The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) by Christie Ridgway Page A

shoulder blades. He grabbed his T-shirt there and yanked it over his head.
    Her breath caught. Wow.
    Busy businessman that he claimed to be, he must still find time to do some sort of exercise that created those broad shoulders, muscled arms, chiseled chest and abdomen.
    Her belly jittered as she took in his vital, half-naked male form.
    Wow , she thought again, and the tiny hairs on her body lifted as if to seek his warmth, making her flesh prickle all over. Then the rim of her ear throbbed, insistent pulses of heat that recalled his touch there on the day the rose petals rained down.
    Belatedly aware she was staring, Sara yanked her gaze off him and almost ran to the utensils drawer in the kitchen.
    “The food is ready when you are. I only need to set a—”
    “I’m going to change first,” Joaquin said.
    By the time he returned in dry clothes, she’d arranged a single place in front of one of the stools drawn up to the island—his preferred spot to eat his meals.
    Before he’d completely unfolded the napkin in his lap, she set a cold beer on the granite surface followed by a steaming plate of chicken and dumplings. He’d sampled neither when she returned from the refrigerator with the salad she’d prepared for him.
    “Is something wrong?” she asked. Usually he dug in with relish.
    “Have you eaten?” he asked.
    “I’m not really hungry—”
    “You haven’t had dinner.” He toyed with his fork then looked back at her. “Set another place, Sara.”
    “Oh, I don’t think…”
    “Your employer’s sick of his own company,” Joaquin said. “Consider it another duty—at least for tonight—to eat with him.”
    Duty. Her spine straightened. Duty she understood a thousand times better than whatever strange compulsion had been leading her to get friendly with him, to almost flirt with him, to taste that mouth of his with her tongue.
    As she gathered more utensils, she tossed a quick glance his way and thought he looked…irritated? But his expression was smoothed out by the time she took her own stool.
    At his first bite of chicken and dumplings, Joaquin released a low, deep moan of pleasure. Sara tightened her grip on her fork, admonishing herself not to squirm in her seat, even though the near-erotic sound made her thighs clench and the place between them begin to throb.
    “This is really good,” he said. “Is it complicated to make?”
    She shook her head, forcing her attention to her own plate as she tried ignoring her physical reaction to him. “It’s easy. Plain cooking. Comfort food.”
    “Someone needs comforting?”
    A flush warmed her neck and cheeks. She hadn’t thought that through—instinct had directed her choice.
    “The fog,” she said lamely, shrugging one shoulder. “It just seems like the kind of evening for a warm, old-fashioned dish.”
    They continued to eat, the conversation staying on the safe topic of the weather. When they’d both finished their plates—he’d helped himself to seconds—Joaquin insisted on doing the dishes.
    “That’s my job,” she protested.
    But he was having none of it. “Not only did you cook the dinner, I ordered you to eat it with me. At least I can clean up.”
    Sara could have uttered some assurance about it being no trouble to share a meal, but that would be a lie. The entire time she’d robotically fed herself, she’d been hyper-aware of his shoulder a couple of inches away. From the corner of her eye she’d watched his long-fingered hands cut and spear his food.
    She wondered what they’d be like on her.
    But with him moving about the kitchen, she still could not escape. He required direction about the appropriate drawers for the now-washed pots and pans and where to find the dishtowels. He randomly opened one upper cabinet and stared at its contents, letting out a low whistle.
    “You weren’t kidding about the condiments,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I see about two dozen different kinds of mayo and twice