greeted her with an embarrassed grin. A shock of black hair fell across his brow, and she resisted the absurd urge to smooth it back into place. In one hand he held a spatula and in the other a smoking skillet.
Jacques Pépin, the famous French chef, he wasn’t. But fatally sexy, he was. She felt the impact of his smile clear down to her toes.
“So much for breakfast.” His starched white shirt and faded blue jeans seemed as out of place in the opulent surroundings as he would in a kitchen. “We can eat on the way to the vineyard.”
“You made breakfast? For me?”
“I know you haven’t had anything to eat.” He narrowed his gray eyes on her as if suddenly unsure of himself. A rare emotion for Brody, one that made him seem vulnerable, and too appealing. “Have you?”
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