It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, or even that she didn’t trust him—but she was definitely wary of him. Should she follow through on her undeniable attraction to him, or listen to her instincts and avoid further complicating her life?
His left eyebrow lifted. “I didn’t think it was that difficult a question.”
“You aren’t a member of a crime family, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“According to local rumor, you’re either an eccentric millionaire, a flunky for an eccentric movie star, or you’re a member of an organized-crime family. The first two possibilities don’t worry me overmuch, but I would definitely be concerned about the latter.”
His chuckle was disarming. He didn’t laugh often, and it was a pleasant sound. “I am not a crook,” he assured her, the cliché making her smile. “I don’t work for anyone except myself. As for the millionaire part—I’m afraid not.”
Remembering Tressie’s question, Sharon asked, “Are you married?”
“No. I’m single, straight and unattached. Are there any other juicy tidbits you want to quiz me about?”
“I probably haven’t even heard all the talk,” she confessed. “Those were just the stories that made it to my shop.”
“Do you always take gossip so seriously?”
She had to smile at that. “Hardly.”
“Is there anyone who would object to you having dinner with me?”
She thought of Jerry, but shook her head. “I’m not seeing anyone special, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So…?”
It was as good an evening as any to go out. Brad was going on an overnight campout with his baseball team, sponsored by the coach and several team dads. Having made an excuse to Jerry after her recent decision to spend less time with him, Sharon was free for the evening. She had planned to spend a little time to herself for a change perusing decorating journals and making preliminary notes for the renovation project. Instead, she heard herself saying, “All right. What time?”
His only reaction was a brisk nod—as if there had been no real doubt that she would accept, she couldn’t help thinking. “Seven? I’ll pick you up.”
Sharon thought of the inevitable ramifications if she and Mac were seen sharing a cozy dinner-for-two in town. There would certainly be talk. Speculation. Questions. She wasn’t accustomed to being the center of gossip. She’d always been the quiet and responsible type. Everyone knew her mother was a lovable flake, that her father had died of a heart attack thirteen years ago, and that her little brother tended to hang with the wrong crowd, but they had never attracted the sort of interest that the McBrides or some of the other longtime Honoria residents garnered.
“I could cook,” she suggested, wondering whether her alternative was actually more or less reckless than dining in public. “You’re probably tired of restaurant food by now,” she added quickly, not wanting him to take it the wrong way. “Maybe you’d enjoy a home-cooked meal?”
“I would very much enjoy a home-cooked meal. Restaurant food gets a little tiring after a while.” He seemed to take the question at face value. She hoped he wasn’t reading more into the offer than she intended.
She nodded, hoping she wouldn’t regret the impulsive invitation. She couldn’t quite believe she had invited Mac Cordero into her home.
One thing she was certain of—this was the only bedroom in which they would be alone together that day.
CHAPTER FIVE
MAC FELT smug as he parked his car in Sharon’s driveway Saturday evening. He would have been satisfied to buy her a meal in a crowded restaurant. Dining in her home, where they could talk privately and without interruption, was even better than he had hoped for.
He planned to make good use of the evening. He would just have to be careful not to raise her suspicion with the questions he intended to ask.
He wondered if she was a good cook. It had been months since he’d eaten a meal that hadn’t been prepared in a restaurant kitchen. Although he had to admit the blue plate special at Cora’s Café had been pretty darned close to home cooking—and Wade hadn’t exaggerated the quality of her pies.
Sharon’s house was a frame-and-brick ranch-style in a middle-class neighborhood. One of the cookie-cutter houses Mac usually disdained, but he assumed it had been chosen more for affordability than taste. Sharon opened the door almost the moment his finger touched the doorbell. Apparently, she had been waiting for him.
“I wasn’t sure what you’re serving,” he said, holding out a bottle of wine. “I brought white.”
She took it without meeting his eyes or touching his fingers. “Thank you. This is perfect. We’re having Cornish hen. I hope you’re hungry,” she added brightly as she closed the door behind him. “I’m just putting finishing touches on dinner. It looks like it might rain later this evening, doesn’t it? The weather guy said there’s something like a seventy percent chance. Of course, we need the rain, but I hope it doesn’t ruin my brother’s camp-out with his friends. If you’d like to wash up before dinner, there’s a—”
“Sharon.” Mac couldn’t help smiling. “Breathe.”
She went still, then grimaced. “I was babbling, wasn’t I? Sorry.”