‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

His soft tone made her catch her breath but she stayed outwardly calm, concentrating on draining the noodles instead and adding them to the wok.

‘I’m cooking dinner.’

‘Very domestic,’ he said sardonically. ‘I didn’t realise that this little agreement of ours included catering. What else is on offer, I wonder?’

She wondered whether he was trying to shock her on purpose.

Determined not to react, Jenny ignored his insinuation and took a deep breath. ‘Dr Westerling—Alex—you didn’t eat breakfast and to the best of my knowledge you worked through lunch. As you don’t seem to have planned anything for dinner either, I thought I’d better prepare something.’

‘What makes you think I haven’t already planned something for dinner?’

‘The contents of your fridge.’ She shook the wok and risked a glance in his direction. ‘It’s full of beer.’

He lifted an eyebrow in blatant mockery. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

She kept her tone light. ‘You can tell a lot about someone from what’s in their fridge.’

‘Is that right?’ He lounged against the doorframe, his blue eyes glittering dangerously. ‘And what does my fridge tell you about me?’

‘That you don’t take care of yourself,’ she said bluntly, tossing the contents of the wok with skilful turns of the long-handled metal spatula she’d found. ‘You drink too much and you don’t eat properly.’

There was an ominous silence.

‘Anything else?’

She ignored his sarcastic tone and emptied the contents of the wok onto two plates.

Yes. He had a wicked reputation with women.

But she wasn’t bringing that up now, she reminded herself firmly. The atmosphere was already tense enough. If she wanted him to be a father to Daisy then she had to build some sort of relationship with the man, and she wasn’t going to do that if she was constantly reminding him that she disapproved of his morals.

Instead, she handed him a plate with a calm smile. ‘I hope you like Chinese—I didn’t ask you.’

His eyes clashed with hers and then drifted down to the plate.

For a moment she thought he might refuse to eat it but instead his eyes narrowed and his firm mouth lifted at the corners. ‘So you want to eat dinner with me—very cosy.’

His voice was silky smooth and he reminded her of a lethal predator tempting his prey into his lair.

Her breath stuck in her throat. ‘I have no particular desire to eat dinner with you, Dr Westerling,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, ‘but seeing as we both have to eat I thought I might as well cook for both of us.’

‘We’ll eat outside.’

Having delivered that statement, he turned and strode through the living room, clearly expecting her to follow him.

She did so at a slower pace, wondering whether she was actually going to be able to eat anything. Her insides were so churned up that she had a feeling the food might stick in her throat.