“What’s for dinner?” Grayson asked, walking into the house to find Michaela with a thick book open on her lap, her feet propped on the coffee table.  The last few days she’d done nothing in the house, and nothing to help him.  She’d mostly been avoiding him by staying upstairs when he was in the house.

“I don’t know, ask Chef Boyardee or Oscar Mayer.  I think there’s canned pasta in the pantry or hot dogs in the freezer.  Or you could fix yourself a sandwich,” she replied, licking her thumb to turn a page.

He’d been working for three days trying to find answers to her problems.  Her white-collar-criminal uncle was slick, though.  The man had so many bank accounts, some offshore, Gray might never find all of them.  He was too tired and frustrated to keep going tonight.  Tomorrow, he’d get Mac on trying to find her cousin and Dex on getting more information on Vincent Girabaldi’s associates.  Quietly, of course.

“The least you could do would be cook dinner for us. It’s nearly ten o’clock,” he grumbled, as he walked toward the kitchen.

“I’ve already eaten a sandwich, and I won’t be cooking again.  I wouldn’t want to burn anything and upset you, even though the other instance was your fault,” she replied tersely.

Gray frowned as he twisted to look at her and watched as she licked her thumb to turn another page. His fault?  How in the hell did she figure that, when she was the one who left the food in the oven to come outside and give him a massage he didn’t ask for or want?

Well, he hadn’t asked for it, but he sure hadn’t stopped her either. That was his fault.

Gray huffed a breath as he walked to the pantry.  Let her be pissy, he thought, opening the door to scan the contents.  As soon as this investigation was over, the beautiful Ms. Girabaldi could take herself and her attitude back to the east coast where she belonged.

He’d like to send her home right now, but not finishing something was a problem for him. Gray was rabidly OCD and when he took on a task, he didn’t stop until he had answers. 

Not finishing that damned book, which he should never have started, was driving him crazy too.  He’d looked everywhere for it out on the patio, but still hadn’t found it. He thought maybe Michaela had found it, but she hadn’t said anything and he knew she would have. 

When his brain hit neutral a few minutes ago, he went online to try to find an electronic version, but it was out of print.  He’d search used book stores in Dallas when he got back home, because he would finish it—or it would be stuck in his brain forever and so would Michaela Girabaldi.

Gray liked things in his life a certain way, structured and organized, so he didn’t have to wonder about what would happen tomorrow.  That’s why he was so good at his job—and why he didn’t need a wildcard like her muddying things up for him. Those were all good reasons to avoid her, but enumerating them useless, as long as he was cooped up with her here.

He had to get this show on the road, and get her out of his life.

As long as she tempted him with massages with her magic massage oil, and the longing in her gorgeous eyes when she looked at him, Gray was subject to falling prey to her lures.  He was a man, a horny one, and she was available and obviously willing. 

His body might be willing too, but his mind was not.  He had no idea if Michaela was just as much a felon as Mona had been, and wasn’t about to take the chance.  He was already taking a risk by helping her.  Like Mona, if she was guilty, he would be too by association. Gray was not going through that again for any woman.

His stomach rumbled as he gathered barbecue sauce, a box of mac and cheese, and a can of baked beans.  He put the macaroni on to boil, the beans on to heat and then ran out to the patio to turn on the electric pit.  Running back into the house, he found chicken breasts in the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave.  He marinated them in Italian dressing on a cookie sheet, then leaned against the counter to fold his arms and shoot Michaela a smug look. 

He’d been taking care of himself for a long time.  He didn’t need her to take care of, or provide for him.  The price of those fancy Italian meals and massages would be too high. He’d had a very close call with Eve, but he wouldn’t be biting from that apple again, as sweet as it was. 

Across the room, Michaela yawned, closed the book, and set it on the coffee table.  She stood and moaned as she raised her hands above her head to stretch.

“I think I’m going to bed,” she mumbled, putting her hands on her shoulders then sliding them down over her body to bring them to her sides.

Gray’s hands itched and his dick perked up as he remembered the feel of her silky skin under his palms and her moans echoed inside his skull. That had to be intentional, he thought, his anger sparking.  Not going to work, Jersey girl.  I’m onto your tactics.

He dragged his eyes away from her and pushed off of the counter to pick up the cookie sheet, then walked toward the slider. It was nighttime, the sun had set, but an orange glow appeared between the drapes over the slider.  Electric grills were not supposed to have orange glows, he thought, shoving back the curtain. 

Panic shot through him when he saw flames shooting up to the boards of the pergola. The metallic twang of the cookie sheet hitting the tiles woke him up fast.  Hand shaking, he shoved the slider back and ran outside. 

The only thing he could find to help put out the fire was the throw blanket on the bed.  Snatching it off the bed, he beat it against the flames until he could reach in to twist the knob, which branded his fingers.  Gray wound the blanket around his hand, turned off the power then pulled the grill away from the wall. 

When he flipped back the lid, smoke billowed out.  After a few swats with the blanket, the smoke cleared and he saw the charred remains of something smoking on the grill plate. Holding the blanket, Gray pinched the only un-burned corner and plucked it up.

His stomach fell when he saw the word “Ryker’s” on the unburned part of the book, which Michaela had evidently stashed inside the grill.  Anger as hot as the flames he just put out burned through him as he dropped it and the blanket.  Turning, he stomped into the house and found her holding a towel and the cookie sheet right inside the doorway.

“Are you determined to burn the house down before you leave here?” he screeched.

“This is not my fault either,” she replied, her lower lip quivering. “You turned on the grill stupido—without checking to see if anything was in there.”

“You couldn’t find anyplace better than the barbecue grill to hide the damned book?!?” he growled and her eyes widened.

Her chin lifted. “Well, since my purse didn’t turn out to be a good hiding place, I was limited on choices.  How dare you go through my purse!”

“I wouldn’t touch that damned thing without a rifle in my hand and someone standing by to call 911,” Gray said, lifting his own chin. “Digging in that handbag of horrors would be akin to reaching into a snake pit.”

She folded her arms over her chest to glare at him. “Well explain how you found my book then, since it was in my purse?”

“I found it on the floor where you left it after it spilled,” he replied, feeling heat crawl up his neck because he knew what was coming.

“And you read it, of course.  Because it is just the type of book a man of your intellect and education would choose, right?”

“Hardly,” Gray replied with a grunt, but felt his face get hotter.  “I just wanted to find out why you chose it, and now I have my answer, Sonia.  Good luck finding your Ryker, Jersey.  He seems a lot more into smart-mouthed, pushy women, than most real men.”

Her face flushed and her eyes glittered.  “If you are an example of a real man, I’ll stick to books.  So, yes, you have your answer as to why I chose it, and I have mine as to why you read it—for the sex education.”

“Right, and you were more into the story than the sex,” Gray said with a snort, and her face got redder, if that was possible.  Her chin dropped, but her hot eyes bored into his and her body practically vibrated as she unfolded her arms to point her finger at him. 

Goddamn, she was sexy when she was mad.  If she thought the same about him, she must think he was Clark Gable at the moment.  He couldn’t remember ever being as agitated as he was at the moment—or turned on.

“The sex is part of the story, moron, just like it’s part of any adult relationship, which you obviously know nothing about.” Her condescending look made him push her further.

“I know all I need to know about relationships with women, enough to know I don’t want one with a woman who reads romance novels that give her lofty expectations no man can ever measure up to. If that’s the kind of man you’re looking for, Jersey, you better read up, baby, because that’ll probably be as close to sex as you’ll come for a long time.”

“I’m actually not looking for any kind of man. From my experience, you’re all too into your own wants and needs for me,” she said superciliously, folding her arms again. “I can take care of my own needs when I want to—I don’t require you to do that for me.  Did you miss the silver bullet in my purse, or did you steal that too?”

From her experience?  That toned down his enjoyment of their argument several notches, and his desire to continue it, because it made him wonder about the men in her life.  She could have a boyfriend in New Jersey for all he knew.  Well, she sure hadn’t let that stop her from wanting to fuck him on that beach bed the other day.

“I didn’t steal anything out of your purse, and what the hell is a silver bullet anyway?  If it’s to kill bloodsucking women, then I probably should steal it.”

“Touch my purse again and I’ll cut your hands off,” she growled, before she dropped a towel over the mess on the floor.  With a sniff, she turned to stalk into the kitchen where she stopped at the trash can and stomped on the lever to open the lid.  She dumped all the chicken into the bin, then tossed the sheet into the sink.

“Hey! That was my dinner!” Gray shouted, taking a step, but sliding on the towel.

He looked down and saw a nasty combination of rusty-colored sand, oily dressing and chicken fat outside the edges of the towel.  So much for his supper, he thought, carefully treading on the beach towel to get to the kitchen.

Gray hadn’t realized he’d dragged in so much sand when he came back from his much-needed swim in the Gulf.  He could use another one right now to get rid of the greasy dressing on his ankles and calves as well as the anger boiling in his gut.  But it looked like he would be mopping the floor instead, and trying to assess whether he needed to call a contractor to repaint the wall of the patio.  He knew one thing—if he left this house looking like it did now, Logan would kill him. 

Michaela Girabaldi was quickly becoming the bane of his existence.  An Italian curse, which he wouldn’t be rid of until he found her cousin.  No wonder the woman had run away from her.  He was contemplating doing the same thing.

He opened the pantry and took out the mop and bucket, then walked to the sink and stopped when he heard her mumbling under her breath as she vigorously scrubbed the cookie sheet with enough elbow grease to bend it in half.  Against all odds, it made him smile when he heard his name mixed into her string of Italian curse words.

Damn, why did she have to be so damned adorable when she was mad?