Free 7 Days and 7 Nights by Wendy Wax Page A

Olivia’s. Her entire body tilted precariously toward his plate, and her eyes were locked on the result of his culinary efforts.
    â€œGosh, I feel bad eating in front of you like this.” He tried to look truly apologetic, but it was hard to pull it off when she looked as if she might land face first in the center of his veal.
    He waited for her to say something. A little polite begging and the second helping could be hers, but she just closed her eyes and breathed deeply, no doubt committing the smell of veal marsala to memory for replay during her next PB&J extravaganza.
    â€œNo, no. Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m, uh, just going to finish my wine and watch the food, I mean . . . tube, for a bit. You go right ahead and meat . . . I mean, eat.”
    Matt clinked his wineglass against hers and took a healthy sip, enjoying the flush of embarrassment that rushed up her cheeks at the obvious Freudian slip. He watched her as he slipped a forkful of veal and mushroom into his mouth, and had the satisfaction of seeing her wince with envy. His cooking had thrown her off balance, which was exactly the way he wanted her. Surely he had enough resources at his disposal to keep Olivia Moore permanently off kilter. All he had to do was identify them.
    Her green eyes clouded under his perusal. She took a sip of wine, swallowed it, and stole a surreptitious glance at his plate, as if to reassure herself she wasn’t imagining things. “Did you know how to cook in Chicago?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œWhen we knew each other in Chicago, did you already know how to cook like this?”
    He couldn’t remember sharing a single meal with her, though he knew there’d been many. What he remembered was her earnest innocence and the joy with which she’d given herself to him.
    â€œDid I
have
a kitchen back then?”
    He could tell from the stain spreading across her cheeks and the way she shifted in her chair that her memories were no more food related than his.
    He watched her worry her bottom lip with her teeth and realized he’d been overlooking the obvious. As an experiment, Matt leaned in closer and let his lips brush against her ear. “I couldn’t tell you where or what we ate in Chicago, but I remember exactly how
you
tasted, Olivia.”
    He paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction, and sure enough, her eyes fluttered closed. Encouraged, he continued. “I’ll never forget how cool and smooth your skin used to feel under my tongue.”
    Matt reached a hand out to brush his knuckle down the curve of her cheek. “And I remember the little sounds you used to make when I was inside you. And how you used to sink your nails into my back when you were ready to come.”
    He used the truth and their memories to probe beneath the cool exterior, hoping to find the woman who had once dwelt inside. “Do you remember?”
    Olivia’s eyes were suddenly wary. Unsure whether she was about to turn tail and run or round on him with teeth bared, Matt turned and glanced up at the Webcam monitor. What he saw there at first stopped him cold and then filled him with delight. He cocked his head and studied the video image a moment longer while he considered the possibilities.
    The shot revealed the mostly empty bottle of wine, the two wineglasses, and himself and Dr. O engaged in what appeared to be an intimate tête-à-tête. The average viewer would see only what was framed in the camera, and that didn’t include the snarl springing to Olivia’s lips or the warning glint stealing into her eyes.
    â€œNice try, Matt.”
    She uncrossed her long legs and sat up straighter on her stool. The steely look she sent him made him grateful that Mother Nature hadn’t seen fit to endow her with the defense mechanisms of either the skunk or the porcupine. With the Webcam and its misleading image in the forefront of his mind, he maintained the illusion of