“It would be so easy for me to say yes,” she admitted, her body thrumming with need, her lips tingling from his kiss, her hands wanting to touch him everywhere, to explore his body again, this time as someone who’d come to know him. “So very easy but...”

“But?” he asked quietly when she remained silent.

She sighed. “It’s too important. When we take this next step—and I don’t doubt we’ll take it; there’s too much between us not to—I want it to be right. I don’t want it to be just because we’re attracted to each other, because we have an itch to scratch.”

“I can guarantee you that this is more than just an itch for me.” His voice was sincere, his gaze intense. “But I don’t want to push you, Ivy. I don’t want a repeat of our first night together.” He stepped back, though it seemed to cost him, and Ivy’s heart soared because she knew, could feel how much he wanted her. “So we’ll slow down.”

Because she was worried about what he meant by that—because she wasn’t sure what she wanted him to mean—she linked her fingers together at her waist. “I guess I’ll see you later, then. Thanks for the champagne.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you kicking me out?” His expression darkened. “Swear to God, Ivy, if you tell me you have plans I’m going to wring your gorgeous neck.”

She laughed. “Calm down, cowboy. I don’t have any plans. I just figured you’d want to be on your way since you’re not...since we’re not...”

“Since we’re not having sex, you figure I’ll just skip on out? That that’s the only reason I’m here?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure if I’m pissed you think so little of me. Or of yourself.”

“Oh, believe me, I think quite highly of myself, thank you very much. I’ve just been around enough men to know where their priorities lie.”

He trailed a finger down her cheek, and it was all she could do not to lean into him. “You’ve obviously been hanging out with the wrong men.”

“No argument there.” He was the first man she actually wanted to hang out with.

He checked his watch and her heart sank. He probably was just saying those things to be polite. Now he’d make an excuse, an appointment he forgot about, a phone call he had to make. He smiled at her. “It’s close to dinnertime. Want to go out? Get something to eat?”

She smiled, her relief way bigger than it should be. If she wasn’t careful, if she wasn’t smart, this man would have the power to crush her. She cleared her throat. “Actually, I picked up the ingredients for a new chicken dish I’ve been wanting to try. You could...stay here. I mean, we could eat dinner here. Maybe watch a movie after.”

She held her breath wondering if that was a stupid thing to ask a millionaire to do. Did they even sit at home and watch DVDs? On regular televisions on regular couches, instead of some media-slash-theater room complete with professional sound system and picture?

“A homemade meal? Sounds great to me,” he said with a smile. “I can’t tell you the last time I had someone cook for me. Who wasn’t paid to do so.”

“Well, this meal won’t be free. Not exactly. If you want to eat, you’ll have to pull your weight in the kitchen.”

He blanched, looked at the kitchen as if it was her personal torture chamber and he was next in line for water boarding. “Can’t I just do the dishes?”

She took his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you the ropes, and I’ll even be gentle with you. I promise.”

An hour later, chicken thighs were simmering in tomato sauce laced with cinnamon while a pot of rice bubbled on the back burner. Her kitchen was a disaster area. She usually preferred to clean as she cooked, but she was too busy supervising her assistant to keep her work area tidy tonight.

Clinton hadn’t been kidding about being nervous in the kitchen. At first she’d thought maybe he was just against doing something as domestic and, well, blue-collar as cooking for himself. But then she’d given him the task of chopping an onion, and she’d realized he didn’t think he was too good for the chore. He was just completely inept.

And embarrassed by it.

It had been sweet and had endeared him to her even more—more than was wise, that was for sure. Especially when she was still so wrapped up in his earlier words, in how he’d accepted her rejection by being so kind. So understanding. So charming. As if he cared about her, about her feelings. As if he, too, wanted to make sure the next time they were together it was right. Special.

She turned the burner down under the rice and cursed to herself. Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

“How old were you when you started cooking?” he asked from the sink, elbow deep in suds. Hey, just because she’d put him to work didn’t mean she wouldn’t take him up on his offer to do dishes.

She faced him. Leaned against the counter, Jasper at her feet. “I’d mastered the art of grilled cheese sandwiches and scrambled eggs by the time I was six.”

“Six? Isn’t it dangerous for a kid that young to be using the stove?”

“Probably. Melba—my mother—wasn’t too concerned as long as I didn’t burn the apartment down.”

Clinton rinsed a bowl, set it in the drainer, then emptied the sink. “You must have really enjoyed cooking.”

Ivy snorted. “More like, I enjoyed eating, and if I wanted to eat something that wasn’t out of a can, I had to cook it.”

He nodded. “Your mother didn’t know how to cook?”

“For all I know, she may have been a gourmet chef, had the skills to be one, but she didn’t bother making meals. She preferred to have someone else doing things for her.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like my mother.”

“Well, having only seen your mother that one time, I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess there were plenty of similarities. Vanity, for one. Fear of ageing, of being old and no longer seductive. Of losing the power she’d held over people since she first learned how to bat her baby-blue eyes.”

He stared at her, and Ivy wished she could tell what he was thinking. “You just described my mother perfectly.”

Ivy nodded. Smiled. “Yeah, I figured they were cut from the same cloth.”

“I’m almost glad they won’t ever have a chance to meet,” he muttered. “They’d probably bond, and a friendship like that could ruin the world.”

“No need to worry. My mom would have hated yours. She didn’t like competition. Besides, your mom has everything Melba always wanted. The wealth. The big house. Melba would have thought your mom had it made. No worries, no having to wait on drunks, no flirting for tips.”

“She was a waitress?”

“Since she was old enough to serve alcohol.” Ivy had taken to the trade earlier than that, having worked the breakfast shift at a local diner during high school. Having the same profession was where any similarities between Ivy and her mother ended. Melba had hated waiting on other people. But there was no shame in being a waitress. In working hard. Something her mother had never understood. “To Melba, her job wasn’t a way to get ahead—it was a way to meet the man who would finally give her everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she deserved. Taking care of herself wasn’t her priority.”

“What about taking care of you?”

Ivy forced a smile. Took two plates from an upper cabinet. “That, too, was a necessary evil. A burden. Don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t abusive or even neglectful. I was clothed and fed—though not well, until I started cooking for us. She was just...vain. Self-absorbed and focused solely on what other people could do for her. How they could help her. Focused on finding a man to take her away from her life. Give her everything.”

The timer buzzed and Ivy pushed away from the counter to turn off the rice. Set the plates on the table. “My mother was beautiful. Stunning, really. One of those women people stop and stare at, the kind who turn men into slobbering idiots. She knew how much power she had, and she used it whenever she could. She loved attention and went through men like gum.”