She'd had every intention of making Jackson Delacroix feel uncomfortable, and here she was tongue-tied and so self-conscious that he probably thought she was just another camper groupie who was stunned by his magnificent face and body or his reputation as a writer. The fact that he was behind her was unsettling enough, because she'd glanced over her shoulder once to find him staring at the movement of her hips and grinning as she stumbled across the gravel path between their cabins.

Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how he unnerved her!

"You aren't at all what I expected, though," she repeated herself.

"So you said."

"I guess I expected you to have an alligator as a pet or something."

"No gators in Oklahoma, chere. 'Cept mebbe at the Tulsa or Oklahoma City zoos." "I also thought you'd be dressed in a chef's ap.r.o.n and slaving over some hot stove." Not wearing tight jeans and a chambray shirt with the top three or four b.u.t.tons undone. His jeans were so tight she could visualize his pulse beating through them. Her knees weakened at the thought that he might catch her staring at his package.

"Well, you know the old sayin'... always expect the unexpected."

Marilyn skidded on a piece of gravel when she looked back around, making her hips thrust forward and her legs buckle.

"Easy, there!" Jack helped her regain her balance by wrapping an arm about her shoulders and sidling up to scoop her effortlessly off her feet.

"You're a virgin camper, aren't you?" He looked down into her upturned face. "n.o.body wears high heels to the trout camp. I gar-ahn-tee you gonna twist your ankle in those things."

Marilyn was so surprised when he picked her up that by the time he'd set her down in front of the door a couple of seconds later, she was still speechless.

"Allow me." He smoothly took the key from her trembling hand, his body so close to hers that she could smell the faint scent of his aftershave.

He handed the key back to her, and Marilyn could feel his blue gaze on her face as she took the key and said thank you.

"After you." He went back for her luggage and followed her once again, this time into the cabin.

As Marilyn let her eyes adjust to the darkened room, Jack set her luggage on the bed and opened the blinds, pausing on his way back to the living area to glance down at the tags on her luggage.

Despite her desire not to seem impressed by Jack or any part of his lifestyle, Marilyn couldn't repress a large smile as she did a three-sixty turn around the cozy two-room cabin. Stone fireplace with an original Native American painting signed by the artist, comfortable if worn sofa and easy chair with ottoman, the full-sized bed just beyond the sofa and a small dinette set with a galley kitchen. Definitely no animal skins or gators.

"You'll find linens in the armoire opposite the bed, and all of the small kitchen appliances are in the cupboard beneath the sink." He nodded toward the far end of the cabin. "There's a full bath just around the corner from the sleeping area, and if you don't want the bed, there's always the king-sized mattress upstairs in the loft. Just be careful- don't try to stand or you'll whack your head."

She looked down at her high heels and asked, "Do I look like a woman who wants to sleep among the top rafters of the cabin?"

"No, chere, you look like the kinda woman who likes to be on bottom." He tipped his head so that his eyes were directly within her view and grinned as he watched the color creep from her throat to her cheeks. Licking his lips slowly, he added, "I'll see you and your friend for dinner at my place tonight. Seven o'clock all right with you?"

As if that weren't humiliation enough, he turned just as he got to the door and winked. "Oh, and you might want to wear something not quite so...virginal looking. Wouldn't want to ruin your suit while you're roughin' it with us river rats."

He waited briefly to gauge her reaction, remembering another Marilyn who had recently called him that term. Satisfied that she was more shocked by his flirting than the words he had spoken, he smiled and closed the door.

"Of all the nerve!" Marilyn muttered, plopping down on the bed beside her luggage.

She felt her face with her hands. Hot, just as she'd expected. Still beet red most likely. Virgin. He'd used that word to describe her twice. She'd show him virgin tonight! How could she have let him under her skin so quickly?

She fished in her purse for her cell phone and punched in Colette's number. "What's our blabbermouth friend doing?"

"He's unpacking and setting up his laptop. Total internet wh.o.r.e. Said he has to check his email before he showers and changes for tonight. What am I going to do? I can' t spend the entire afternoon over here with him! I'm running out of excuses to stay here!"

"Just make him promise not to tell Jack who we are!" Marilyn urged. "I need more time to think about what I want to say!"

"Why aren't you with Jack?" Colette's voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought the two of you might be sharing a drink by now. Breaking the ice so that you can tell him about the cooking contest!"

"He wanted to help bring in our luggage, and the man has me so rattled I completely forgot about keeping him occupied until you got back."

"You should have stayed at his cabin until I returned!" Colette chastised.

"What the h.e.l.l could I do after Chuck told him I was a writer? I figured if I stayed there we'd wind up talking writing, and I didn't want to do that!"

"So what was so bad about him helping carry the luggage?"

Marilyn groaned. "He is the most conceited..."

"...handsome..." Colette said.

"... flippant..."

"...interesting..." Colette added.

"... man!" Marilyn finished. "With a huge d.i.c.k if those jeans aren't lying. It'll be impossible for us to keep Jack and Chuck from talking to one another. I might as well just go over there and tell him who I am and why I'm here."

"Don't do that-not just yet." Colette sounded soothing. "I may be able to persuade Chuck not to tell him anything."

"Colette, you are one of those cute, prissy, utterly feminine and charming women who can twist men around their little fingers most of the time, but I doubt if even you can keep the lid on this."

"So what if he does find out?" Colette asked. "So he'll realize you're more or less his boss at the company."

"His boss!" Marilyn snorted. "Can you imagine telling the king of the world that you are his boss? The one who gets to make decisions regarding his livelihood?" Then she groaned. "And now... I have to tell him not only that but that I've arranged to put him on display as a fraud!"

"I see your point. Besides, he's very charming and attractive."

"I am not remotely attracted... " Marilyn started to protest but sighed in resignation. "Oh, who am I kidding? He's gorgeous, and if he weren't one of our clients..." She groaned again. "We have to tell him tonight, Colette. Larabee's representatives will be here no later than the day after tomorrow!"

"You'll think of some way," Colette said.

Jack flipped open his laptop, connected to the internet and typed in the name he'd read off her luggage tags. To his amazement, a formidable list of information came up. He clicked on one hyperlink labeled New York Times articles and sat back in his chair to read, but when one story came up dealing with canoeing he leaned forward and blinked. She'd written about something she'd obviously never done? He winced slightly as his conscience p.r.i.c.ked him. For that matter, they sounded like a perfect match, considering he'd deceived people for years with his cookbooks.

Not that he'd ever considered his writing deceitful. He'd never once claimed to be a chef, had never attested to actually cooking the recipes himself.

Nevertheless, the thought of challenging her just a little made his lips curve into a smile. Next time she baited him about cooking, he would suggest they all take a float trip down the Illinois River. That'd cool her jets.

Then awareness struck him. She was a writer who came here to write about cooking -about him! That must be it! This was the journalist his editor had threatened to send, and she probably didn't know any more about cooking than she did canoeing and was just looking for a good story.

He sat back in his desk chair once more and frowned. Marilyn. But that was the name of the woman who'd called him from Birmingham and O'Malley Publishing House earlier that week.

He signed off, snapped the flip-top screen closed and chuckled. So what if this feisty brunette was the reporter he'd been threatened with? There was certainly the possibility of more than one Marilyn living on the East Coast, and the one who had come to solicit him for an interview was certainly pretty enough for him to sit with long enough for her to get an interview. Surely, he had enough stories to supply her with on his grandmother's ancestors in France, men and women who had been chefs to royalty, cooks who had all been carted through the streets of Paris along with Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette to meet their fate at the guillotine.

Jack picked up the phone and dialed his grandmother.

"Mimi? How long are the ladies in cabin twelve staying?"

"A week," came the sharp response. "And Jackson, you need to come back up here."

"I'll be over later," he told her. "I have to pick up some steaks for the grill. Looks like Chuck and I will be entertaining guests tonight."

"Hmph! You need to find time to look at some t'ings. We're fillin' up! I've had about ten reservations for next week since you left dis mornin', and der's dis big truck comin' Monday with-"

"But that's great!"

"You don't understand-we're almost booked solid, and we don't even have a fishin' tournament scheduled for next week!"

"Mimi, that's wonderful! I'll go into town for more supplies, if that's what's worrying you."

"You aren't listenin' to me! De phone is ringin' off de wall, and we're runnin' out of places to put dese people! Your brother was jess in here takin' calls, and Chance says dat some company is holdin' a contest here, and dis big truck is...."

"Mimi, sweetheart, we can handle it," Jack cut in smoothly. "Don't worry about it. The swimming pool was just cleaned yesterday, the grounds have been mowed and I'm sure with Vince coming home Friday and with Chance and the new guy handling the canoe trips that we'll all be able to take care of things."

His grandmother muttered something in French and then said, "All right, but don't say I didden try to warn you!"

Jack smiled as he hung up the phone. More campers bringing in revenue. They were probably mostly fishermen or wannabe canoeists. That should make Chance happy.

Even though Chance was the youngest of the three brothers, he was the biggest worrier and the one who managed the campgrounds and float trips while Jack handled all public relations plus the bookkeeping and looked after their grandmother. Vince, the eldest, was on a tour overseas working for Uncle Sam.

And for Jack, having a luscious, long-legged brunette in the cabin just a few yards from his own door for another six or seven days was not something he minded in the least. With any luck, he'd be licking those round b.r.e.a.s.t.s of hers and ramming his c.o.c.k inside her within the night.

He opened the door and stepped onto his porch, breathing in the fresh air that held the scent of grills being fired up all over the campground as guests started preparations for their evening meals. He could hear the water rushing over rocks as the river meandered southward.

To his left, he heard a door creak and slid a glance sideways, hoping not to attract attention or let her know that he was watching. She'd taken off the heels and was padding about barefoot on the deck, looking at her feet as if she hadn't seen them in ages. Then she sat in one of the deck chairs and held a long length of leg in front of her, as if examining it. Her skin shone white against the hardwood furniture and deck, and when she leaned forward to examine her ankle, the skirt rose to expose her thigh.

When she looked in his direction, as if she'd felt his eyes a.s.sessing her, he gave her a mock salute.

The week was definitely looking up.

Chapter Six.

Delacroix's Down & Dirty Martini.

Ingredients for 1:.

2 ounces gin.

1 teaspoon dry vermouth.

2 tablespoons olive juice from the jar (less if you wish less saltiness).

2 olives for garnish.

Fill mixer with ingredients including the garnish, cover, shake well 34 times. Remove c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s

from freezer, empty, strain mix into gla.s.s. Enjoy.

"I know who you are," Jack said, with what Marilyn perceived as false pride.

They'd had a marvelous meal of grilled steaks, baked potatoes and marinated mushrooms, all courtesy of Chuck's skills. Jack had turned the steaks on the grill after Chuck had seasoned them, and he'd removed the potatoes from the fire when Chuck instructed, but as far as Marilyn could tell, Jack had managed to avoid anything remotely akin to actual cooking.

"You do?" she asked, sitting in one of the large wooden deck chairs as he lounged against the railing on the front deck, his legs spread open just enough to give her a tantalizing view of his s.e.x, snugly captured by his jeans.

"Looked you up on the internet after I saw the name on your luggage tags. Thought your name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. You've managed to do some great magazine articles over the past few years."

"You think I'm... uh... thank you."

"And I'm pretty sure I know why you're here," he ventured, giving her a warm look of appreciation that ordinarily would've curled her toes.

Now she was interested. "You do? Why is that?"

"Because you want to interview me," he said matter-of-factly. "Why else would you be here?"

Not waiting for her to reply, he scooted closer so that he was directly in front of her, and it was all Marilyn could do to keep from bursting out laughing at the irony and his false modesty.

"Why would you think...?"

"You're not the type to just show up on the river. Why else would you be here?" he repeated. "You write magazine articles, and I am...well...who I am." He had the grace to blush slightly. "I am something of a celebrity in this area. Not a huge one!" he went on to add. "I mean, I'm flattered that you'd fly all those miles from New York just for an interview, but you could've called."

Marilyn stood, partly to flex, mostly to avoid that intimate blue gaze. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry and her voice deserted her until she cleared her throat.

"I'm not...who you think I am," she managed to say, trying to work up the courage to tell him why she was really at his home.

"What? A writer? You're wonderful!" He leaned forward enthusiastically. "I've read your work before, but after we spoke earlier I pulled out a couple of articles I'd saved- you wrote them last year. One was on canoeing, as a matter of fact. That's why I saved it."

He slipped up behind her, and she could feel his breath against the nape of her neck as he spoke.

"Canoeing." Marilyn spoke the word breathlessly, unable to formulate the words to correct him, to tell him the entire truth.

"Your piece was quite good. I take it you've never been in one? That's okay," he said smoothly. "Your article doesn't sound to the layman like you've never been in one."