Texan’s Wedding-Night Wager / The Oilman’s Baby Bargain: Texan’s Wedding-Night Wager. Michelle Celmer

for him.

      “Toast, yesterday. Not much of an appetite. But I’m craving your grandmother’s soup.”

      Cara inhaled sharply. She was hardly Kevin’s nursemaid, but she was still his wife. And his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask, unless he really needed her help. She remembered that Kevin hated being sick, never took a day off to heal and was the worst patient she’d ever seen. “I’ll catch a cab and be right over.”

      “I sent a car for you. You can stop off and get the things you need. He should be there any minute.” Cara sighed. “Kevin, how’d you know I’d come?”

      “I didn’t,” he said, his voice trailing off. Cara backed away from giving him grief—he really sounded ill. “But a man can hope, right?”

      Kevin felt better already just knowing Cara was on her way. He didn’t know what had hit him since he rarely got sick, but he’d been knocked for a loop after taking Cara to the Astros game. He’d spent the next two days in bed, hating every minute of it. His fever had spiked and he hadn’t had a drop of energy. Today, he’d gotten up and worked from his home office until he couldn’t move a muscle. He’d climbed back in bed, cursing, and the only thing he’d thought of besides his rotten luck was Cara.

      In truth, since she’d come back to town she’d consumed his thoughts. His plan for payback was working exceptionally well. Maybe too well, because he’d spent the past two days dreaming of her and the dusky, molten look he put on her face every time they came together. Building up to their one night of lovemaking was killing him, but he enjoyed every torturous minute.

      Tonight, he decided, he’d call a truce. He couldn’t take advantage when she’d come so willingly to help him recover, but he felt no guilt whatsoever for the little fib he’d told to get her here.

      His fever had broken before he’d called her and he was feeling human again. But he hadn’t lied about his craving. He wanted to see Cara in his kitchen, cooking her grandmother’s hearty chicken soup. It was the best way to get her to his penthouse—he doubted she’d have come otherwise. But why the hell he’d pictured Cara in his kitchen in a little domestic scene instead of sprawled out across his silk sheets was a mystery to him.

      Kevin took a shower, hoping to wipe out the last remnants of his fever and bring some color back to his face. He soaped up and the cool spray of water raining down invigorated him. He shampooed hair that he’d let go for two days and, once he’d turned the faucet off, he toweled dry and stepped out of the shower. This was the most activity he’d had in two days. Looking in the mirror, he let out a groan. “Shabby, Novak,” he muttered, “and pale.”

      His beard served well to cover his sallow appearance, so he opted not to shave. After slipping on his briefs and a comfortable pair of jeans, he threw on a black shirt but didn’t have the energy to button it. When the doorbell chimed, he walked the distance to the front door on legs that still felt like rubber.

      He opened the door and found Cara holding a brown sack of groceries. “Hi, Kevin.”

      Cara’s gaze immediately drifted to his bare chest, where his shirt spread open. His heartbeat sped up watching lust invade her pretty blue eyes. The flash of instant desire scorched him more than the fever he’d just fought. Then she blinked and redirected her gaze to his face, the moment gone. Soon, he’d put that look back on her face. Tonight, though, it was all he could muster to take the grocery bag from her arms. “My salvation. I’m glad you came, Cara.”

      “I, uh, sure. I’ll make the soup and then let you rest. You really should be in bed.”

      “I’ve been in bed. It’s boring. And lonely.”

      Cara arched her brow. “I’ll find my way around. Point me toward the kitchen.”

      He placed his hand on the delicate curve of her back, wondering what she’d been up to today, dressed in a classy, sleeveless black-lace blouse and white slacks. Had he interrupted her plans tonight? “C’mon. I’ll show you where it is.”

      Cara darted glances back and forth from one room to the other. Kevin liked his penthouse, having decorated it himself, but he imagined Cara didn’t. Too much black and granite and hard angles for her liking—there was nothing here that spoke to a woman’s feminine side.

      “It’s a nice place,” she said politely. “Big. How many rooms?”

      “Seven.” He shrugged. “It’s home for now.”

      When they reached the kitchen, Kevin set the bag on the polished-granite countertop. Cara took in the state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances and nodded. “Either you don’t cook much, or you have an expert cleaning staff.”

      Kevin cracked a smile and it actually hurt his face. He hadn’t smiled in two days. “Both. I know the place looks sterile. I eat out a lot or bring in food. You know I’m not a cook.”

      “Yeah, I remember. Boiling an egg is your specialty.” She smiled wide. “I thought that might have changed.”

      He sat down on the counter stool across the island from Cara, content to watch her. “Some things have changed, but not my cooking abilities. I’m still pretty hopeless in the kitchen, but I make up for it in other ways.”

      She blinked, looking a little flustered, and rubbed her hands down her slacks. “Okay, well, I’ll just get started.”

      She removed the groceries from the bag and started laying things out, opening and closing kitchen drawers until she had all the utensils she needed. “Are you going to sit there and watch me?”

      He nodded. “Unless you need help.”

      God, he hoped she didn’t. He’d sat down because his rubber legs needed the break. He’d felt better after his shower but, as the hour wore on, weakness consumed him again.

      “Nope, this is a one-woman job.” She smiled and went to work efficiently. “Just watch and learn.”

      Cara scooped up the carrots and potatoes she’d cut into small chunks and tossed them into the big soup pot. The chicken pieces were already cooking and she’d used caution with the spices. Normally, she’d spice up the soup to give it a sharp bite, but she had to stick to more bland ingredients for Kevin’s sake.

      He watched her intently, making small talk, asking her about the recipe, truly engaged in what she was doing. But each time Cara glanced at him, he appeared to slump lower on the stool. His voice droned in quiet tones and only his stubborn nature kept him in the kitchen instead of the bed, where he really needed to be.

      “You’re exhausted, sweetheart,” she said softly. “The soup’s going to need an hour of simmering. Let me get you into bed. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

      Kevin pursed his lips and stared at her with feigned irritation. Hell would freeze over before Kevin would ever admit defeat, but she knew he was grateful for the reprieve. “Only because you called me sweetheart.”

      “That was my strategy all along,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She moved to his side of the island. “Can you get to your bedroom okay?”

      He lowered his dark blond lashes. “Sure, but it’d be more fun if you helped me.”

      Cara couldn’t tell if he was joking. He really did appear weak and his color had faded since she’d first arrived. She feared he’d overdone it. “Okay, I’ll get you there.”

      Kevin stood and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She followed his lead to the farthest room down the hallway. Double doors opened to a room that could only be described as a suite in itself. A blackmanteled fireplace stood across from the massive bed. An enormous flat-screen television covered one wall and a room-size balcony ventured out from two French doors, overlooking the Houston skyline.