Lead Me Home

“Pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand, which was engulfed by his much larger one.

His handshake was warm, and so was his smile. “Same here. I asked Sarah if you might have some leftovers for me. I haven’t eaten much all day.”

She’d seldom taken such an instant liking to someone, but Matthew had the square-jawed look of a man a girl could count on. “I’ll be happy to fix you something.” She couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off her face, either. Her girlfriends had talked about instant sexual chemistry, but she’d thought they were imagining things because she’d never felt it before. In less than sixty seconds, Matthew Tredway had made a believer out of her.

Too bad she and Matthew were both only temporarily in the same place, but at least now she understood what her friends back home had been talking about. It really was like being struck by lightning, as evidenced by her pounding heart.

Before she’d fully processed her feelings, a commotion erupted in the main part of the house. Young male laughter and good-natured taunts, coupled with the sound of feet thumping on the stairs to the second floor, indicated the teenagers had returned from town.

Sarah glanced at Matthew and Aurelia. “If you two will excuse me, I’d better go check on the kids.”

And Pete. Aurelia got such a kick out of watching the sixty-something couple. Anyone would think they were teenagers themselves as they held hands and shared a brief kiss now and then. Sarah had been widowed nearly three years ago, and her sons seemed happy that she’d found someone like Pete.

As Sarah headed out of the kitchen, Aurelia remembered her duties as the ranch cook. “Do you think the boys will want an evening snack? I have some roasted figs left.”

Sarah turned back to her. “If I know Pete, he bought them all a slice of homemade pie at the diner, so I think they’re set for the night. Thanks, though.”

“Just wanted to make sure.”

“I’d take some of those roasted figs,” Matthew said.

Aurelia glanced at him. “Not until you’ve had a proper meal.” When Matthew laughed, she realized how anal that had sounded. “Sorry, I’ve been dealing with teenagers for a week. If you want dessert first, you certainly can have it.”

“That’s okay.” His smile creased his tanned cheeks. “I’ll wait on the figs.”

She had the insane urge to stand on tiptoe, clutch that smiling face, and plant one right on his gorgeous mouth. He was way too handsome for his own good.

But kissing him after knowing him for five minutes wasn’t a great idea. Instead she walked over and clicked the oven knob before opening the industrial-sized refrigerator. “Then I’ll warm up the leftover brochettes aux rognons, de foie et lardons we had for lunch.”

“My French is pretty sparse, but I think I’ve had that before.”

She turned, the foil-covered platter in her hand, and stared at him. “You have? I’ve never met anyone who’s eaten it before.”

“Tell me what’s in it and I’ll know for sure.”

“Kidneys, liver and bacon on a skewer.”

Matthew nodded. “That was my guess. Sounds great.”

“Where did you have it?” Now she was nervous. Maybe the version he’d eaten had been better than what she’d fixed today.

“A restaurant on the Left Bank.”

“In Paris?” Now she was really nervous.

“Yes. Ever been to France?”

“No. I’m not really into travel.”

“You’re not? Why?”

She shrugged. “I like the comforts of home too much, I guess. Traveling just doesn’t appeal to me.”

“But you could sample the food cooked by natives.”

“I’d rather try making it at home myself.” She wished she’d offered him something else, but too late for that now. Transferring several skewers to a baking dish, she flicked on the oven and slid the dish inside to heat. “But since I’ve never tasted the real thing like you have, my version may not be what you’re used to.”

“I’m sure it’ll be terrific.”

“I hope so. Reheated won’t be quite the same as when they were first broiled.” She gathered up her cookbooks so he’d have a place to eat. “Go ahead and sit.” Then she had an inspiration. “Would you like some wine? It’s not French, but Sarah always keeps some good California reds on hand.”

“Only if you’ll have a glass with me.”

“Well … okay.” She knew Sarah wouldn’t mind. She’d have a little, to be hospitable. “Be right back.” She opened the door to the walk-in pantry and ducked inside. Once there, she dithered over the wine selection, trying to imagine what a man who’d been to Paris would prefer.

“Want me to pick one?” Matthew walked into the pantry and the space instantly shrank.

“Um, sure. That makes sense.” She stepped away from the wine rack, but there really wasn’t anywhere to go. Once he moved in front of it, they were practically touching. The small space filled with his scent—a crisp, manly aroma that jacked up her pulse rate.

She became aware of his steady breathing as he pulled out a couple of bottles, checked the labels and moved on. She was afraid they weren’t to his liking. “I know it’s not a huge selection.”

“No, it’s great! I just don’t want to drink up the pricey stuff.”

“But you should! Take the most expensive bottle! From the way everyone’s talked about you, they’d be honored for you to have it.”

“I don’t know what they’ve said, but the truth of the matter is that I’m an ordinary guy who can drink six-dollar wine and be perfectly happy. Here we go.” He pulled out a bottle and showed it to her. “This will do fine.”

She took a shaky breath and hoped he couldn’t tell how his nearness affected her. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” He gestured toward the pantry door. “After you, mademoiselle.”

Dear God, he even said it with a French accent. She brushed past him, aware of every point of contact with his solid body. She couldn’t tell if he was attracted to her, too, but it really didn’t matter.

He was here to train a horse and he’d spend his evenings at the bunkhouse, according to what Sarah had said. Tonight might be the only time she’d be alone with him for the rest of his stay. Considering they were from completely different worlds, that was probably for the best.

2

SHE WAS DYNAMITE, the ultimate definition of the word hot. Matthew wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d walked into the kitchen to meet Aurelia Imogene Smith, but it certainly hadn’t been a blonde with a drop-dead figure and eyes that sparkled like dew on spring leaves.

He understood immediately why nobody had criticized her food. Besides being great to look at, she was earnest about her job and achingly vulnerable in her need for validation. Telling her that most everyone hated her food would be mean.

He uncorked the wine and poured them each a glass.

“How about a salad?” she asked.

“Sounds good. Want help?”

“No, thanks. Go ahead and sit down. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He took a seat at the table while she put together greens of various types with efficient motions that told him she was no novice in the kitchen. She didn’t ask him the ranch-or-thousand-island question, either. Instead she mixed up some vinegar, olive oil and spices before tossing it with the greens.

So far he was inclined to think she was the real deal and the cowboys didn’t have the kind of educated palate to appreciate her efforts. Still, he mentally crossed his fingers.

If the food was good, he’d have an easier task correcting the situation. If it was bad, he’d have to get creative. But that wasn’t his only issue and probably not his biggest hurdle. Aurelia Imogene Smith turned him on.

His intense physical reaction to her defied logic. He’d dated a string of international beauties, skinny supermodels and jet-setters whose lifestyles mirrored his and who thought a man who trained horses was sexy. He didn’t get that, although one girlfriend had taken great pains to explain that a man astride a horse evoked knights in armor and good guys in white hats, which appealed to women who craved romance.

Fortunately not all women who craved romance wanted permanence. Matthew had focused on a certain kind of woman—rootless, well-traveled, sophisticated and definitely tall because he liked that attribute. He was at the height of his career and had no intention of changing anything about his life.

Maybe someday, when he was tired of traveling or the offers stopped coming, he’d use the money he’d stashed away to buy a ranch and settle down. But until that time, he sought women who had the same rolling-stone philosophy as his own. Less chance of a broken heart that way.

Aurelia didn’t fit the profile. He could tell from the way she’d reacted to his comment about Paris that she’d never been there. He’d be willing to bet she hadn’t traveled much at all.

Her outfit—a white cotton peasant blouse over jeans and athletic shoes on her feet—suggested she wasn’t particularly sophisticated, either. As for her height, he’d be amazed if she was much over five foot five. She was nothing like his usual girlfriends, and the total opposite of Elsa, the Swedish supermodel he’d broken up with a month ago.

And yet, from the moment he’d walked into the kitchen, he’d been assaulted by images of rolling naked with her on a mattress. The intensity of his reaction embarrassed him. He considered himself an evolved man who appreciated women for their minds as well as their bodies.

But if he were honest with himself, he didn’t much care what was going on in Aurelia’s mind. He just wanted to get his hands on her. That was unacceptable and he wouldn’t follow through on the urge, but it was there, a humbling reminder that he wasn’t quite as evolved as he liked to think.

Taking the baking dish from the oven, she transferred the meat from the skewers to a plate that already held a mound of salad. As she handed him the plate, he got a brief glimpse of cleavage. His johnson stirred, seeking Aurelia the way a divining rod seeks water. He ignored that unmannerly response and breathed in the aroma of the food, which smelled promising.

She pointed a finger at him. “Napkin. You need a napkin.” Hurrying to one of the drawers in the array of oak cabinets, she pulled out a hunter-green cloth napkin and handed it to him.

“Thanks, but I can use paper.”

“Not in this house. Sarah believes paper napkins have eroded the elegance of the dining experience, not to mention cluttering up the landfill, so it’s a rare occasion when she allows them.”

“I respect that view.” Matthew spread the napkin across his thighs. “This looks and smells delicious.”

“Like I said, I’m not a trained chef. I just like to cook.” She sat across from him, her expression anxious.

He raised his wineglass, which he hadn’t touched because he’d been waiting for her to sit down. “Here’s to your passion for cooking.”

“I guess I can drink to that. It has brought me pleasure over the years.” She touched the rim of her glass to his and took a sip of her wine.

He followed suit before setting the glass down and picking up his fork. He could feel her apprehension from across the table and knew that even if the food tasted like swill, he’d praise it to the skies.

It didn’t taste like swill. Closing his eyes, he savored the first bite of gourmet food he’d eaten in some time. Then he looked at her. “This is awesome.”

The tension went out of her shoulders and her smile lit up the room. “Really? You’re not just saying that to be nice?”

“Hell, no. You have a gift, and I plan to enjoy it, so pardon me if I don’t make conversation for a few minutes.” He tucked back into the meal.

Her sigh was audible. “I’m so relieved. You know, I’m probably too sensitive, but I’ve had the feeling since I got here that not everyone loves my cooking. But, like I said, I’m probably imagining it.”

No, you’re not. But he said nothing. He had a mouthful of food, and besides, he hadn’t quite decided on his approach.

“I did see one of the kids smuggling his lunch into a plastic bag once, and I heard another one saying something about the dogs.”

“Mmm.” He couldn’t eat and talk, but he could eat and admire the way her shoulder-length blond hair caught the light from the lamp hanging over the kitchen table. That glorious hair would look terrific spread out on a pillow.

“I’ll bet the boys think it’s fun to give the ranch dogs a treat,” she said. “We’re not allowed to feed table scraps to Sarah’s bassett hound because he’s a couch potato. The other two, though, Butch and Sundance, get tons of exercise so a few handouts are okay. The kids are always playing with them.”

Matthew was beginning to come up with a strategy. He took another bite, partly because he liked the food immensely and partly because he’d read somewhere that chewing helped a person think.

But he took a moment between mouthfuls to get in a comment. “It seems a shame for wonderful food like this to be given to a dog.”

“They’re kids, and disadvantaged kids at that. They don’t know it’s special.”

“I’m not sure the cowboys do, either.” He forked up another portion.

“Maybe not, although they seem appreciative that I’m cooking for them, and the food all disappears, so they must like it okay.” She took a swallow of her wine.

He watched the movement of her lovely throat and imagined brushing it with his mouth, then nuzzling…. Hell. Just like that, he’d drifted from his charted course. He finished chewing and pulled his focus back to the problem. “If the ranch hands were better educated about food, they’d be raving.”

“Would they? I thought cowboys were the strong, silent type.”

“Not when it comes to food.”

She gazed at him, her green eyes serious. “Are you saying they really don’t like what I’m fixing?”

“I’m not saying that.” And he wouldn’t say it even if somebody shoved slivers under his fingernails. “I only have Jeb to go by, because he’s the one I talked to on the drive from the airport, but since he didn’t brag about the food here, I think it might be a little too sophisticated for his taste buds.”

“Hmm.” She took another sip of wine. “You could have a point.”

“But maybe it’s just Jeb.” He returned his attention to his plate.

“I don’t think so. Mary Lou left some recipes for me, but they were all so boring that I put them away. I know what you mean about the lack of enthusiasm from the cowboys, but I thought maybe they just didn’t care that much about what they ate.”

He thought of Jeb’s rant about how much he missed Mary Lou’s cooking. “I can understand why you’d get bored fixing the kind of food Mary Lou made. I’m guessing her recipes are for ordinary things like fried chicken, ribs, potato salad, stuff like that.”

“Exactly! From what I could tell, she’s been making the same kind of meals for years, and I thought everyone would like a change of pace.”

“That’s a good idea, but maybe it was too sharp a turn for them, considering they’ve probably never eaten gourmet food before.”

She nodded. “I can see that might be a possibility.”

“I have an idea for an experiment, if you’d like to hear it.” And boy, did he like this idea. He hoped she would.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“I know plain food and I know gourmet food, so I could be your consultant and taste-tester while I’m here. We could look for recipes that are fun for you, but give a nod to the sort of food the cowboys are more used to. And then we could see what happens.”

“That would be great, but I can’t believe you have time to spare. You’re here to work with Houdini, not help in the kitchen. I don’t think Sarah or the Chance men would go for it.”

He’d anticipated that argument. “I won’t be training Houdini at night. After several hours of work, we’ll need a break from each other.”

“Yes, and you’ll probably be exhausted.”

He smiled. If she only knew how much the prospect of spending time with her would revitalize him. “I might be physically tired at the end of the day, but all we’d be doing is going over recipes and planning menus.” He could imagine other activities, too, but he wouldn’t count on it. She might not be the least bit interested in him.

“I’d want you to clear it with Sarah, and make sure she knows it wasn’t something I asked for. They’ve been really good to me, and I don’t want them to think I asked for extra help.”

“I’ll check with Sarah, but I really doubt she’ll object.” He had a hunch she’d be overjoyed if he stepped in and made some menu adjustments. Pete Beckett might have taken the kids to the diner tonight to stave off a revolt.

Aurelia gazed at him. “You’re a very nice man, Matthew, to offer this when you probably should be relaxing down at the bunkhouse instead of coming up here to work.”

He felt a pang of guilt. Although his original intent had been to help the cowhands out of a jam, now the plan was mostly an excuse to hang around Aurelia and get to know her better. He wasn’t sure where that might lead, and he might be making a huge mistake.

She had home and hearth written all over her, and he couldn’t offer her anything along those lines right now. But maybe, despite outward appearances, she wasn’t looking for permanence. He’d never know unless he asked.

His plate was empty, and so was his wineglass. He should probably leave now. The boys in the bunkhouse expected him for a game of cards and he’d had a long day.

On the other hand, Aurelia had indicated a willingness to go along with his plan, and her cookbooks were still on the table. He glanced at them. “We could start tonight, if you want.”

“Tonight? Oh, no. You must be jet-lagged. Besides, I’ve already narrowed it down to either spinach soufflés or ratatouille for tomorrow, so I’m okay for the time being. If Sarah agrees, we can start tomorrow night.”

“I’m really not that tired.” Adrenaline had kicked in the moment he’d walked into the kitchen and caught sight of her. He hesitated. “Can I say something about your two options?”

She waved a hand. “Be my guest.”

“I’ve had many spinach soufflés, and I’m sure with your talent you’d turn out something amazing. But I’d argue against making that for tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“The color. To these guys, it’ll look like you baked a frog.”

She burst out laughing. “Okay, I can see you think like a cowboy. Apparently I don’t because I never would have thought of that.”

Her laughter charmed him. He was also impressed by her willingness to be flexible. “If you haven’t been around cowboys before, I don’t know how you could be expected to understand them.”

“But I need to, obviously.”

“That’s where I come in.”

“How about the ratatouille? I suppose that’s out because of the name. I doubt cowboys are fond of rats.”

“So don’t call it that. Call it vegetable stew.”

“And make it the authentic way?”

“Maybe not quite.” He shoved back his chair and picked up his plate. “Let’s have some more wine while we talk about how you can modify the recipe to make it more cowboy-friendly.”

“I’ll admit I’m intrigued.” She stood, too. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“I am if you are.”

“Okay, then. That book on the top of the pile has the ratatouille recipe in it. If you want to take a look, I’ll tidy up and bring out the baked figs.”

“Great.” Someone in his travels had told him that figs were beneficial to a man’s family jewels. Considering his state of mind, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate dessert for her to serve.

AURELIA COULDN’T TELL whether Matthew had offered his services because he was a good guy or because he found her attractive. A couple of times she’d noticed what could be a gleam of interest in his eyes, but it could also have been appreciation for her cooking. At least he liked that about her.

She quickly refrigerated the remaining food and put his plate in the commercial-sized dishwasher. When she glanced at the table, he was intently studying the ratatouille recipe. “I can warm up the figs or serve them cold with whipped cream. How would you like them?”

He glanced up. “Cold with whipped cream sounds good.”

“All right.” When he focused those blue eyes on her, she lost track of everything else.

She’d never licked whipped cream off a man’s body, but she wouldn’t mind licking it off his. She could imagine popping open the snaps on that blue denim shirt and squirting a trail of whipped cream down the middle of his chest toward an even more interesting part of his anatomy … oh, yeah. They could have fun times with a can of whipped cream.

He glanced down at his shirt. “Did I spill food on myself?”

Whoops. “No, no, I was just … wondering how you stay so fit.” Way to go, girl. Now he knows for sure that you were ogling his chest. Her cheeks grew hot. “I mean, it must be tough with all your traveling, and I know you love to eat, and …” Dear God, the more she explained, the worse it got.

Fortunately he looked more amused than offended. “The horses make sure I don’t get lazy and fat.”

“Well, that’s logical.” She struggled to remember what she’d been about to do that had started the whole whipped-cream fantasy. Oh, yes. Dessert.

“So go ahead and pile on the whipped cream. I’ll work it off.”

“Coming right up.” She turned quickly back to the counter and resisted the urge to fan herself. She’d just bet he could work it off, in any number of ways. Right now she was picturing how many calories they could burn if they got naked.

Taking a deep breath, she uncovered the leftover figs. Darned if those figs didn’t remind her of a certain part of the male anatomy. She hadn’t planned to have any, but she found herself dishing a couple for herself.

Normally she would have whipped the cream herself instead of using a commercial version, but making her own would take too long. For the sake of convenience, she grabbed the pressurized can that had been in the refrigerator when she’d arrived last week.

After a few quick shakes, she pressed her finger against the nozzle. She hadn’t used a can of whipped cream in years and she’d forgotten how much fun it was. She had to force herself to stop before she covered the figs completely.

Even then, she couldn’t resist spraying some on her finger and sucking it off before she put away the can. She had her finger in her mouth when she heard Matthew clear his throat. Turning, she met his gaze.

This time she had no doubt that the gleam in his eyes had nothing to do with her food and everything to do with her. Heat pooled low in her belly as his status changed from harmless crush to potential lover. Ah, but that was a bad idea, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been brought over from Nebraska to get horizontal with the horse trainer.

Perhaps he had the same thought, because he broke eye contact and looked down at the cookbook. “I think you should lose the eggplant.” His voice was husky.

She was so focused on the undertone of lust that it took her a couple of seconds to register what he’d said and muster a protest. “Eggplant is the whole point to ratatouille.” She returned the whipped cream to the refrigerator, pulled spoons out of the utensil drawer, and brought the two dishes of figs over to the table.

He cleared his throat again. “I realize that, but eggplant’s a tricky vegetable when it comes to cowboys. They might accept it breaded and fried in eggplant parmesan, but I’m not sure they’ll take to it in a stew.”

“So ratatouille without the eggplant.” She sat next to him because the idea had been to study the recipe together. “Maybe I should fix something else, instead.” His warmth and his scent reached out to her.

“No, I think this will work.” He pulled his dish of figs closer. “Thanks for fixing this.”

“You’re welcome.” She cut through the whipped cream with her spoon and scooped up a bite of fig and cream. Sitting within easy touching distance of him made her tremble, and she took another calming breath. She didn’t want to drop the mouthful of dessert in her lap.