"No point in living without music. I picked up the chair at a yard sale. It's so awful it's wonderful. Want a drink?"
"Just some club soda, or water." Alcohol was off the list for a couple of reasons, and he was one of them.
"I've got some Templeton mineral water."
She smiled. "Then you've got the best."
"I'll take you on a tour after I've gotten dinner started. Come in the kitchen and keep me company."
"You know how to cook?" It was the shock of it that made her follow him.
"Actually, I do. You like grits and chitlins, right?" He waited a beat, turned, and wasn't disappointed with the look of sheer horror on her face. "Just kidding. How about seafood?"
"Not those crawfish things."
"I make a hell of a crawfish etouffee, but we'll save that for when we're better acquainted. If the rest of the house hadn't already sold me, this would have done it."
The kitchen was done in dramatic maroon and white tiles, with a center island that gleamed like an iceberg. A built-in banquette curved in front of a wide window that looked out on blooming flowers and the deep-green lawn.
"Subzero," Byron commented, running a loving hand over the stainless-steel front of a wide refrigerator. "Convection oven, Jenn-Air range, teak cabinets."
There was a big blue bowl of fresh, glossy fruit on the counter. The grinding in Kate's stomach told her if she didn't eat soon, she'd die. "You like to cook?"
"It relaxes me."
"Okay, why don't you relax? I'll watch."
She had to admit it was an impressive show. She sipped chilled water while he sliced an array of colorful vegetables. His movements were brisk and, as far as she could tell, professional. Intrigued, she moved closer, watched his hands.
Very nice hands, now that she took a good look. Long fingers, wide palms, with a neat manicure that didn't take away from the basic masculinity.
"Did you, like, take a course or something?"
"Or something. We had this cook. Maurice." Byron turned a red bell pepper into long, neat strips. "He told me he'd teach me how to box. I was tall and skinny, regularly got the shit beat out of me at school."
Kate stepped back, did a slow survey. Broad shoulders, trim waist, narrow hips. Long limbs, certainly. And with his sleeves rolled up for cooking, she could see forearms that looked just a bit dangerous. "What happened? Steroids?"
He chuckled and went briskly to work on an onion. "I grew into my arms and legs after a while, started working out, but I was about twelve and pathetically awkward."
"Yeah." Kate sipped, remembering her own adolescence. The trouble was, she'd never grown into anything. Still the runt of the litter, she mused. "It's a rough age."
"So Maurice said he'd teach me to defend myself, but I had to learn to cook. It was, according to him, just one more way to become self-sufficient." Byron drizzled oil into a large cast-iron pan already heating on the stove. "In about six months I whipped Curt Bodine's bad ass—he was the bane of my existence at the time."
"I had Candy Dorall, now Litchfield," Kate put in conversationally. "She was always my bane."
"The terminally pert Candace Litchfield? Redhead, smug, foxy face, annoying little giggle?"
Anyone who described Candy so accurately deserved a smile. "I think I might like you after all."
"Did you ever punch Candy in her sassy nose?"
"It's not her nose. She had rhinoplasty." Kate snacked on a strip of pepper. "And no, but we did stuff her naked into a locker. Twice."
"Not bad, but that's girl stuff. Me, I just beat the hell out of Curt, salvaged masculine pride while earning the appropriate macho rep. And I could produce a chocolate souffle to die for."
When she laughed, he paused and turned to face her. "Do that again." When she didn't respond, he shook his head. "You really ought to laugh more, Katherine. It's a fascinating sound. Surprisingly full and rich. Like something you'd expect to hear floating out of the window of a New Orleans brothel."
"I'm sure that's a compliment." She lifted her water glass again, made herself keep her eyes level with his. "But I rarely laugh on an empty stomach."