looked about eighteen again, sitting there in her tight jeans and that soft green sweater, her face almost bare of make-up, her hair pulled up into a band at her crown, leaving the long arch of her neck vulnerably bare.
Rafe’s anger faded as quickly as it had flared into life. ‘Are yellow roses still your favourite flowers?’ he asked huskily.
Cairo gave him a startled look. ‘I— Yes. Yes, they are.’
His mouth twisted self-derisively. ‘You thought I’d forgotten.’
‘I—’ She broke off to once again moisten the pout of her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘It’s been eight years, Rafe,’ she pointed out.
Eight or eighty, Rafe hadn’t forgotten a single thing about this woman’s likes and dislikes. Either in bed or out of it!
She gave him a teasing smile. ‘A lot of other women have passed through your—’
‘Cairo,’ Rafe bit out warningly.
‘—life, since then,’ she continued ruefully.
Rafe held her gaze with his as he reached over and plucked the chopsticks from her unresisting fingers. ‘And I couldn’t tell you the favourite flower of a single one of them,’ he admitted softly.
Cairo blinked, totally disorientated by the way the atmosphere between them had once again changed from being charged with anger to sexual tension instead.
She shook her head as she nervously moistened her lips—
‘Don’t do that, Cairo!’ Rafe groaned.
‘Don’t do what?’ She was barely breathing as Rafe’s head slowly bent towards hers.
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