Temptation

to cause her to seriously regret following him into the kitchen.
“What you need is a distraction,” he added, as if he’d read her mind. “A little taste of success. Take me, for example. With a little effort, you could probably win my heart. I’ll play hard to get, of course. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m easy. The challenge and the ultimate victory will do wonders for your self-esteem.”
Callie shook her head at the glib nonsense. “Maybe you’d better let me worry about my self-esteem. Your methods seem a little self-serving.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for the past few months? Sitting around here worrying about your self-esteem? Where has it gotten you?”
She had no ready response for that. Nor was she willing to tell him it had actually been six months, ever since she’d found out about the bimbo in spandex, as Terry had rather inaccurately dubbed her. Women like that wore cotton or very expensive silk. And dumb as they might be, they would almost never be described by anyone as bimbos, no matter how outrageously they behaved. Avoiding such a label was one of the privileges of class, she supposed.
“See, even you can’t deny that I’m right about this,” he said triumphantly when she remained silent. “I think you need an expert.”
“And you’re willing to sacrifice yourself on that particular altar?”
He deftly chopped up an onion and tossed it into the skillet. Only then did he glance her way. The heated, wicked gleam in his eyes could have melted steel, turned it right into a little puddle of molten metal.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said softly.
Callie’s already tremulous insides did yet another nervous little flip. Why in God’s name did brash, bold men like Jason Kane turn her otherwise intelligent brain to mush?
“And what do you get out of this bargain?” she asked.
“Sweetheart, I should think that’s obvious.”
Her chin set stubbornly. She was determined to have him spell it out for her. “Not to me.”
His gaze heated another ten degrees. “Satisfaction,” he said in a slow, lazy way that gave the word more interpretations than Webster had ever dreamed of.
Callie sank onto the closest chair and tried to keep from reaching for a towel to fan her suddenly overheated skin. Her reaction to Jason Kane was disturbing. Very disturbing. She was actually tempted to go along with this bargain of his—her ingrained Middle American moral fiber be damned.
“Bad idea,” she muttered under her breath.
Jason chuckled. “But you are thinking about it, aren’t you?” He tucked a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Tell the truth.”
“No,” she lied very firmly, looking straight into those challenging eyes. “Never in a million years.”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, you are seriously overestimating your willpower or underestimating my powers of persuasion.”
It was quite possible, Callie thought with a sigh of heartfelt regret, that he was right.
* * *
Dinner wasn’t nearly the disaster it might have been, Callie decided as she sipped a glass of wine a couple of hours later. Jason definitely knew his way around a kitchen, even hers. He should have looked a little silly with one of her ruffled aprons tied around his middle, but he was far too masculine for that. The pink gingham had merely shrouded one of the more fascinating parts of his anatomy, a part Callie had no business looking at, anyway.
She jerked her gaze away only to encounter a pair of gray eyes dancing with amusement.
“See anything you like?” he inquired.
“I was just wondering whether that tomato sauce would come out in the wash,” she retorted.
“Should I strip down so you can find out?”
“You wish. Besides, it’s only on the apron.”
“Oh, I’ll bet if I looked hard enough I could find a splash or two on my shirt, maybe a little dab on my pants,” he said with a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m a messy cook.”
He sounded proud of the fact. “Is that the technique you always use to get out of your clothes right after dinner?” Callie asked.
“You have to admit it’s more original than saying I’m going to slip into something more comfortable. Women have been saying that for eons.”
“Maybe the women in your circle. When they’re not at work, my friends are almost always wearing the most comfortable clothes they own.”
He surveyed her denim cutoffs and oversize T-shirt. “So I’ve noticed. Is that the full extent of your wardrobe?”
“Actually, I was once one of Bloomingdale’s best customers. I have an entire closet filled with outrageously expensive power suits. However, I almost never wear them when sitting around the house, especially when I am not expecting company,” she added pointedly.
“Does that mean if I plan to take you to the theater tomorrow night, I should tell you now?”
“Unless you don’t mind being totally embarrassed by your date’s attire,” she said without thinking. When the implication of his question sank in, she promptly tensed. “Are you asking me to go to the theater?”
He paused as if to give the matter some thought, then nodded. “Sounded that way to me.”
“Why?”
“To see a play?” he suggested, as if he, too, were struggling to understand what had motivated the invitation.
Callie scowled at him. “I meant, why you and me?”
“Gee, that’s a tough one,” he taunted. “How about because I have tickets, I don’t have a date and you seem to be presentable enough.”
Disappointed despite herself by the mundane response, she muttered irritably, “That sort of flattery will win a girl’s heart every time.”
He grinned unrepentantly. “I told you I was going to play hard to get.”
Two could play at that game, Callie decided as a matter of self-preservation. Jason Kane clearly had ulterior motives up the wazoo, but there was no point in missing out on the theater because of them. She was confident she could hold her own in any battle of wits with him if she concentrated very hard on not falling prey to his charms.
“Comedy, drama or musical?” she demanded as if it truly mattered. The