The corner of his mouth curved faintly. “It was a learn-or-starve situation.”
She chuckled, pushing the hair away from her face and across her shoulders. Roan Taggart didn’t look like a cowboy right now. Her imagination ran wild. Perhaps a dark, sexy biker on his black Harley hog. Or a mixed martial arts fighter. Or . . . in her bed. Wow . . . her drowsy brain was really stuck on sex, wasn’t it? “You said I had to cook for myself.”
Hitching one shoulder, Roan replied, “I’ll let you off the hook tonight. You’ve had a long flight and you looked like you were going to keel over from exhaustion at the airport. We’re having T-bone steaks, corn, biscuits, and a salad. Sound edible to you?”
Her heart warmed. His voice was low and husky, but she saw a glint in his gray eyes, maybe amusement. Maybe he felt sorry for her? Shiloh wasn’t sure. “It sounds wonderful. Thank you. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You could set the table.” He pointed up to the cabinets nearby. “Dishes in there and silverware down here.” It felt strange to have a woman underfoot. Roan liked a woman in his bed. But in his house? When Shiloh came close, he could smell her feminine scent. His body stirred. Again. Dragging in a deep breath, Roan was unhappy with himself. Whatever door that was open between them remained that way. He’d always been able to shut out emotions when necessary because his survival was at stake. The only danger here was his damned body beginning to ache for hers. Shiloh wasn’t doing anything to cultivate that kind of a reaction from him. Roan tried to ignore her puttering around the kitchen barefoot. Worse, the sway of her hips got him. Big-time. She could wear sackcloth and he’d still see those hips of hers moving. She was shapely in all the right places and his hands practically itched to curve around her.
“What time did you come home?” Shiloh asked, putting the two white ceramic plates on the square cedar table.
Roan looked up at the stove clock. “About an hour ago.”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You won’t.”
She hesitated at the drawer next to the stove where he was cooking the T-bone steaks. “Because you were in black ops?”
Frowning, Roan cut her a quick glance. “Did Maud tell you I was in Special Forces?”
“Yes.” Shiloh carried the flatware over to the table, placing it. “In my mind’s eye I could see you as an operator. Or”—she smiled a little—“maybe a biker on a big Harley motorcycle, or a mixed martial arts fighter.”
His flesh riffled listening to her smoky voice. “You’ve got quite an imagination.” He could envision several scenarios with her in bed with him, too. But he didn’t think she’d appreciate him being verbal about his fantasies that involved her.
“Yep, that’s me. When I see a person, I fantasize who they might be beneath the clothes they’re presently wearing. Faces tell me so much.”
Roan checked on the biscuits. They’d be crispy about the time the medium-rare steaks would be ready. “Have you always done that?” His curiosity about her was new to him. Maybe if he knew Shiloh better, she wouldn’t be such a damned magnetic draw for him. Maybe she had a dark side, was a bitch in disguise . . . anything to make her less appealing to him. However, looking at her face, Roan couldn’t see anything but honesty in her drowsy expression. He knew body language as well as breathing. Body language interpretation had saved his life too many times to count. Shiloh was open toward him. She wasn’t putting her arms across her chest, her eyes weren’t moving rapidly, as if looking for someone to jump them. Her stride was relaxed, not tense or shorter than normal. All those things served to tell Roan about a person’s state. She also candidly met his gaze and held it.
“What? Read faces?” She smiled sleepily and discovered the salt and pepper shakers in a nearby spice rack.
“Yes.”
“My Dad did it. I remember him teaching me about people, their expressions, and their body movement from the time I was six until he died. He used to take me to Central Park and we’d sit on a bench and he’d ask me what I saw in a face as someone jogged by or walked their dog past us.” Shiloh halted at the edge of the kitchen, thinking how much Roan filled it with his powerful, muscular presence. The man was big. His hands were big. So were his feet. Shoulders so broad. And a chest that reminded her of someone who swam a great deal; maybe a diver, her imagination whispered.
“Your father was teaching you body language?”