Starstruck by Anne McAllister Page B

about humming to himself. She was getting in deeper and deeper, sinking fast, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. The wine made her ears warm and her mind slightly muzzy, and she lay her head back and closed her eyes wondering if it were all a dream.
    “Did you think to pick up some salad dressing?” Joe asked, glancing at her across the polished wood bar that separated her armchair from the kitchen.
    “Sorry, no. But I can make some Olivia James’s Secret Salad Dressing if you can find some oil, vinegar and spices,” she offered, hating to get up, but looking forward to working alongside him in the kitchen.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “My expertise doesn’t run to salad dressing. Never took a class in that.”
    “You learned to cook in a class?” That didn’t seem to fit his character at all.
    “Naw. My mother thought I ought to know how to cook. She said it wasn’t just girls who needed to get around in a kitchen. My father didn’t agree, but she won out. Now he complains that my independence in the kitchen has contributed to the fact that he doesn’t have a daughter-in-law.” He was grinning, but she heard a hard edge to his voice.
    “And is that the truth of the matter?” she asked from her kneeling position in front of one of the cabinets.
    “Could be.” He chopped the potatoes quickly and plunked them into the sizzling skillet, stirring them with a fork.
    “That’s a story,” she laughed, “ J OE H ARRINGTON COOKS—DOESN’T NEED A WIFE.”
    “I’ll suggest it next time a reporter is looking for an angle on a story.” He poured some more wine in her glass. “Here, drink up.”
    “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
    He lifted his eyebrows. “Would it help?”
    She considered the matter seriously, studying the way the soft blue denim creased at his knees. “I think it might,” she said slowly.
    He dumped her wine in the sink.
    “What are you doing?” she yelped, grabbing his hand.
    He set the glass back on the counter and resumed stirring the potatoes. “I want you to know what you’re doing,” he said, eyes intent on the frying pan.
    Liv’s expression was bemused. “You mean you’re not going to ply me with liquor and drag me off to the bedroom?” she asked, expressing both her greatest fear and a disappointment she wished she didn’t feel.
    Joe shook his head, his mouth crooked.
    “Why not?”
    Joe stared, fork in midair. “What did you say?”
    “I said, why not?”
    “I don’t know,” he said after a long moment during which she was wishing she hadn’t asked. Oh, why was she so fuzzy-minded all of a sudden? “Pour me another glass of wine, will you?” he muttered.
    She did, still amused that he wouldn’t let her have any, and even more so when she saw him lift the glass and drain it in one long swallow. He shoved the glass toward her for a refill. She shook her head.
    “I’m not plying you with liquor either.”
    He slanted her a glance. “I suppose you won’t be dragging me off to bed, either. Will you?”
    Liv’s mouth curved into a smile. “Well,” she dropped her voice suggestively and saw his hands clench on the counter.
    “Stop it,” he said sharply. Suddenly he was all concentration, totally absorbed in meal preparation, blocking her out completely. Chastened and, on a moment’s re flection, knowing that she had b een playing with fire, Liv followed suit, fixing her attention on the salad dressing. By the time the dressing and hash browns were done, Joe bent to open the broiler and speared the steaks. He flung them onto the waiting platter and strode across the room to set it on the table. “Let’s eat,” he said briskly.
    Liv followed his example silently, sitting down across from him and beginning to eat. It was a good thing he didn ’t let me have that wine, she thought, or who knows how idiotically I might have acted! Had she really been baiting him? She looked up guiltily, but Joe was intent on cutting his steak. Obviously