leathers, he acknowledged privately as once again he felt what was fast becoming a familiar hardening of his thighs. ‘Come through to the kitchen and I’ll open a bottle of wine,’ he invited briskly before leading the way through to the adjoining room.
He had designed the kitchen himself, the cathedral-style ceiling oak-beamed using beams that had originally come from an eighteenth-century cottage, with matching oak kitchen cabinets, all the modern conveniences such as a fridge-freezer and a dishwasher hidden behind those cabinets, with a weathered oak table in the middle of the room surrounded by four chairs, and copper pots hanging conveniently beside the green Aga.
It was a warm and comfortable room as opposed to the coolly impersonal sitting-room. The kitchen was where Jonas felt most at ease, and was where he usually sat and read the newspapers or did paperwork on the evenings he was at home.
Although he wasn’t too sure any more about inviting Mac McGuire into his inner sanctum…
‘Much better,’ she murmured approvingly. ‘Did you design this yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
Jonas raised dark brows. ‘Why?’
She gave an awkward shrug. ‘It’s—warmer, than the other room.’
He scowled. ‘Warmer?’
‘More lived-in,’ she amended.
Jonas continued to look at her for several long seconds before giving an abrupt nod. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he invited and moved to take a bottle of Chablis Premier Cru from the cooler before deftly opening it and pouring some of the delicious fruity wine into two glasses.
Mac still wasn’t sure about being in Jonas’s apartment at all, let alone making herself comfortable. And from the frown now on Jonas’s brow she thought maybe he was regretting having invited her, too.
She sat down gingerly on one of the four chairs placed about the oak table. ‘I’ll just drink my half a glass of wine and then go.’
Jonas placed the glass on the table in front of her. ‘What’s your hurry?’
She nervously moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue as he stood far too close to her, only to immediately stop again as she saw the intensity with which Jonas was watching the movement. ‘I just think it would be better if I don’t overstay my welcome.’ Her hand was shaking slightly as she reached out to pick up the glass and take a sip of the cool wine.
Jonas smiled slightly. ‘Better for whom?’
She lifted one shoulder delicately. ‘Both of us, I would have thought.’
‘Maybe we’re both thinking too much,’ he murmured broodingly. ‘Have you eaten dinner yet?’
Mac looked at him sharply. ‘Not yet, no.’ Surely he wasn’t about to repeat his earlier suggestion that the two of them go out to dinner together?
‘I only had a few prawns for lunch,’ he reminded her ruefully. ‘How about you?’
‘I had a piece of toast when I got home. But I’m hardly dressed for going out to dinner, Jonas.’
‘Who said anything about going out?’ He looked at her quizzically.
Mac felt an uncomfortable surge—of what?—in her chest. Trepidation? Fear? Or anticipation? Or could it be a combination of all three of those things? Whichever it was, Mac didn’t think she should stay here alone with Jonas in his apartment any longer than she absolutely had to.
‘It’s very kind of you to offer—’
‘How polite you are all of a sudden, Mac,’ Jonas cut in. ‘If you don’t want to have dinner with me then just have the guts to come out and say so, damn it!’ His eyes glittered darkly.
She gave a pained frown. ‘It isn’t a question of not wanting to have dinner with you, Jonas—’
‘Then what is it a question of?’ he demanded harshly.
Mac swallowed hard. ‘I’m not sure I belong here…’
Jonas scowled. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
She gave an awkward shrug. ‘I—This apartment is way out of my stratosphere. That bottle of wine you just opened probably cost what some people earn in a week.’
‘And?’
‘I am what I am. How I am. I hate dressing up in fancy clothes and “being seen”.’ She winced. ‘I’ve already been through one experience where a man thought I would make a nice trophy to show off on his arm at parties—’
‘And you think that’s what I want, too?’ Jonas asked.
Mac looked a little confused. ‘I’m not really sure what you want from me.’
‘Then that makes two of us,’ Jonas told her with a sigh. ‘For some inexplicable reason you have a strange effect on me, Mary “Mac” McGuire.’ His gaze held hers as he reached out and took the wine glass from her slightly trembling fingers, placing it on the table beside his own before grasping Mac’s arms to pull her slowly to her feet so that she stood only inches away from him.
Jonas looked down at her searchingly, noting the almost feverish glitter in those smoky grey eyes, the flush to her cheeks, and the unevenness of her breathing through slightly parted lips. Parted lips that were begging to be kissed.
His expression was grim as he resisted that dangerous temptation. ‘I’m going through to my bedroom now to change out of my suit. If you decide you don’t want to stay and help me cook dinner then I suggest you leave before I get back.’ He released her abruptly before turning on his heel and going out of the room in the direction of his bedroom further down the hallway.
Mac was still trembling somewhat as she stood alone in the kitchen. She should do as Jonas suggested and leave before he came back. She knew that she should. Yet she didn’t want to. What she wanted to do was stay right here and spend the evening cooking dinner with him before they sat down together to eat it in this warm and comfortable kitchen…
Except she knew that Jonas wasn’t suggesting they just cook and eat dinner together. Her remaining here would mean she was also agreeable to repeating their earlier shared kisses.
Mac sat down abruptly, totally undecided about what to do. She should go. But she didn’t want to. She knew she shouldn’t allow that explosive passion with Jonas at the restaurant to happen again. But she wanted to!
She was still sitting there pondering her dilemma when Jonas came back into the kitchen, her breath catching in her throat as she saw him casually dressed for the first time. The thin black cashmere sweater was moulded to wide shoulders and the flatness of his chest and stomach, jeans that were faded from age and wear rather than designer-styled to be that way sat low down on his hips and emphasised the muscled length of his legs, and his feet were as bare as her own had been earlier when Bob Jenkins had arrived at the warehouse to replace her broken window. They were long and somehow graceful feet, their very bareness seeming to increase the intimacy of the situation.
Jonas
