Humming a little under her breath, Morgan padded through to the kitchen to deal with the last of the groceries. She hadn’t really given the room much attention, but there were obviously plenty of cupboards, way more than she would need, anyway, and almost every appliance known to man. Half the stuff she wouldn’t even know how to use.
Like the stove. It was huge, clearly a family model, with six burners, a grill, and an oven. An impressive, shiny, stainless steel monster. There was just one small problem. It looked like it ran on gas, not electricity.

Tentatively, her nose wrinkling in distaste, Morgan turned one of the knobs and picked up the distinct sweetish smell of gas. She hastily turned it off, scowling at the thing with little enthusiasm. The one thing she hadn’t thought to buy was matches. And anyway, she couldn’t be altogether sure that she would manage to light the thing even if she had any.

Okay, maybe the stove. She might get that going. Maybe. But the oven? Morgan had a sudden not-so-pleasant picture of her setting fire to the Harmen family home on her very first night. Not that it would be a problem for her, of course, given that she would probably have exited the crime scene with a huge bang, never to be seen again!

Cautiously, because she had to confront the monster sooner or later, Morgan opened the oven door and knelt on the hard tiles, sticking her head inside to try to fathom how the thing actually worked. She found the jets, neatly positioned on the base of the oven, then decided that she would put off the taming of the gas beast until the bright light of day.

“Something wrong?”

Blake’s voice echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen, and Morgan jerked up in fright, banging her head on the top of the oven.

“There is now,” she said belligerently, rubbing the rapidly growing bump on the back of her head. “Don’t you ever knock?”

He lifted his hands in what she guessed had been intended as an apologetic gesture. “Sorry. I guess I’m just so used to just wandering in and out of this place. I promise to unlearn the habit.” He dropped down on his knees beside her, peering into the oven with a definitely practised eye. “What seems to be the problem?”

“There isn’t one. At least not with the stove.” Morgan stopped rubbing her head and allowed herself an embarrassed grin. “At least I don’t think so. The real problem is that I don’t have a license to drive one of these. Nor do I have matches.”

Infuriatingly, Blake threw back his head and laughed. She summoned a look that had to speak offence, but that seemed to make things worse. All she could do was wait, hands on her hips, and her face set in stony disapproval, until his amusement finally subsided into a last-minute chuckle.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. Softly. Mockingly. With a broad make-the-most-of-it grin that seemed almost as bad as his outright laughter. “The great and invincible Morgan Slater is finally brought to her knees, literally, by a gas oven. And an unlighted one at that.” Which brought another exasperating chuckle. Morgan definitely didn’t see the funny side. Not at all.

“Here,” he said, making an effort to suppress the laughter but not doing too well. “Let me show you.” Reaching up a long arm he turned the oven knob to “on” and depressed it. A quick spark lit the jets. Morgan’s face was a picture of astonishment.

“I don’t believe it!”

“Nor do I, or at least I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t actually seen it with my own eyes.”

She knew that he made a dig at her stupidity, but she wouldn’t take the bait. It was bad enough that she’d made a complete idiot of herself without adding insult to injury by letting him get to her. There were definitely times where less was best.

“How’s the head?” Blake lifted a hand to run his fingers gently over her hair, locating the tender spot almost immediately. Morgan winced. “Nasty,” he said. “But at least it’s on the back of your head, safely out of sight, so you be spared the embarrassment of having to explain to everyone what happened.”

So much for sympathy. Morgan opened her mouth to retaliate then shut it quickly. Blake’s gesture, his hand on her hair, somehow seemed to bring him closer, like they were two people caught in the small frame of the oven door. It was disconcerting, because she suddenly felt like there wasn’t enough space to fight back. And for some inexplicable reason she felt like she didn’t want to.

“Well,” she said lightly, because she had to say something, “I suppose the up-side is that at least now I won’t starve. A girl’s gotta eat to keep in shape, you know.”

“Then I’m really glad I was around for the lesson.” He smiled again, but this time she caught a gleam of something else, something entirely and unashamedly wicked, lurking in the back of his eyes. “It’s definitely a shape worth keeping.”

“Blake!” Morgan’s indignant protest only broadened his smile.

“What? That’s a compliment. It really is a great shape. Especially in those playtime pyjamas.”

The sudden rush of colour was a dead giveaway. Playtime was a pretty apt description of the cheeky little two-piece that had definitely been designed with something other than sleep in mind. Morgan wished fervently she could simply push him into the lighted oven and close the door.
He dropped his eyes lazily, and made no effort to hide the fact he enjoyed a lot more than just her embarrassment. Morgan thought longingly of her robe, tossed carelessly on her bed. Then she thought of the old track pants and baggy T she’d almost pulled on. And then, she decided, she ought to listen to the warning bells clanging loudly in the back of her head.

But movement had become oddly difficult, and she had to really work at folding her arms calmly and meaningfully across her chest. Thinking seemed to be just as hard, but somehow she managed to get confusion under control.

“Who are you? And what have you done with Blake Thornton?” It was truly astonishing how calm she actually sounded.

He chuckled. “Maybe it’s time to turn the heat off,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he was talking about the stove. Still, he reached up and jerked the knob, giving her the chance to scramble to her feet.

“I,” she said firmly, “am going upstairs to get my robe. You, in the meantime, can get the real Blake Thornton out from wherever you’ve hidden him.”

*****

The robe was definitely more modest, and a whole lot less appealing. A white, shapeless affair that looked a size or two too big, it obviously didn’t do any justice to what Blake clearly remembered was under it, because his gaze lingered speculatively in all the wrong places.
Morgan eyed him with disapproval, a sort of wary, challenging look that spelled trouble.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he said lightly.

“I wasn’t. I was doing it for myself.” And then, because he clearly thought that she might be acknowledging that his scrutiny could have had some kind of effect on her, she smiled. “You were close to being a dead man, and I really have neither the time nor the energy to be disposing of any bodies. Inclination isn’t the problem. Just the energy.” She let that sink in, but didn’t give him any time to respond. “So tell me. What brings you round her at this time of night?”

“I brought your copy of the lease, and a spare remote for the garage.”

“Thank you.” Morgan busied herself with unpacking the groceries, a kind of you-can-go-now activity that didn’t seem to be working. He still leaned against the counter, watching her with a wholly unreadable expression.

“What?” she said finally. Because he began to irritate her. And because she imagined that somehow he could see right through the old robe and the idea bothered her. But for ridiculous reasons she didn’t even want to think about.

“It’s cute,” he said.

“What is?”

“You. This. Like you’re nesting.”

Morgan smiled despite her irritation. “I suppose I am in a way. It’s a good feeling.”

“I can see that. Yet another contradiction.” She looked at him blankly, waiting for an explanation. “The many faces of Morgan Slater. You’re a pretty complicated girl.”

“I am?” Then, because it sounded provocative and just a little flirtatious, she shrugged it off and moved round him to turn on the kettle.

“Yes,” he said. “You definitely are. A wholly intriguing, complicated package. Layer upon layer upon layer.”

“Like an onion?” She laughed, but it had a nervous edge to it. Like somehow he hit a nerve. “That’s not very complimentary.”

“No. More like rock. Layers of different structures, one on top of the other, each one telling a different story. And as you get deeper they change, but each is as beautiful and as intriguing as the last. Tell me, Morgan Slater, if a man were to get deep down, what would he find? Real, soft gold? Hard and beautiful diamonds? Or hot and deadly molten lava?”

The look slid into his eyes intense, searching, as if somehow he could see right through to a place no other person ever could. Morgan wanted to break away, to shut the door between them but, perversely, found something within herself in her way. Something that seemed to want to be known, like it had been there waiting for the one person who knew where to look. The thought grew, new and crazy and altogether frightening. Heart thudding, mouth dry, Morgan desperately fought for something to hang on to. Something she knew. Something safe and normal and utterly innocuous.

“Tea?” she asked stupidly.

He laughed. The moment shattered. With one last long, searching look he turned on his heel and left.

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