LITMIR.BIZ

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      Dennis Thompson had returned from his car and was standing in the doorway with his toolkit and another painting. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but before we can hang the rest of the pieces, we need you to tell us where you want them.”

      “I’ll be right there,” she told him before facing Mac again. “Now, we have guests arriving tomorrow afternoon, and I have to finish up here, then go home and plan a menu.”

      He nodded. “Have you decided to stay here?”

      “Not yet.”

      “If you do, I won’t bother you.”

      “I’m not worried about you starting anything.” It was all she had to say. The flush on his neck and the stiffness in his jaw were obvious clues that he’d heard the slight emphasis on the word you and understood her meaning all too clearly.

      She got up and was about to leave the room when Mac called her back. “Olivia?”

      “Yes?”

      “As far as the menu, I’ve invited another couple to join us tomorrow night, so there will be six instead of four.”

      “Okay. Anyone I know?”

      He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s the DeBolds’ attorney and her husband.”

      “Got it.” She tossed him a casual, professional smile, then left the room.

      Nine

      If someone called Mac Valentine an arrogant jerk to his face, he usually agreed with them before kicking them out of his office. He was arrogant. But in his defense he believed he was the best at what he did and that unshakable confidence was the only way to stay at the top of his game. Today, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, he’d had that theory tested and proven correct by one of the clients who, just a few weeks ago, had been running scared after Owen Winston’s foolish attempt to discredit him. After waiting for twenty minutes in the lobby, the client had sat before Mac and had practically begged him to take him back. Whether the man still believed that Mac had given preferential treatment and tips to his other clients or not, being at a competing firm had not proved lucrative and he wanted back in.

      Mac pulled into his garage feeling on top of the world. When one client returned, he mused, the others would surely follow—they’d leave Owen Winston and other financial firms and come back to where they belonged.

      He cut the engine and grabbed his briefcase and laptop. Today’s success would by no means deter him from getting revenge on Winston. And in fact, he actually felt a stronger desire to follow through on his plans with Olivia. By the end of the weekend, he thought darkly as he stepped out of the car and headed into the house, he would have it all: Owen’s little girl and a powerhouse of a new client to add to his roster.

      The heavenly scent of meat and spices, onions and something sweet accosted his senses when he walked through the door. Home sweet home, he thought sarcastically, walking into the kitchen. But once there, he promptly forgot everything he’d just been thinking, plotting and reveling in. In fact, as he took in the sight before him, he realized he had little or no brain left. “You look…”

      Olivia stood before the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon. “Like a wife?”

      He saw the lightness, the humor in her eyes, but couldn’t find a laugh to save his soul. He cleared his throat, his gaze moving over her hungrily. “I was going to say, breath-stealing—but I suppose you could look wifely, as well.”

      She wore pink. He hated pink. He’d always hated pink. It was for flowers or cotton candy. But Olivia Winston in pink was a whole different matter. The dress she wore was cut at the knee and cinched at the waist, and pushed her perfectly round breasts upward, just slightly—just enough so that she looked elegant, yet would also drive a man to drool. Her long dark hair was pulled up to the top of her head, causing her neck to look long and edible, and her dark eyes, still filled with humor, reminded him of warm clay beneath long, black lashes.

      And she had wanted him to forget about the other night? Get serious. All Mac wanted was to pull her against him, ease the top of her dress down, fill his hands with her, play with one perfect pink nipple while he suckled the other. His groin tightened almost to the point of pain. He wondered, would she moan as he nuzzled her? Or would she cry out again, allow herself to climax this time?

      “Well, thank you for the compliment,” she said, gathering up several bottles of wine. “Would you mind setting those things down and giving me a hand?”

      “Sure. What do you need?”

      She nodded in the direction of the island. “Wineglasses. Can you grab them and follow me?”

      He picked up the spotless glasses that were laid out on a towel on the island and followed her into the dining room.

      “Well, what do you think?” she asked, setting the bottle down on an impressive black hutch.

      This woman wasn’t fooling around. She was damn good at what she did, and it showed in every detail. She’d set the table with unusually modern-looking china, gleaming stemware and silver silk napkins. But the most impressive part was the centerpiece, which sat in the middle of a round walnut table. It looked as though she’d brought the outdoors inside with cut branches from his yard, white candles and small silver bells.

      He set down the wineglasses and released a breath. “It’s perfect.”

      “Good.” She checked her watch. “Your guests will be here in thirty minutes. You’d better wash up and change your clothes.”

      “I have time.”

      She gave him an impatient look. “It would be rude, not to mention awkward, if you weren’t here when the doorbell rings.”

      “Careful, or someone might think you’re the woman of the house,” Mac said with amusement, wondering how long it would take to kiss that pink gloss off her mouth.

      Reaching for the dimmer switch on the wall, Olivia lowered the lights a touch. “For all intents and purposes this weekend, I am.”

      His gaze swept over her. “Did I tell you how much I like the color pink?”

      “No, you didn’t,” she said primly, putting her arm through his and walking him toward the stairs. “But we really don’t have time for that now. I have a dinner to get on the table, and I won’t allow anything to burn.”

      He grinned. “Of course, can’t have things getting too hot now, can we?”

      She glared at him, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I think a shower would be good for you.”

      He nodded and said with sardonic amusement, “Yes, dear,” then took the stairs two at a time. She was right. He needed a shower, a really cold shower. Hell, he thought, chuckling to himself, he might do better diving into one of those piles of snow burying his lawn.

      Harold DeBold was one of those guys people just liked the minute they met him. Hovering somewhere around forty, he was very tall and thin, and had pale blond hair and wintery blue eyes. He reminded Olivia of a surfer, relaxed and free-spirited. His wife Louise, on the other hand, was dark-skinned, dark-eyed, completely city-sexy in her gorgeousness and totally high-strung. But she also seemed sincere, and when she was told that Olivia was going to be their chef for the weekend, instead of thinking it odd that the person Mac had hired to help him was not going to stay in the kitchen and/or serve, but was going to eat and socialize with them, she’d acted as though it were the most normal thing in the world—even adding that she was thrilled that Olivia was going to cook some down-home Minnesota fare for them.

      “Honestly,” the woman said to Olivia, curling her diamond-encrusted hand around her wineglass. “I feel like all I’ve eaten for days is foie gras, caviar and squid ink. I’m over it.”

      Chuckling, Harold told Mac, “We’ve been in New York for the past week.”

      They were waiting for

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