Playing Detective (cont.)

Iva pursed her lips. She couldn't picture Otto becoming volatile. He was so mild-mannered at home. Funny and charming with a sense of humor. Being a big tease was his M.O, just like her older brother, Reed. And those green eyes were getting to her more and more, too. But maybe Otto Bergmann was just a talented actor, luring her in just to throw her off the scent.

Several more days passed, and, without any spoken agreement, Iva and Otto had settled into a routine. Otto did the cooking and Iva the washing up.

His meals were heavenly and varied. She could get used to gourmet meals, and took up running in the mornings before heading to work. All those calories late at night were taking a toll on her waistline.

After a breath-taking meal of Beef Bourguignon and steamed asparagus with hollandaise sauce, Iva pushed back from the table and declared, "I think your photographer persona is a sham. You're actually a trained chef from New York City and running from the Sicilian mob because you stole somebody's recipe box."

"You have a wild imagination, Iva."

"Prove me wrong," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. "Show me your photographs. I haven't seen a single one. Surely they're downloaded on your laptop. I'm a good Photoshop editor. I could help you as a way to pay you back for all these expensive groceries."

"I refuse any compensation. I cook because I like to come home to a good meal after a day tramping around the world."

"Not fair that you get to be outside in this glorious summer weather. That must be how you keep so trim. I'm jealous."

Iva'd had plenty of time to study his athletic build while he was cooking.

Tonight, he'd been doing a few sexy dance moves to the old-fashioned radio perched in the windows. She'd had to finally leave the room because watching him made her emotionally and physically ill.

Otto shrugged. "You're probably right."

Iva rinsed the dishes and started up the dishwasher. "Shall we retire to the drawing room, Mr. Cook?"

Otto shook his head at the mocking names she called him. "Cooks are never allowed in the main rooms of the house."

"We're making an exception this evening." Iva tucked her feet underneath her and scrunched an embroidered pillow under her cheek while she stretched out along the length of sofa. "So, can I sneak a peek at your pictures? If you're a world renowned photographer, surely you'd want to show them off."

"I'm hardly world renowned. If I'm a famous photographer then you're a World Master at French Fries."

"Hey, I resent that! I am a World Master of French Fries. And I have the greasy shirts and aprons to prove it."

Otto laughed just as a knock came at the front door and her sister, Cora poked her head around the doorjamb.

"Hey, Iva, can I borrow your dress with the she slammed the door---" staring between Otto who was lounging on one of the armchairs while her older sister kicked back on one of the couches. A blue sheet wavered between them as they talked.

Cora quickly backed up. "Have I interrupted something kinky?"

Iva quickly sat up. "Of course not, where is your mind, Cora---in the gutter?" Her sixteen-year-old sister stuck out her hip.

"Who hangs sheets from their chandeliers?"

Otto introduced himself. "It was a pure scientific experiment on not

making eye contact when in deep philosophical discussion. I'm Otto Bergmann, nice to meet you, Cora"