It had been a long time since Sam had felt this angry. He wanted to find Marjorie’s coworker in a dark alley some night and teach him a lesson. The intensity of his fury shocked him; he hated unnecessary violence.

“I’ll take care of this for you,” Sam said without any real plan in mind. He knew how hard Marjorie worked—the long hours with few free weekends. She’d climbed her way up the sales ladder and deserved to be a success. The last thing she needed was someone sabotaging her efforts. The burning desire to protect her seared through him like a surgical laser beam.

“Sam, please. I’m a big girl, I’ll find a solution my own way.”

“No.” He shook his head once, hard. “I want to handle this.”

“Sam.” His reaction wasn’t a joke, she realized. If she’d known this was the way he was going to be, then she wouldn’t have told him about Al. As it was, she was glad she’d been careful not to mention Al’s name. “Listen to me. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t involve myself in your business, so I’m asking you not to interfere in mine. Things have a way of working themselves out.”

“But this heel deserves—”

“Everything he’s going to get.” She stood and placed her hand on his forearm. “I don’t need anyone to rescue me. I’ve been on my own for a long time now. This guy hasn’t made many friends at Dixon. He won’t last long.”

“You’re sure?” At her nod, Sam relaxed a bit. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” she answered with a smile, surprised to realize how hungry she was. “Are you offering to feed me?”

“Better than that,” he answered with a slow, sensuous grin that edged his strong, well-shaped mouth upward. “I’m willing to cook for you.”

Just looking at Sam made Marjorie feel light-headed. She could drown in those appealing eyes of his, dark, deep, penetrating.

“Follow me,” he instructed, taking her hand and leading her into his kitchen. He was a good cook and thought he might be able to teach her a thing or two.

Sam’s kitchen was huge and equipped with every modern convenience. An island with restaurant-quality gas burners was set up in the middle of the expansive floor. A wide assortment of copper pots, pans, and skillets was suspended from the ceiling above the island.

“Wow,” Marjorie said, and released a slow, wondering breath. “You must be some chef.”

“I try.” He pulled out a stool for her to sit on. “First things first.” With that he opened the wine refrigerator and, with little hesitation, drew out a bottle, then chose two tall wineglasses from a cabinet.

Expertly he removed the cork and poured them each a glass, pausing to taste his first. He gave his approval before handing the second glass to Marjorie.