Page 48 of Takes Two to Tango

The digital clock on the microwave read 10:23 p.m. Nighttime was her favorite time to test new recipes. Something about the gathered darkness around her, the freedom to saute and puree dressed in nothing but a cotton nightgown. No bustle, no shouting from the line cooks, nothing but her mind and her art.

A muffled thump sounded on the back porch.

Rayne laid her wooden spoon on the spoon rest and glanced in that direction. The door was closed and locked, but something about the windows open with only a thin screen between her and the night made her feel vulnerable.

She eased toward the door, glad she was barefoot and wouldn't make noise.

Another thump sounded followed by a muffled curse.

Brent.

She unlocked the door and unlatched the screen. Likea magician-sans his cape-he appeared in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he whispered. "It's almost ten-thirty."

''I'm not the one creeping around someone's porch at this hour. You are. What areyoudoing?" she asked, crossing her arms over her apron, well aware that she was wearing a paper-thin cotton gown and no bra. It seemed strangely tempting to be so aware of what she wasn't wearing.

"I had to take a few boards out of my truck because I can't load the machinery I need at the Mitchells' tomorrow. Need my air compressor."

Rayne pretended to look at a nonexistent watch on her wrist."And you waited till nearly ten-thirty to bring them over?" She raised her eyebrows like an impatient school marm.

He spread his hands. "Maybe I had ulterior motives."

"You saw the light?"

He grinned and nodded. "And smelled something cooking. You making something good?”

“Just a work in progress.”

“Oh, well. You wanna to take a walk? As friends?"

She peered into the soft darkness covering the shrubs and trees of the newly trimmed backyard. The moon’s luminescence fell onto the glossy leaves, lustering the gloom. "I'd like to, but I have a cake in the oven awaiting the blueberry compote.”

He inhaled. "That's what I smelled."

She kept her hand on the knob as if she might not let him inside. But she knew she would, the way she knew she shouldn't have gone over to his house the last time she'd visited him. Temptation flirted with her, heated her blood, made her oblivious to all things rational. She thought about his parting words days before. He’d hit the ball in her court.

And she wanted to hit it back. Damn her.

So here stood sexy Brent Hamilton on her porch wearing a pair of well-washed jeans and a tight T-shirt that made his eyes looked even bluer than the delphiniums on the plates mounted to the wall behind him. He was a Dolly Parton song waiting to happen.

"You want to come inside for a taste?" she asked.

His eyes actually dilated at her not so obviously stated invitation. But he knew. Yes, he knew. She wanted a taste of something herself.

He stepped inside and shut the door.

"Show me what compote is," he said, moving toward the stove.

A small radio sat on the baker's rack. Her aunt liked to can tomatoes and bake Christmas cookies with accompaniment. Rayne flicked the switch and tinny music filled the quiet. Nothing like country love songs to fill a void. Or give her something to sway to.

One of Brent's arms snaked around her waist and spun her toward him. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear,"Forget compote. Let’s dance.”

He curled an arm around her back and pulled her to him. The other pushed her curls from her face before grasping her hand. Then he began to move to the music, to the man crooning about having never seen that look in his woman's eyes.

She felt mesmerized, caught in a magical place of memories and new paths. It was both frightening and exhilarating, but she knew she wanted to go there.

To a new place. With Brent.

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