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  But Mia Hayward owned a run-down, two-hundred-year-old, weed-infested property in the wilds of Louisiana. Here, her net worth wasn’t relevant, to him or anyone else.

  Now she wore clothes bought at a store that also sold produce and cat food, and she’d had her waist-length hair chopped off at a walk-in chain salon. They’d done a crappy job. One side was longer than the other. Not in an avant-garde way, just a bad haircut. She kinda liked the way the messy, piecy style framed her face. It was different for her, not perfect, but fun.

  If anyone had told her three months ago that she’d be clean-faced, wearing inexpensive, off-the-rack shorts, and loving the freedom it gave her to do these things, she wouldn’t have believed them. It was just starting to sink in that she wasn’t living her real life.

  She didn’t have to wake up at five, work out for an hour in her home gym with her trainer, and get her hair and makeup done while her staff prepped her for her day via teleconferences from around the world. She didn’t have to hurry downstairs where her personal chef had a hot breakfast waiting for her. In her real life, she’d have to catch up with the news, make telephone calls, tackle urgent emails in the car, and be at her desk at Blush headquarters by eight thirty sharp.

  She had never woken to find herself spread-eagled and naked on the kitchen table.

  Mia Hayward’s life was starting to get interesting.

  “The bacon’s frozen. Should I defrost it, or pass?” She should pass. As much as she loved bacon, at home she only allowed herself two strips once a month.

  “Defrost in the microwave.”

  The microwave was in the cabinet beside the stove, necessitating her walking up right beside him. She popped the door to the microwave and shoved the package in. “High?”

  “Defrost. You really don’t know your way around a kitchen, do you?”

  “I eat out a lot.” Banquet-style meals, dinner meetings at upscale restaurants, or home with her personal chef.

  “Come and watch.”

  Leaning her hip against a nearby counter, eager to watch. Him, not him cooking. Mia put her hands behind her, then realized it was the gesture of a three-year-old and stuck her fingertips in her front pockets of her shorts instead. She was almost as fascinated by her response to Cruz as she was by Cruz himself.

  “Closer.”

  “I can see just fine from here.”

  “Hands-on cooking can be a very sensual experience. What’s the matter? Scared?”

  Heart pounding a little too fast for a cooking lesson, Mia raised a mocking brow. “Of an egg?” She didn’t move, but he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against his body, his hard front pressed to her back. She stood trapped between his heat and the stove. She stiffened. “I’ll get burned.” In more ways than one.

  “I won’t let anything hurt you. Turn the burner to low. We’re going to do this nice and slow. French-style scrambled eggs must be seduced slowly.”

  Her legs felt as insubstantial as jelly as she felt the hard length of his penis in the crack of her ass through the thin cotton of her shorts. Hot all over, all her nerve endings feeling exposed, Mia turned the knob on the stove as if hypnotized.

  Why did he smell so damn good? As far as she was aware, he wore no cologne. Just sexy, soapy-clean male skin. Her brain darted to an image of him standing in the shower, a slow trail of foamy white soapsuds drizzling down his slick, wet body as slowly as a glacier, then pausing, like the yummy frosting on a cake, on the hard ridge of his—

  Mia blinked the stove back into focus. Holy crap! Get a grip!

  He reached around her, his arm brushing her breast, to adjust the knob on the stove.

  Mia put a palm over the warm burner. “That low?” she asked dubiously. It was barely on. They’d be there all day waiting for breakfast at this rate, and she’d melt into a drooling puddle of lust before an egg was cracked.

  His voice, husky and low, was right beside her ear. “As low as it can go.”

  “Won’t it take forever to cook the . . . the . . .” What the hell were they cooking? “Eggs?”

  “What’s your hurry?” His arms came around to cage her against him, one large hand flat on her belly. The heat of his fingers seared right through her cotton T-shirt, making Mia hot, then cold, then hot again. “Stand on your toes.” He waited until she did so before pressing her against his erection with the flat of his large hand low on her belly. “Put the pan on so it heats up slowly.”

  Slightly off balance and all thumbs, Mia fumbled to get a grip on the skillet while he held her immobile, deft fingers opening the top button of her shorts. Surely he wasn’t . . . She wrestled the pan two-handed onto the burner with a loud clatter, so distracted she could barely see, let alone get a grip on the heavy pan.

  Nuzzling her neck, he grazed his teeth along her nape. “Grab the bowl.” When he sank his teeth into her earlobe, sparks zinged directly between her legs. His hot breath made her shiver, and moisture pooled where those hot sparks sizzled. She bit back a moan. She should be galvanized into action. One of them had to be sensible. She stood inches from a hot stovetop. She’d get burned—just because she was captivated by the man seducing her. The kitchen was no place for sex. That’s what her bed was for.

  Six eggs clattered inside the glass bowl as she dragged it closer to the stove. Her movement rubbed her butt enticingly against his erection.

  “Maybe we should take this upstai—”

  He bit her nape hard enough for her to yelp, more with surprise than pain. Although, damn him, it stung.

  “Take them out,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t just assaulted her. “Careful so they don’t roll off the counter.” He licked the sting, which made her shiver, and forget what point she’d been trying to make. “Okay. Now break them— No. Not like that. Here, let me show you.” He demonstrated with one hand, deftly breaking the shell in two, then dropping golden yolk and glistening egg white into the bottom of the bowl. “Now you try. Use both hands. Crack it on the side of the bowl—gently! That’s it. Now the rest. That’ll work. Here, use the shell to get out the broken bits.”

  He slid the towel off his shoulder to wipe his hands in front of her, then tossed it on the counter and slid his fingers under her shirt to rest over her belly again. Oh, God. Bare skin to bare skin. His fingers felt rough and cool on the smooth skin of her belly. Her skin was on fire.

  Her hands weren’t exactly steady, so there were a lot of broken shells in the mixture. It took awhile.

  “That’s good.” He wiped her fingers on a dishcloth. “Drop those cubes of butter into the pan so they can melt while we deal with the eggs.” His other hand skimmed under her shirt, then unfastened the front clasp of her bra.

  “Damn it, you studied for this test,” she said on a half laugh, half sob, as his fingers curled around to cup her breast. His lips feathered down the back of her neck. “With Misty Rosetree as incentive, I practiced on my pillow for weeks when I was in eighth grade.”

  The damp warmth of his tongue teased her skin as he squeezed her nipple until it became a hard, tight bud. The sensation shot directly between her legs, where she was already wet and pulsing. “It”—Mia blinked her fuzzy vision clear—“paid off.”

  “By the time I was proficient . . .” he murmured, as if in casual conversation—as if his fingers weren’t skimming under her skimpy bikini panties so that her entire body buzzed—“she’d started dating the quarterback.”

  “Her . . .” He combed his fingers through her pubic hair. Mia’s face flushed. She hadn’t had a Brazilian in months. He must think her prehistoric—“loss.”

  “Christ, your damp silk is a turn-on.”

  Mia blinked, instinctively canting her hips so his finger would get more serious. Instead he stroked and petted until her back teeth hurt. “This is like finding diamonds when I expected silver. Grab those two forks and hold them like . . . this.” He removed the fingers toying with her nipple to demonstrate how to grip them in a hand with no motor functions beca
use all her attention was focused on the sensation of the fingers of his right hand down her shorts.

  “Now whisk.”

  He tilted the glass bowl, letting the eggs slide slowly into the sizzling butter in the warm pan. “Add salt and pepper. A bit more.”

  A finger glided in the wetness and Mia bit back a small moan as he inserted just his fingertip into the seam. Everything inside her coiled. Tighter and tighter.

  He kissed her throat, inserting two fingers all the way, as he whispered, “Don’t come,” right in her ear.

  “Don’t—” As she started spasming around his fingers, he withdrew his hand, so his touch was on the swollen folds of her sex, butterfly-light. Mia thrust her hips forward but, off balance, she teetered and grabbed for his wrist.

  “Pick up the spatula and fold. Don’t stop, just keep them moving around slowly. That’s it.” Three fingers curved deep inside her, not changing rhythm as her muscles clenched unbearably. His fingers withdrew, leaving her teetering on the very edge of a climax.

  Mia tried to think of something else as her body screamed and begged for release. Scrambling eggs wasn’t complicated, she thought desperately, tightening her thighs to trap his hand. But then, she’d only ever eaten them, never watched their preparation. And never with a man finger-fucking her.

  Dear God. Breakfast would never be about food again, not with this memory hitting her whenever anyone mentioned eggs.

  Every time she was just about to crash over the edge, he withdrew his fingers to give her another instruction on whatever the hell was in front of her. Commanding her to focus, commanding her not to come.

  “You know,” she snapped when he withdrew his fingers yet again, “I don’t do instructions well. I can leave you to your devil eggs and run upstairs and . . . and . . . Oh, God—” She squeezed her eyes shut as he twirled his fingers deep inside of her, the exquisite sensation of release hovering like a dewdrop shivering on the edge of a leaf.

  “Don’t.” He bit lightly at the tendon standing out in her neck, and she shuddered so damn hard that she dropped the spatula onto the stovetop with a clatter.

  “Pick it up. Then bacon in the oven.” Cruz gave her maddeningly detailed instructions on how to lay it out, and what freaking temperature to set the oven.

  She. Did. Not. Care!

  He didn’t step back, so when she bent over to open the door and shove the baking sheet inside, he was right there. The long, hard ridge of his penis pressed against the crack in her ass.

  There.

  But not.

  “Is there a valid reason you’re tormenting me like this?”

  “I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

  “I like it. I like it a lot. I’d just like it to be faster!”

  “Too bad. This is all about cooking the eggs slowly. Give them a slow swirl with the spatula. . . .” He moved his fingers inside her tight, pulsing sheath as he caressed her breast, strumming the nipple with the edge of his nail, learning the shape and heft of her breasts in turn. “Slower. There you go. See how they’re fluffing up? Glistening with all that succulent butter?”

  Mia’s head fell back against his shoulder, and she hissed out, “Bastard.”

  “Keep stirring. Don’t let them burn.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re preparing scrambled eggs,” she managed to pant out. “Because by the t-time we get around t-to eating the damned things, I’ll be so old I won’t have any teeth! They look ready. Can we—ah! Eat—” She hissed in a breath when the climax was so close, she knew she was about to crash and burn. A sheen of perspiration prickled her skin. Every nerve ending was like a little antenna tuned to the slightest brush of his fingers. “Now, damn y—”

  Each rhythmic manipulation of his fingers, each twist and thrust, left her breathless, gasping for air as her body torqued higher and higher. The intensity built and built, like a roller coaster, dragging her higher and higher, swelling with each deep, slick stroke of his clever fingers, sliding over her clit, making that hot spot ultrasensitive.

  Her hips moved restlessly, although he had her imprisoned between his body and the hard bar of his forearm. Almost sobbing, her internal muscles clenched tighter and tighter. Mia dug her nails into his forearm.

  All thought went completely out of her head as he pressed the heel of his palm firmly against her clit, pulling her tightly against the rock-hard bar of his penis. As he slid his fingers deep inside of her, and with his rough, hard palm rubbing against her, she screamed as he brought her to a rolling, never-ending climax.

  • • •

  Sitting on mismatched chairs at the table, Mia vaguely gestured to the ceiling with her fork. “We can go upstairs and take care of your problem. I don’t know a lot about cooking, but I think I can figure out how to keep your water boiling for a while.”

  He didn’t smile. Did he ever? But his eyes lightened, and she almost caught a look of amusement in the inky depths. “That was your cooking lesson for the day. Maybe later you can teach me something.”

  Arrogant bastard, she thought without heat. “I’m never going to look at an egg the same way again.” She forked up a pile of egg curds on the tines. Light, fluffy, and buttery. Mia hummed her appreciation as she swallowed. She was absolutely ravenous.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Incredibly.”

  He reached down to fondle his dog’s floppy ear. “Some things are well worth the wait.”

  “And some things can be accomplished in half the time.” There was no point in reminding him what her request had been the night before. He clearly wasn’t a man who took instructions well.

  Dog and master were sweet to watch, not that Mia thought Cruz was sweet. Picante was more like it. As for Oso, Mia had no idea what breed he was. Medium-size, he had soulful black eyes, short golden-brown fur, and a long, expressive tail.

  Fascinated by the way Cruz’s large hand soothed his dog, Mia thought, If I was scared, I’d nuzzle against your hand, too. She sat transfixed, watching man and dog for a suspended moment, then got up to go to the cupboard and take down a bowl. Running water into it, she then placed it on the floor nearby, grateful to have something to do that didn’t involve jumping on her guest and attacking his mouth.

  “What kind of dog is he?” she asked, taking out the steak she planned to have for dinner that night, and on her salad for lunch tomorrow. She roughly cut it into large pieces and put the dog’s breakfast on a china plate beside the water bowl. Resuming her seat, Mia glanced at the clock on the stove.

  He’d kept her on her toes, off balance in more ways than one, for a good twenty minutes! She didn’t even like foreplay. It had always been an irritating waste of time when she just wanted the main event.

  Foreplay was going to be hard to turn down in the future, now that she’d acquired it. Who knew?

  The dog came over to him, then rested his head on Cruz’s knee, looking up at him adoringly. “Shepherd mix. What do you want me to tackle first?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  Me, she thought, unbidden, and felt her face go warm. “I bought the house a month ago. I was looking for a fixer-up, because I wanted to try my hand at various home improvements. The house is solid apart from the roof, which the inspector apparently didn’t bother to inspect. I have a list.”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  Getting up, she crossed the kitchen, feeling his eyes on her as she took the plain yellow legal pad from beside the sink, then returned to the table to hand it to him.

  “I presume the roof is the top priority.” He indicated the three buckets across the room, one of which the dog was drinking from instead of the bowl she’d given him.

  “Anything I can’t do myself is a priority— No. No, that’s not true. I’m in no hurry—I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. You work by the hour, right?”

  “Yeah, but I take exactly how long it requires to do the job.” He held out his hand.

  Just looking at his large tanned hand, with its ridge of call
us at the base of his fingers, and the short, square nails, turned Mia on.

  “Let’s see that list.”

  She handed him the notepad. “I’ve contracted with a company in New Orleans to replace the roof. But they’re backed up and can’t be here for at least two weeks. I told them I’d let them know if I was still interested then.” For all she knew, she’d be back in San Francisco.

  Where would Cruz Barcelona be?

  Who would he be teaching how to make French scrambled eggs?

  It annoyed her that the very thought of him with another woman annoyed her.

  “I can do some patching. At least enough to get rid of the collection buckets.” Looking down, he frowned. “LTD? SWS? You’ve got those checked off already. What are they?”

  Learn to drive: check. Sex with a stranger: check. “My to-do list.” Snatching the pad from him, she flipped the page to the list of improvements she couldn’t manage or didn’t want to even try herself. “Here you go. Here’s the to-do list for the house.”

  Mia drank her fill looking at him as he skimmed the long list. His eyelashes, straight and inky black, were tipped with silver. His mouth drawn with mostly straight lines, but tempting as sin. Broad shoulders stretched out his blue T-shirt, which clung damply to the stair steps of his abs before disappearing into his jeans.

  Mia shifted on her chair, ostensibly to point to the paper he held. Moving was not a good idea, as it got things excited all over again. She leaned forward a little to let her T-shirt blouse out so he couldn’t see her erect nipples. “Can you do all that?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced up at her. “I’d tackle the roof first thing, since the rain seems to have stopped . . . unless you have other priorities?”

  “It would be nice not to have to get up all night emptying buckets. Excellent. When can you start?”

  “Now.”

  All Mia’s girl parts contracted, watching Cruz’s deft fingers find just the right spot to make the dog close its eyes and lean against his thigh with a massive sigh. She knew exactly how the dog felt.