How could I refuse? He had done that before, when he’d initially intended to impress me: acted as top chef right in my own kitchen, more than once. As if someone of his wealth, power—and sexiness—needed to do more to be impressive. And he’d succeeded. I helped him retrieve a couple of grocery bags from the trunk of his car and carry them upstairs. I unlocked my apartment door, and we all went in—Dante, our doggies, and me. We put the stuff on the kitchen counter—what little there was of it in the small room in which I cooked and ate at a tiny round table. “So what’s on the menu?” I inquired. “Entirely up to you,” he said, and suddenly I was in his arms—and the subject of one really hot, sexy kiss. “Oh,” I eventually whispered. I wasn’t sure I could say anything more. “If you meant,” he whispered against my lips, “what food we’ll be eating tonight, I’m making beef stroganoff and a nice salad.” “Oh,” I said again. “And we’ll talk over dinner, okay?”
