patted her jet-black shoulder-length hair. “That compliment’ll earn you a second helping of my specialty dessert, Daniel. How does caramel apple cheesecake sound?”
He almost licked his lips. “My sweet tooth and I can hardly wait.”
Pleased, Nita sent over a hearty wink then spoke to Elizabeth. “Dining room’s all set, Beth. I set a match to the fire, too.”
As Nita strolled off, Elizabeth offered her arm to her guest. “I sure hope you’re hungry.”
At the end of the meal, Elizabeth dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, to hide her grin more than anything. A man of Daniel’s means would dine at the best restaurants around the world, and while guests regularly swooned over Nita’s culinary triumphs, her current guest’s reaction to rib eye roast and baked potato salad was priceless. No question. Daniel Warren appreciated good home cooking.
“I’m sure there’s more,” Elizabeth offered, “if you can fit it in.”
He set his knife and fork down on the gravy-smeared plate. “I’m tempted. But I need room for that dessert.”
“Be warned. Caramel apple cheesecake is addictive.”
“I’m an advocate of the saying, you can never have too much of a good thing.”
When his gaze held hers a moment longer than was necessary, heat climbed up Elizabeth’s neck and she had to drop her gaze, catch her breath. She wasn’t one to titter. She didn’t normally blush like a schoolgirl when a man flirted. But, sitting here with Daniel, she felt something new, unexpected and highly pleasurable playing tag with her senses.
As they’d talked through dinner—about music, politics, how cool the weather was for this time of year—her awareness of every facet of his presence had grown until the buzz she’d felt from the moment they’d met had cranked up to high. Whenever he looked at her the way he had just now, all over her skin, through her blood, she tingled. Frankly, she wanted to surrender to a long sigh and fan herself.
With Daniel Warren she felt as much like a teenage girl as a woman.
When the tips of her breasts began to harden and heat, clearing her thoughts, Elizabeth set down her napkin and inhaled a leveling breath. Get back on track. He was looking forward to dessert.
“I’m guessing you don’t cook,” she said, fighting the urge to cross her arms, contain that heat.
“Not much.” Sheepish, he tugged his ear. “Not at all.”
“And there I was, imagining you sweating over a gas cooker, tossing the escargot.”
His mouth turned down. “You like snails?”
“I’ve indulged, but only when I visit a particular café on the Rue de la Villette.” As his eyebrows knitted and he gave a curious grin, she cocked her head. “You’ve been to Paris?”
“Me? Sure. Beautiful city. Although it’s always good to get back home.”
“To the States?”
“To New York.”
Elizabeth almost forgot herself and frowned. Nothing wrong with being precise. Still, if she hadn’t known better, she might think that reply was pointed. That perhaps Abigail had clued him up on more than her parents’ misfortune. That she might have confided in her situation with regard to that condition of their will.
Which was crazy. Abigail wouldn’t break that kind of confidence, and he couldn’t have found out anywhere else—Chad Tremain, for example. Obviously her thoughts—those sensations he stirred—were running away on her, filling her head with fancies.
Elizabeth set her mind back on the conversation.
“New York has some incredible restaurants.”
He ran an appreciative eye over his plate. “None that serve food like that.”
“Is your mother a good cook?”
His smile froze for a heartbeat before he reached for his wine. “Mom could cook.”
“Do your parents still live in Carolina?”
“No.” He pushed back his chair and glanced around as he took a mouthful of red and swallowed. “The decor in here is interesting.”
“Early American,” she replied, thinking not of furniture but the fact he’d avoided talking about his family. Before dinner he’d hesitated when she’d inquired. Although she and her parents had been close, estrangement between generations wasn’t uncommon. But she wouldn’t push. Private was private. Even if she was more than curious.
They were talking about decor.
“My mother redecorated parts of this house, but not this room. She liked it homey. The dinner table is where the family comes together, she used to say. Not only to eat, but to talk and listen and plan.”
Daniel’s smile held. “A wonderful, traditional concept.” His attention wandered to the far wall. “Those dark wood panels are almost identical to the club’s.”
“Might’ve been cut from the same tree. Heck, the ranch and the club have both been around since Buffalo Bill was a boy.”
He pretended to pull his head in. “Do I detect a hint of impatience?”
Amused, she blinked twice. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“That resigned note in your voice.”
“That wasn’t a resigned note.”
“Sounded pretty clear to me—”
“You were mistaken.” She lifted her chin. “What you heard was respect.”
“So you don’t harbor any secret plans to turn the ranch into a casino or suburban lots like some others down this way?”
She coughed out a laugh even as heat crept up her neck again, this time for a different reason. Was he serious?
“What a curious thing to say. Of course not.”
“But you would like some change,” he went on. “Am I right?”
With a practiced smile, she set her elbow on the chair’s arm and fiddled with her diamond drop earring. “Is your sideline mind reading, Mr. Warren?”
“It’s Daniel, remember?”
Knowing an edge had crept into her voice, Elizabeth played up her smile. She didn’t like his line of thought. His questions. Her ideas on tradition—when, where and how to tweak—were her business, just as whatever prickled Daniel about his family’s past was his.
But she’d answer his question—in her own way.
“While it’s time the Cattleman’s Club challenged some of its older trappings, I can’t see Milton Ranch changing. My parents wanted tradition to live on here.” She
