Page 40 of The Billionaire's Catch

“This was not about sports.” The caller ID beeped again, and she gritted her teeth. She was going to have to change her number. “We need to talk.”

“All right,” he agreed. “It’s probably best not to have this conversation in public. Why don’t you come over? I’m making breakfast, so there’s plenty to eat.”

“That won’t work.” Being alone with Jason inevitably led to one of them being naked. Her lady parts cheered, did a dance and said pretty, pretty please but it didn’t matter. She had to stay strong.

“Is there a reason you can’t come over?” He broke into her inappropriate thoughts. “You already agreed this should be private. Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

Yes. Affirmative. Give the man a prize. But it didn’t matter – she was stuck. “All right. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Even though she wasn’t working, Dara donned one of her power suits, a pitch black blazer and pants set that yelled feminist power. Hopefully it would keep him – and her – in the right frame of mind. She pinned her hair into a severe French twist, slipped on a pair of sensible pumps and headed out the door.

She knew where Jason lived, but had never been to his home. The estate was set on several acres, an indulgence in their suburban sprawl, behind a thick wrought iron gate. She whistled low as she approached the three story ivory mansion that boasted rounded towers and stately ironwork. Overflowing flowerpots filled huge picture windows, bursts of violet and magenta painting majesty on the impressive mansion. Dara opened her window to speak to the intercom, but the gate opened before she could say a word. The car silently treaded on the cobblestone path as she entered his lair.

Jason was waiting outside the front door, dressed casually in jeans and a burgundy t-shirt over the muscles she knew so well. His expression turned serious, as he took in her somber ensemble. “Are you working today?”

She shook her head.

“A funeral?”

“It depends,” she returned, “on whether you had anything to do with today’s breaking news.”

His chuckle proved the threat didn’t worry him. “Let’s discuss it over breakfast.”

“Actually, I’m not hungry.” She’d been far too worked up to eat. Perhaps they could have the conversation outside, and she could avoid entering his home altogether. It was the safest option. “This should only take a few minutes.”

Only he had other ideas. “Have you eaten today?” When she shook her head, he gestured her inside. “Then we’ll talk after breakfast.”

She could fight more, but it would just take up more time. If one of them ended up naked, it was definitely his fault. “Do you ever listen to a word I say?” she huffed as she stomped past him.

“Not if it’s about taking care of yourself.” His reply was all serious as he led her through a soaring foyer with paintings of beach scenes. They crossed an expansive study with cherry wood furnishings and the rare Florida fireplace, before reaching a gourmet kitchen that was half the size of her entire house. She stopped short at the feast set out on the table. Eggs, pancakes, potatoes, waffles and more were spread out in gleaming white China. Her mouth watered. “Did you cater in the food?”

He shook his head.

“A cook?”

He gazed at her. “I’m pretty possessive about my kitchen, among other things.”

Things and people? “You cooked all this?”

Sparkling eyes confirmed it as he led her to a table with two plates already piled high with a selection of the offerings. She grasped the white lace napkin. “You’d better not let the world discover you’re a good cook. If you think they’re banging down your door now…”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled as he unfolded his own napkin. “I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. Does this mean you’ll eat?”

He probably wouldn’t talk to her until she did. “All right.” She held up a finger. “But we talk during the meal, not after. And keeping secrets is exactly what I’m here to discuss.”

“Eat.”

She sighed but complied, stabbing a perfectly roasted potato. She blew on it and took a bite, sighing at the delicious blend of spices, bursting with flavor. All plans to speak vanished like the steam rising from the food, as she took another piece, and then another and another. After a few more, she sipped the orange juice, freshly squeezed and sun sweetened. Then she sampled the rest of the fare. The pancakes were fluffy, sweet and generously infused with plump blueberries, the eggs were cooked to golden perfection and the waffles were crisp on the outside and dewy softness inside. Everything was absolutely delicious. Finally, she put down her fork. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“It runs in the family. My grandfather was a chef.” Jason pointed to a crepe. “That’s called palacsinta. It’s a Hungarian recipe my grandmother used to make.”

She picked up the thin, rolled pastry and brought it to her mouth. The delicate crepe was light and sweet, with a hearty strawberry jelly filling. She ate the entire piece without pause.

He stared at her lips. “You have a little bit of jelly right there.” Ever-so-softly, he dabbed her lower lip, tracing the outline of her mouth.

She closed her eyes as he placed the jelly between her parted lips. Sensation streaked, from so innocent yet intimate a touch. As he removed his hand, she forced her eyes open and put down her fork. If she thought about anything else delicious – either food or the man who’d just finger fed it to her – she’d never address her reason for coming. “I’m here because of the news.”

He put down his own fork. “What news?”

---