No More Mr. Nice Guy by Jennifer Greene

do next, and just a little of that old predictability would have been nice to hold on to. Not that he wasn’t entitled to buy an oil or look at sultry nudes if he wanted to.
    And maybe he’d suddenly developed a liking for pillows, because there were two huge rust-colored velvet ones on the floor. Put together, they were almost large enough to make a mattress. And next to them was a black onyx tray with three candles on it.
    Carroll’s eyes narrowed on the ripples of wax and charred wicks of the candles. They’d clearly been used. If Alan had been anyone but Alan, she might have immediately jumped to the suspicious conclusion that used candles and floor pillows and a suggestive painting on the wall added up to another woman in his life. She did not come to that conclusion; she simply took another rapid sip of tequila. She trusted Alan. Totally.
    “You’ve been making a few changes around here,” she called out conversationally.
    “A few. An old friend did the painting. Like it?”
    As long as his old friend was a man, she liked it just fine. “Colorful,” she murmured dryly.
    “Didn’t hear you?”
    “Very nice,” she called back. “Is your artist friend anyone I know?”
    He smiled by way of answer as he carried in a large tray from the kitchen. “You haven’t been making yourself comfortable,” he chided. “This is a shoes-off kind of dinner. I told you.”
    “Yes.” She studied the tray as she obediently slipped off her shoes, well aware Alan was lighting the three candles and switching out the other lights. The tequila suddenly settled in her stomach with a tattoo of Hello there, Nerves.
    So this was finally the night? But then, she’d known it was, and she wanted it to be; that was why she was wearing brand-new French panties and a violet bra under her sweater and slacks, why she’d bathed in perfumed water. And if she’d had any doubts that Alan was in the mood, he’d dispelled them with the kiss when he’d picked her up. That kiss was from a man who was tired of waiting.
    She’d responded like a woman who was tired of making him wait, but the tray in his hands was almost as diverting as the nude oil on the wall. “Alan, what is this?” Following his lead, she settled on the carpet with one of the huge pillows behind her.
    “Tapas. They call them ‘the small foods of Spain.’ You’re going to love these, Caro.” He pointed to each small plate on the tray, identifying the delicacies. “Quail with a thyme sauce. Rolled anchovy fillets on picks. Poached squid in a hot tomato sauce. Wild mushrooms, raw oysters and cactus paddles.”
    “Sounds wonderful.” She gave him a brilliant smile, her heart sinking. He’d gone to so much trouble. Every dish had been artfully arranged, all for her, but she didn’t have the fortitude to swallow an anchovy. As for the rest…
    “Thought it would be more fun to picnic on the carpet. Wait until you taste, kitten.”
    She was more than willing to wait, but he nudged a tidbit toward her lips. She clamped down, chewed delicately and reached quickly for the tequila, trying not to make the move appear violent or desperate. “That must be the squid?”
    He nodded. “I figured I’d experiment with one kind of foreign food a week. For next week, I found an entire cookbook full of recipes from Tibet; they call for spices I’d never even heard of. Anyway, Spanish tonight. Like it?”
    “Mmm.” To get her mind off the squid, she motioned to the pillows. “I should have some pillows like these in the classroom. The kids would love them. I don’t know if I told you about this little Miranda I’ve been working with, but—”
    “Carroll?”
    “Hmm?” She looked up, smiling.
    “No,” he said, gently but firmly. “Another time I’ll hear about her, sweet. But tonight we’re not going to talk about kids or work or anything…except us.” He watched her lips form a delicate O as the faintest color warmed her flesh. “That sweater looks lovely on you,