Page 86 of Bedroom Therapy

“Maybe that’s where it originated. But it’s a recipe my mom used to make. Soup was a good way to feed a large family on a limited budget.”

“Right.”

“She’s a soup expert. This one is really good. The oxtails give it a wonderful flavor and a nice thick texture. And there are all kinds of chunky vegetables.”

“Well, you’re a better cook than I am,” she answered.

“I’ve made a lot of stuff out of books.” Turning from the pot, he asked, “How did the meeting go?”

Unable to keep the excitement out of her voice, she answered, “Beth wants me to do some other articles for her. I mean stuff besides the column.”

“That’s great. I know you’ve got to be pleased.” Zach stepped away from the stove and reached to hug her. She went into his arms, then caught her breath as she catalogued the instant reaction of his body—and her own.

She felt her breathing accelerate, felt her heart pounding against the wall of her chest.

He dipped his head, brushing aside her hair with his nose and planting little kisses on her neck. Little kisses that fanned the flames. They were two people who cared about each other—very much. Yet they couldn’t be easy with each other. Not yet.

“Oh Lord, Amanda, I’m going crazy with wanting you,” he growled.

She stayed in his arms another few seconds, then pushed gently against his shoulders, and he let her go. “We’re both going crazy,” she said in a husky voice. “That’s the idea.”

“When is enough enough?” he asked.

“Let’s see if we can hold out for a week.”

He groaned.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, she searched around for a neutral topic. As soon as she spoke, she realized that nothing she could say was really neutral. “You were out of the house really late last night. What were you doing—going for a five-mile jog?”

“Actually, I was doing an insurance investigation. There’s a guy who claims to be disabled from a fall down the stairs. And he’s trying to collect big time on his disability insurance. I snapped some pictures of him lifting heavy garbage cans and taking them out to the curb.”

“Clever!”

“Yeah, that should screw up his case.”

“How did you know when to take the pictures?”

“I found out his trash day. Then I established that his garbage cans were always at the curb the night before.”

She laughed. “I guess you have to be creative to be a private detective.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice husky, and she knew that he was thinking about other times he’d been creative—like when he’d turned her bedroom into a love nest.

She shifted in her seat. He went back to tending the soup, but she saw that his hand was clenched around the handle of the big spoon.

After several minutes of silence, they started talking about his work again. She didn’t say much about hers. She couldn’t, because that would mean talking about sex—or talking about Tony Anderson. And both of those topics were off limits—for two different reasons.

She chatted with him for a few more minutes, then said she needed to take some notes on her conversation with Beth.

Upstairs, after taking off the skirt and jacket she’d worn into town, she changed into jeans and a tee shirt, then tried to get some work done. When she came back again, Zach, who was chopping vegetables for a salad, looked up as she came back into the kitchen.

“I was thinking that biscuits would taste good with that soup” she said.

“You bet.”

“Do you have the makings?”

“I think so. You can check the pantry and the refrigerator.”

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