It's in His Touch by Shelly Alexander Page A

accept your dinner invitation. Unless you’re already changing your mind.” One corner of his mouth turned up into that same sexy almost-smile that’d made her quiver in unmentionable places while sitting on his exam table. “Or unless you’ve already torn down the kitchen to make room for a hotel.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him.
    A full smile spread across his face, and her knees weakened a little.
    “Just kidding. Actually, I’m starving, and I don’t do much cooking myself. A home-cooked meal would be nice for a change.” He looked around the backyard. “I have a little more work out here, though.”
    “Okay, well.” She was already kicking herself. That freaking delicious pinot noir. “I’ll get started on dinner while you finish up.” Turning to go inside, she stopped and looked back at him. “It’s shrimp, you know. Are you sure you don’t mind having bottom dwellers for dinner?”
    Something new flared in his eyes. Like a satisfied hunter who watched his unsuspecting game walk into a baited trap.
    “I’d love to taste bottom dweller for dinner.”
    Her breath hitched, and a prickle raced across her skin.
    “We can go back to being enemies tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”

    Forty-five minutes later, a delicious aroma caressed Blake’s nose and made his mouth water. He discarded his work gloves and machete on the chair next to the back door. Beside the chair, a thick file folder lay on the table with neatly typed lettering across the tab. He leaned over to read the words. Red River Resort Development.
    Huh.
    With the sunlight almost gone, he peered through the window. Settings for two trimmed the table to the left, while his hostess stirred the sweet-smelling concoction over the kitchen stove to the right. He reached for the folder, then hesitated.
    Damn his conscience. Why’d he always have to be the nice guy? Didn’t nice guys finish last? He’d likely be practicing out of an RV parked down by the river when she was done here, and he felt guilty about breaching a tiny little line of ethics that was right in front of him practically begging to be breached.
    He grabbed the file and knocked.
    “Come in.” Angelique’s voice lilted through the door.
    He turned the knob and entered. Breathed in the hearty scent of sautéed something and almost melted. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was smart. Definitely a woman. A very savvy woman. He looked around the kitchen at the various dishes in progress. Probably an Italian woman.
    Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged her for the domestic type at all.
    Sarge greeted him at the door with a wagging tail and innocent eyes. Blake laid the folder on the bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “You left this outside. It looked important.” He bent to give the dog a scratch.
    When her eyes locked on to the file, she blanched. She dropped what she was doing, scurried over to retrieve the file, and tossed it into a drawer, slamming it shut.
    “Would you like a glass of wine?” She returned to the kitchen island, where she scooped salad onto small plates.
    Her long, slender legs didn’t seem to end, and a loose sweater slid off one shoulder, exposing bare skin. When he didn’t answer, she stopped mid-scoop and lifted an eyebrow in his direction.
    “Sure.” He showed her both hands. “Do you mind if I wash up first?”
    When she lifted a finger to point, it tremored, even though her expression was as cool as the evening breeze outside. “Around the corner.” She pointed an index finger, salad tongs still in hand. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”
    He nodded and followed directions. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he scrubbed like only a doctor would, then splashed some water on his face. After drying off with a hand towel, he returned to the kitchen, where she was setting their meals on the table. She waved him into a chair, noticeably not at the head of the table. She saved that position