“And I’m not your whipping boy,” he shot back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can either tell me or take it out on somebody else.”

“You want to know what’s gotten into me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ll show you.”

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was just the mad. Or maybe it was the look of baffled annoyance on his face. But she went with the impulse that had been bubbling inside her for years.

She grabbed him by the perfect knot of his elegant tie, jerked him down even as she gripped a handful of his hair, and yanked him forward. And she fixed her mouth to his in a hot, sizzling, frustrated kiss, one that gave her heart a jolt even as her mind purred: I knew it!

She threw him off balance—she meant to—so his hands came to her hips, and his fingers dug in for one gloriously heady moment.

She threw herself into that moment, to exploit, to savor, to absorb. Tastes and textures, heat and hunger, all there for the taking. She took exactly what she wanted, then shoved him away.

“There.” She tossed her hair back while he stared at her. “The sky did not fall, the world did not end, neither of us was struck by lightning or beamed straight to hell. I’m not your damn sister, Delaney. That ought to make it clear.”

She strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

Aroused, astonished, and still considerably annoyed, he stood exactly where he was. “What was that? What the hell was that?”

He started to go after her, then stopped himself. That wouldn’t end well, or it would end ... He’d better not think of that until he could think, period.

He frowned at the half glass of champagne. How much had she had before he’d come in? he wondered. Then, because his throat was uncommonly dry, he picked up the flute and downed the rest of the contents.

He should go, just go home, and set the whole thing aside. Chalk the whole incident up to ... something. He’d figure out what to chalk it up to when his brain regained full function.

He’d just come for the cake, that’s all, he reminded himself as he carefully closed and secured the lid on the bakery box. She’d picked a fight, then she’d kissed him to prove some sort of point. That’s all there was to it.

He’d just go home and let her stew over whatever she was stewing over.

He picked up the box. He’d just go home, he admitted, and take a really long, cold shower.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR