CHRISTMAS IN WHITEHORN Page 3

  "I promise not to think the worst of you without more evidence," he said seriously.

  She grinned. "Good. Then would you mind opening the wine? Oh, and I hope you're hungry, because I expect you to eat your half of the turkey."

  "You first."

  He grabbed the wine and followed her into the kitchen. The scent of cooking turkey mingled with other smells. There were three pots bubbling on the stove and the microwave beeped impatiently.

  "Glasses are in there," she said, pointing to a cupboard by the tile and oak table.

  She turned her attention to the stove, lifting covers and stirring, all the while muttering under her breath. He didn't know if she was talking to herself or the food, then decided it didn't matter. Women in the kitchen were a mystery he'd never solved. They moved with an easy grace he could never imagine duplicating. Perhaps because he hadn't seen it a great deal while growing up. His mother had never been much for cooking, and his sister was too busy being queen of the rodeo to bother with meal preparation.

  "It all smells good," he said as he poured the wine.

  She took the glass he offered and leaned against the counter. "I'm not expecting a crisis." Laughter brightened her eyes. "That's not to say I haven't had them in the past, before I knew what I was doing. However I've learned from my mistakes."

  He put the open bottle on the counter. "What kind of mistakes."

  "Oh, little things like not realizing that a turkey takes several days to thaw. That was before I special-ordered a fresh one. So I tried cooking it while still frozen." She winced. "Which meant it took hours and all that nasty stuff they put on the inside like the neck and heart cooked with it. You wouldn't believe the smell. We had to go out that Thanksgiving. And let me tell you, there's not a whole lot open. Then there was the time I was really in a hurry and accidentally put salt in to thicken the gravy instead of flour. There were some gagging sounds around the table that night!"

  "When did you start cooking?"

  "About five years ago."

  "What inspired you?"

  "We all have to grow up some time." She shrugged. "Five years ago, I doubt I could have boiled water without instructions. Since then I've read and practiced. Working in restaurants allowed me to observe different techniques. I found out I really like baking." She motioned to the pies cooling on the table. "I made those myself, this morning."

  There were three pies, including one pumpkin. "Do I have to eat half of those, too?"

  "Maybe. We'll see how you do on the turkey." She put her wine on the counter and returned her attention to the stove. "I've started selling my baked goods around town. I might have a shot at a contract with the Hip Hop Café. They're handing out samples to see if people like my stuff."

  "So that was your pumpkin bread I tried on Monday."

  "Yes. And you liked it. Even though you make such a fuss about eating vegetables at breakfast."

  "It's not natural."

  "Do we have to have the omelette conversation again?"

  "Not if you don't want to."

  She opened the oven and poked at the turkey. "He's nearly ready." When she closed the door, she straightened. "You'll be pleased to know there's nothing unnatural about our meal this evening."

  "I was afraid of that."

  "Why?"

  "You're into health foods. I'm nervous about your choice of ingredients."

  She laughed. "Tofu surprise in the stuffing?"

  "Exactly."

  She planted her hands on her hips. "What is it about men and tofu. You're all deathly afraid women are plotting to get you to eat it."

  "Aren't you?"

  "Maybe," she admitted.

  Mark found himself chuckling. The action felt awkward and unfamiliar. He'd worried about spending time with Darcy, but she was surprisingly easy to be with. And easy on the eye. When she returned her attention to the stove, he found his gaze lingering on the curve of her rear. He reminded himself that attraction was dangerous. Life was better when he didn't feel anything. How many times did he have to get shot before he learned his lesson?

  "Is it snowing?" she asked.

  "Not yet, but it was pretty gray this afternoon. It's supposed to snow tonight."

  "Good. I like holidays with snow. Oh. Isn't there a football game on this afternoon. Do you want to go watch it?"

  "Contrary to popular opinion, I am ca- pable of going an entire day without viewing a sporting event."

  She looked at him in mock amazement. "Really? How do you do it? Deep breathing exercises?"

  "Tremendous willpower."

  "I'm very impressed." She carried a pot over to the sink and drained it. "While you're not watching football, would you mind taking our little friend out of the oven. He should be done."

  Mark set down his wine, then carried the turkey over to the table. Darcy wrapped the bird in foil, explaining that it had to rest before carving. He didn't think it had been especially active before now, but what did he know about turkey cooking?

  She had him mash the potatoes while she made the gravy – since when did gravy not come out of a can – then she expertly carved several slices from the impressive bird and quickly put all the dishes on the table.

  They sat across from each other. Mark had a moment of awkwardness – the situation was too intimate for his liking. Instinctively he went into detective mode, finding safety in asking questions.

  "How long have you lived in Whitehorn?" he asked as she passed him the platter of turkey.

  "Since early June," she said. "Before that I lived in Arizona for a few years and before that, Chicago."

  "Is that where you're from?"

  "Yes. I grew up in a wealthy suburb you've probably never heard of, where my most complex decision was which invitation to accept to the prom. The boy's coolness was, of course, the deciding factor."

  She was teasing but also telling the truth, he thought. Funny, she didn't look like the idle princess type. "You were one of the popular girls?"

  "Even a cheerleader. I wince at the memory of my shallow existence." She passed him a green bean casserole, followed by a dish of yams. "I went off to college without a clue as to what I wanted to be when I grew up. Of course, I don't think I actually wanted to be an adult. I kept switching majors and playing rather than studying. I nearly accepted a marriage proposal rather than choose a direction for my studies."

  Her blue eyes darkened with the memories. "Not my finest hour."

  He had a hard time reconciling her story with the woman in front of him. "What happened?"

  She took a bite of turkey and chewed. When she'd swallowed, she said, "My parents died in a car crash. I was unprepared, to say the least." She hesitated, as if there was more she was going to say.

  Mark waited. The detective in him wanted to push for information, but he reminded himself that he was a guest in her home and it was a holiday.

  "This is really good," he said when he'd tasted the turkey.

  "Thanks."

  "How old were you when your parents died?"

  "Twenty, but ignorant, if you know what I mean. In addition to dealing with the shock of losing them at once, I had the horror of getting calls from their attorney, who wan- ted to explain things to me."

  She sighed softly at the memory. "My parents left a pile of bills. Apparently they'd been separated for a couple of years but hadn't wanted me to know. My dad had a penthouse in the city, we all had new cars. By the time everything was paid off, there wasn't much left. I had to drop out of school." She stabbed at her mashed potatoes.

  "The sad part is, I could have handled the news of their pending divorce if they'd bothered to tell me. At least we could have had an honest conversation before they died. Plus it turned out most of my friends were more interested in my lack of social standing and financial resources than in staying loyal. I grew up fast. By the time the dust settled, I was ready to take care of myself."

  She had an open face, he thought, watching her. Every emotion flashed across her eye
s. She would be a lousy poker player.

  "You seem to have done a good job," he said.

  "Thanks. I tried."

  He touched the dining room table. "This looks old. Is it a family antique you managed to salvage?"

  She laughed. "I'm sure it's someone's but not mine. I bought it a couple of years ago at a garage sale. The hutch came with it." She grinned. "These days, I live for a good bargain. You should see me at the half- yearly sales. I'm formidable."

  "Sounds like it. Do you miss being rich?"

  "Who wouldn't?" She scooped up a forkful of stuffing. "But I like who I am now a whole lot more than I liked who I was before. I consider that a plus."

  She was a pint-size bundle of trouble, he thought grimly. Pretty, sexy, single and appealing. Why had he ever accepted her invitation?

  "What brings you to Whitehorn?" he asked. "It's a long way from Arizona."

  For the first time that evening, she avoided his gaze. "I wanted to experience "big sky country," she said breezily. "You know – the myth of the Old West. I just sort of found my way here."

  Mark's chest tightened. She was lying. He would bet his life on it. Which meant there was something she didn't want him to know. Like Sylvia, she was a woman with secrets – and off-limits to him.

  Chapter Three

  After dinner, they cleared the table, then Darcy led the way into the small living room. Mark followed, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa.

  "That was great," he said. "I'm impressed."

  "Thank you." She patted her stomach. "I'm full but don't feel as if I'm about to explode. I consider that a positive statement after a Thanksgiving dinner."

  "I didn't get through my half of the turkey."

  She laughed. "That's right. You were supposed to eat your whole twelve pounds' worth. Maybe I should pack it up and you can take it home. I have a great recipe for turkey enchiladas. I could write it down for you."

  "I don't cook much."

  She pretended surprise. "I thought all New York City detectives were incredibly domestic."

  "I missed that class." He studied her. "So you know I lived in New York. Am I a regular topic for gossip or is it just a sometime thing?"

  Darcy refused to give in to the embarrassment she could feel growing inside her. "Everyone has his or her fifteen minutes of fame at the Hip Hop Café," she said casually. "You were a hot topic when you moved back, but things have calmed down some since then."

  "Good to know."

  Darcy sipped her wine and regarded her guest over the rim of her glass. He was a good-looking man. Too good-looking for her long-celibate state. Tall, strong, with compelling green eyes. She liked that his dark brown hair was a tad too long and that his tailored slacks showed off his perfect butt nearly as much as his jeans did.

  She took another quick sip to keep herself from grinning. She couldn't believe she was sitting here thinking about Mark's butt. She had no right – nor was it her style. Even back in the dark ages when she'd actually dated, she'd never been overly interested in sex. She'd given in because it had been expected, but most of the time, she'd been faintly bored by the experience. In the past five years she'd missed the emotional closeness of male-female relationships more than the physical intimacy … right up until she'd laid eyes on Mark.

  Something about the man set her body to humming. She sort of enjoyed the sensation of being faintly aroused without him actually doing anything. At least it was a change from her usual worry and exhaustion.

  He'd surprised her by being a pleasant guest. She'd thought he might not talk at all, which had made the thought of just the two of them at the table fairly horrifying. For a few minutes he'd seemed to withdraw into himself, but he'd recovered and had continued with his questions. Speaking of which…

  "I think it's my turn to play detective," she said teasingly. "You learned everything about me at dinner, so now I should learn about you."

  "Ask away."

  She shifted so that she was facing him. "How did a man born and bred in Montana end up in New York? As a detective, no less?"

  "It's something I wanted from the time I was a kid. I never got the rodeo bug, so I wasn't interested in steer wrestling or bronc riding. I spent my time reading police procedurals. When I graduated from college, I headed for New York where I got a job on the police force. I worked my way up from there."

  His expression didn't change as he spoke and Darcy had a difficult time figuring out if the memories made him sad.

  "What brought you back?" she asked.

  "I was shot."

  She nearly spilled her wine. "In the line of duty?"

  "A murder suspect didn't like the way the investigation was going. She took out her temper on me."

  Darcy stared at him in shock. "She? A woman shot you?"

  "I suppose."

  She studied him, looking for healing scars or hints that he'd been hurt. There weren't any – nothing was visible and he didn't walk with a limp. She'd seen him out jogging so he must be doing better. She thought about asking where he'd been wounded, but the question felt too intimate. "I don't think of the average woman as being a violent person."

  "She isn't. But there are always exceptions."

  "Do you miss the work?"

  He shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn't want to answer the question. "Some."

  "Do you miss the city?"

  "It sure ain't Whitehorn."

  She laughed. "You have that right. I re- member growing up in Chicago. We were always going into the city on weekends to different restaurants and plays. Or to the museums."

  "There's a great western museum not too far from here."

  "Gee, thanks. Next you'll be telling me that the Hip Hop Café serves international cuisine."

  "They do offer an Oriental chicken salad on the menu."

  She took another sip of wine. "I actually knew that."

  He picked up his glass from the coffee table. "Okay, so Whitehorn doesn't exactly have the same amenities. I'll admit I do miss New York. The ethnic foods were great, as was the idea that I could get anything I wanted at any time of the day or night. Detective work isn't nine-to-five, so we appreciated the late hours the restaurants were open." He drank from his glass. "I was never much of a museum guy, but I did enjoy theater." He frowned slightly. "I don't think I ever saw the end of a play. I nearly always got called to a crime scene."

  She leaned her head against the sofa back. "I can't begin to relate to your experiences."

  "I wouldn't want you to. Sometimes they make it hard to sleep at night."

  She waited, but he didn't say more. Did he have trouble sleeping? Did he pace long into the night? Lamplight highlighted the strength of his jaw. He had a well-shaped mouth, she thought dreamily. She would bet ten bucks that Detective Mark Kincaid was one fine kisser. Not that she was going to find out, but a girl could dream. She smiled at the thought of telling him kissing might make sleeping easier … or not.

  "You're not married," she said before she could stop herself.

  His eyebrows rose slightly. "No. Never have been."

  "Me, either."

  "No surprise there. You're barely old enough to be legal."

  "I'm twenty-five."

  "A baby."

  She straightened. "You're hardly in your dotage."

  "It's not the miles. It's the wear and tear."

  He smiled as he spoke. A teasing curve of lips that made her heart stutter against her ribs and her hands suddenly go damp. She had to be extra careful when she put down her glass so that it didn't slip.

  "You should smile more," she said.

  His good humor faded. "I don't find life especially funny."

  "Maybe not, but there are still pleasant surprises. Tonight, for example. I was worried and nervous about you coming over to dinner, but it's turned out fine. We've chatted more easily than I would have thought."

  "I'll give you that," he said. "I didn't want to come. The way you badger me about what I eat, I was sure you we
re going to put tofu in something."

  "You didn't even taste it."

  His eyes widened. "Darcy."

  He growled her name more than said it. Shivers trickled down her spine. She found herself wanting to lean toward him, press against him to see what would happen. Dangerous thoughts, she told herself. She must make sure to keep them to herself.

  "It was in the mashed potatoes," she whispered. "I would never put tofu in the stuffing."

  He laughed. She'd never heard him laugh before – not that they'd spent all that much time together. Most of their conversations had been abbreviated exchanges with her arguing about his breakfast choice.

  "I'll bet you don't even have tofu in the house," he said, then finished his wine.

  "You're right, but I will admit to the pleasure of watching a grown man tremble at the thought." She rose and stretched. "There's probably one more glass of wine in the bottle," she said. "As you're not driving, why don't you finish it?"

  He nodded his agreement and she walked into the dining room. The wine bottle stood on the table. She grabbed it. As she ap- proached the sofa, she fought against the urge to slide down next to him. What would the detective say if she suddenly plopped herself down close, maybe even on his lap. She giggled as she pictured him leaping up in horror. The wine would spill on her sofa and she would be humiliated. It was probably best if she kept her feelings to herself.

  "What's so funny?" he asked.

  "Just my own twisted sense of humor."

  He held out his glass. She bent toward him to pour, but instead of focusing on what she was doing, she found herself staring into his green eyes. She didn't think she'd ever known a man with green eyes before. They were actually beautiful – well shaped and fringed with long, dark lashes.

  "Darcy?"

  She heard him speak her name, but she couldn't respond. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. There was a pressure, as well, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She felt unbearably warm, yet her legs were trembling. If not from cold, then from what?