Free 7 Days and 7 Nights by Wendy Wax

daintily into a cookie and ignored him. Pointedly.
    Undaunted, Matt began to assemble ingredients for his dinner. From the fridge he pulled wrapped packages containing paper-thin medallions of veal and sliced mushrooms. From the case of wine, he selected a Barolo and pulled two wineglasses out of the cupboard.
    Olivia finished the final chocolate chip cookie and slid onto a barstool.
    â€œCan I pour you a glass?”
    â€œYou’re going to drink before you go on the air?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œBut what? I have roughly three and a half hours until I go on, I don’t have to drive to work, and I’m not planning to operate any heavy machinery.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œWe don’t have any heavy machinery here, do we?”
    She studied him from beneath spiky lashes. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green flecked with tiny shards of hazel. And they were not amused.
    Since she hadn’t exactly refused, Matt poured a generous glass of wine for both of them and set hers in front of her. He swirled the heavy red liquid and sniffed appreciatively before taking a satisfying sip of his own. Then he started to cook.
    Within minutes he had dredged the veal in flour and had butter melting in a large sauté pan.
    Olivia eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
    â€œMaking dinner.”
    â€œDinner?”
    â€œUm-hmm.”
    â€œYou cook?”
    â€œThat’s right.” Without taking his gaze off her, he emptied the mushrooms into the waiting butter.
    â€œBut you’re using flour and . . .” She peered over the counter at the ingredients he’d assembled. “And mushrooms and . . . and
utensils
. . .” She pronounced the last word as if it were foreign and didn’t quite fit on her tongue.
    â€œYep.” He allowed himself a small smile but held a tight rein on his laughter. “Too bad you’ve already eaten. I make a mean veal marsala.”
    â€œVeal marsala.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You’re making veal marsala?”
    Olivia looked as if she’d just discovered the world was actually flat after all, and he couldn’t resist passing the perfectly sautéed mushrooms under her nose as he removed them from the pan and set them aside. She sniffed audibly, a reflex action that told him she’d probably cave in and join him if he asked her again.
    Which left him feeling smug, in charge, and completely in control. Until Olivia licked her lips. He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue darted out and worked its way across the bow of her mouth. His own hunger spiked, though it had nothing to do with the meal he was preparing.
    She took a sip from her glass, and then she ran her tongue over her lips once again. They were wet and dewy with wine, and Matt considered volunteering to dry them off with his own. He glanced up quickly but caught no hint of malice or sexual intent in her eyes. They were, however, full of hunger and lust—all of it focused on his veal marsala.
    Matt put pasta in a pot of boiling water and broke up a loaf of Italian bread. For a few minutes he cooked in silence, sipping his wine while he contemplated the situation. However attractive he found Olivia, no matter what the sight of her tongue skimming over her lips did to him, she was the competition. Only one of them would walk out of this apartment with a radio show on WTLK. And while he doubted he’d be on the street for long, he had no intention of coming in second.
    Feeding Olivia would be like offering aid to the enemy. He wanted her off balance and uncertain. Could he use food and drink to help achieve that end?
    He drained the linguini, put a large helping on the plate next to the veal, and then topped the cutlets with marsala sauce. The aroma made his mouth water.
    Matt slid his plate across the counter, topped off both their wines, and moved around to claim the stool next to