Page 19 of 7 Days and 7 Nights

Within minutes he had dredged the veal in flour and had butter melting in a large sauté pan.

Olivia eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Making dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Um-hmm.”

“You cook?”

“That’s right.” Without taking his gaze off her, he emptied the mushrooms into the waiting butter.

“But you’re using flour and...” She peered over the counter at the ingredients he’d assembled. “And mushrooms and ... andutensils...” She pronounced the last word as if it were foreign and didn’t quite fit on her tongue.

“Yep.” He allowed himself a small smile but held a tight rein on his laughter. “Too bad you’ve already eaten. I make a mean veal marsala.”

“Veal marsala.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You’re making veal marsala?”

Olivia looked as if she’d just discovered the world was actually flat after all, and he couldn’t resist passing the perfectly sauteed mushrooms under her nose as he removed them from the pan and set them aside. She sniffed audibly, a reflex action that told him she’d probably cave in and join him if he asked her again.

Which left him feeling smug, in charge, and completely in control. Until Olivia licked her lips. He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue darted out and worked its way across the bow of her mouth. His own hunger spiked, though it had nothing to do with the meal he was preparing.

She took a sip from her glass, and then she ran her tongue over her lips once again. They were wet and dewy with wine, and Matt considered volunteering to dry them off with his own. He glanced up quickly but caught no hint of malice or sexual intent in her eyes. They were, however, full of hunger and lust—all of it focused on his veal marsala.

Matt put pasta in a pot of boiling water and broke up a loaf of Italian bread. For a few minutes, he cooked in silence, sipping his wine while he contemplated the situation. However attractive he found Olivia, no matter what the sight of her tongue skimming over her lips did to him, she was the competition. Only one of them would walk out of this apartment with a radio show on WTLK. And while he doubted he’d be on the street for long, he had no intention of coming in second.

Feeding Olivia would be like offering aid to the enemy. He wanted her off balance and uncertain. Could he use food and drink to help achieve that end?

He drained the linguini, put a large helping on the plate next to the veal, and then topped the cutlets with marsala sauce. The aroma made his mouth water.

Matt slid his plate across the counter, topped off both their wines and moved around to claim the stool next to Olivia’s. Her entire body tilted precariously toward his plate, and her eyes were locked on the result of his culinary efforts.

“I feel bad eating in front of you like this.” He tried to look truly apologetic, but it was hard to pull it off when she looked as if she might land face first in the center of his veal.

He waited for her to say something. A little polite begging and the second helping could be hers, but she just closed her eyes and breathed deeply, no doubt committing the smell of veal marsala to memory for replay during her next PB&J extravaganza.

“No, no. Don’t be silly,” she said. "I’m, uh, just going to finish my wine and watch the food, I mean ... news, for a bit. You go right ahead and meat... I mean, eat.”

Matt clinked his wine glass against hers and took a healthy sip, enjoying the flush of embarrassment that rushed up her cheeks at the obvious Freudian slip. He watched her as he slipped a forkful of veal and mushroom into his mouth and had the satisfaction of seeing her wince with envy. His cooking had thrown her off balance, which was exactly the way he wanted her. Surely he had enough resources at his disposal to keep Olivia Moore permanently off-kilter. All he had to do was identify them.

Her green eyes clouded under his perusal. She took a sip of wine, swallowed it, and stole a surreptitious glance at his plate, as if to reassure herself she wasn’t imagining things. “Did you know how to cook in Chicago?”

“Hmm?”

She lowered her voice, “When we knew each other in Chicago, did you already know how to cook like this?”

He couldn’t remember sharing a single meal with her, though he knew there’d been many. What he remembered was her earnest innocence and the joy with which she’d given herself to him.

“Did Ihavea kitchen back then?”

He could tell from the stain spreading across her cheeks and the way she shifted in her chair that her memories were no more food-related than his.

He watched her worry her bottom lip with her teeth and realized he’d been overlooking the obvious. As an experiment, Matt leaned in closer and let his lips brush against her ear. "I couldn’t tell you where or what we ate in Chicago, but I remember exactly how you tasted, Olivia.”

He paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction, and sure enough, her eyes fluttered closed. Encouraged, he continued. “I’ll never forget how cool and smooth your skin used to feel under my tongue.”

Matt reached a hand out to brush his knuckle down the curve of her cheek. “And I remember the little sounds you used to make when I was inside you. And how you used to sink your nails into my back when you were ready to come.”

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