In Venice, he’d learned calendars were a dirty word, which he still hadn’t adjusted to. “I’d like to see you again. Maybe go on a date.”

      He definitely wasn’t done with what Evangeline made him feel.

      She put her fork down with all the fanfare of a royal announcement. “I’m not so big on dating.”

      “Oh.” The brush-off. Apparently he was rustier at this than he’d realized, because he’d have sworn they had something going on here. “What are you big on?”

      Her gravelly laugh surprised him. “You.”

      “Uh, okay.” To stall, he shoveled food into his mouth and chewed slowly. His wits did not gather. “Can I assume you are that into me then?”

      “Matt.” She sighed, and it didn’t reassure him. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time. But—”

      “Why does there have to be a but? I’m the best thing. Roll with that.” He encouraged her with a finger twirl, unable to keep the grin off his face.

      Negotiation time—his best skill. She was in for a surprise if she thought there was a chance in hell he was letting her get away.

      Shoulders slumped, she stared at her plate for a long time. “What if I said I’d like to see you again too, but here? At your house?”

      Her body language told him volumes about the importance of his answer.

      He shrugged. “The last time I dated, dinosaurs roamed the earth. I’m not so big on it, either. I just want to see you. When? Pick a day that works for your life.”

      A firm commitment would settle the uneasiness prickling his spine quite well.

      When she looked up from her plate, tears had gathered and one slid down her face. A giant fist clenched his gut as she wiped away the tear.

      “I don’t have a life,” she whispered.

      “Evangeline...” What was he supposed to do? Say? Feel?

      Instinctively, he slid from the stool, gathered her into his arms and held her, mystified, but happy to be doing something. She melted into him, her hands clutching his shoulders as if she couldn’t get close enough, and he ached over her unidentified agony.

      “I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall apart in the middle of being asked out on a date.” Her watery chuckle gave him hope things hadn’t gone entirely to hell.

      “I’m not asking you out on a date. No, ma’am. I have it on good authority you aren’t big on dates. I’m asking you to my house for...dinner?” he offered, praying that would get a thumbs-up. “I’ll cook.”

      “Dinner would be nice,” she said into his shoulder. “Tonight. Tomorrow night. Any night.”

      “Tonight. In fact, just stay,” he said, voicing the invitation he should have issued from the outset. This place needed her light. He needed it. “Unless you’re sick of me or need to go hang out with Vincenzo since you’re his guest.”

      “Vincenzo is probably sleeping off his hangover and won’t notice if I’m there or not.”

      The forlorn note clinched it. Unless he’d completely lost his marbles, she wasn’t ready to say ciao, either.

      “I’ll definitely notice if you’re here or not. Italian TV leaves a lot to be desired, and I’d rather be with you. Spend another night, or better yet, through the weekend.” The words rushed out before he’d hardly formed the thought, but the relevance of it, the weight of what he asked, was already there, inside him. He’d finally woken up from an eighteen-month stupor, and there was no way he’d let it end. “Will you stay?”

      She hesitated, lids closed in apparent indecision. When she opened her eyes, the flicker in their depths warned him something he might not like was about to happen.

      “Why haven’t you asked me about my voice?”

      He blinked. “Was I supposed to?”

      “It’s damaged. Aren’t you curious? You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

      Damaged? It hadn’t always been that way? “You noticed my hands and I noticed your voice. I love your voice. It’s one of the sexiest things about you.”

      “It’s not sexy. It’s horrific, like a sixty-year old with a four-pack-a-day habit.”

      He laughed, but it didn’t sound like he was amused. Because he wasn’t. “That’s ridiculous. Your voice is unusual. That’s what makes it special. When you say my name, it latches onto me, right here.” He grasped her hand and slapped it to his stomach. “I love that. I love that you can affect me by speaking.”

      She pulled her hand free. “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

      Frustrated, he shoved fingers through his hair. He’d invited her to draw out their one night, not solve world hunger—couldn’t it be a simple yes or no?

      “Fine. Evangeline, what happened to your voice?”

      “When you sing a lot, polyps grow on your vocal cords. Sometimes they rupture. It requires a special expertise to perform the surgery to fix it. Adele had a good doctor. I didn’t.”

      His brain nearly curdled at the lightning-fast subject change. “What’s a lot? Like you sang professionally, you mean?”

      “Yeah. Professionally. A lot.” Her eyes searched his, hesitating, evaluating, and he got the impression she was feeling him out. They were still very much in the throes of negotiation, and he couldn’t stumble now.

      “No false pretenses,” she said. “If I stay, I need you to know. When I sang, it was by another name. Eva.”

      “Eva.”

      The name flashed an image in his mind of the woman before him, but transformed into a lush, heavily made-up singer on stage in a tiny gold dress, with a hundred dancers weaving around behind her.

      “Eva-who-performed-at-the-Super Bowl-Eva?”

      She nodded, expression graveyard still as she waited for his reaction.

      “Is that supposed to scare me?”

      “I don’t know what it’s supposed to do. I just couldn’t stand it being between us.”

      Matthew went cold. “Are you disappointed I didn’t recognize you?”