The Expectant Secretary by Leanna Wilson Page B

brow, and she resisted the absurd urge to smooth it back into place. In one hand he held a spatula and in the other a smoking skillet.
    Jacques Pépin, the famous French chef, he wasn’t. But fatally sexy, he was. She felt the impact of his smile clear down to her toes.
    â€œSo much for breakfast.” His starched white shirt and faded blue jeans seemed as out of place in the opulent surroundings as he would in a kitchen. “We can eat on the way to the vineyard.”
    â€œYou made breakfast? For me?”
    â€œI know you haven’t had anything to eat.” He narrowed his gray eyes on her as if suddenly unsure of himself. A rare emotion for Brody, one that made him seem vulnerable, and too appealing. “Have you?”
    She’d only had toast earlier, but it seemed like hours since she’d eaten as she was already starving. So far today she’d felt normal, no nausea, no dizziness, until the smell of cremated eggs reached her. Immediately, she reached in her purse for a lemon drop to ease her suddenly roiling stomach.
    He scrunched up his nose at the acrid odor. “Doesn’t make your mouth water, does it?” Backing away, he said, “Come on in. Let me turn off the stove and we’ll head out.”
    Popping the tart candy in her mouth, she stepped into the foyer, noticing the polished marble flooring, the elaborately carved grandfather clock and the sparkling chandelier. Imagining a host of employees to do his cooking and cleaning, she asked, “You don’t cook often, do you?”
    â€œHow’d you guess?” He carried their charred breakfast into the kitchen and dumped the ruined eggs into the sink.
    Following, she could tell the black-and-white tiles had been spotless before Brody had started breakfast. Bacon grease spattered the stove. Coffee grounds dotted the counter. The percolator sputtered and hissed as coffee flooded the carafe. The robust aroma cleared the cobwebs out of her head.
    Smoke set her in action. It curled out of the toaster. Jerking the plug out of the socket, she frowned at the blackened crust. “Maybe I should offer to make you breakfast sometime.”
    Her gaze collided with Brody’s. His eyes smoldered. Her insides simmered. What had she offered? Certainly not what her question had suggested! Having breakfast often implied…
    â€œI—I mean, well…” She wiped her hands on the back of her slacks. “Maybe we should go…leave…before the smoke alarms start going off.” Or any other alarms besides the ones inside her head blared. “If you’re hungry, we can pick up something on the way.” She turned abruptly on the low heel of her sandal and headed toward the door.
    Be careful, Jillian, be very careful. Brody is not what you’re looking for. A home would be nice, yes. A family, certainly. But a man like Brody? No way! He moves in a fast lane with sporty cars and glitzy women. Not a pregnant mommy-to-be, like you.
    Not a problem, she thought. She wasn’t interested in Brody any more than he was interested in her. She had everything under control. Especially her hormones. And her emotions.
    But she couldn’t contain a smug smile a few minutes later as she and Brody walked through the lobby, the receptionist’s jealous gaze following their every move.
    Watch yourself, Jillian. Don’t get too cocky, especially when you have no claims on Brody.
    She had once. Or so she’d thought. The memory brought a mixture of pleasure and pain bubbling to the surface.
    By the time they’d reached the interstate, Jillian had settled into her role as chauffeur. Her hands gripped the steering wheel with confidence. She kept her gaze on the road and shifted her eyes only toglance at the rearview mirror. Never to look at Brody. Better safe, she reasoned, than sorry.
    â€œDid you finish college here in the States?” Brody asked, trying to make light conversation. He sipped his