Take Me Tender

by Christie Ridgway

  She topped off both their cups of coffee as she thought how to explain. “A restaurant kitchen is part locker room, part artist’s studio, and probably a lot like a pirate’s ship where women were considered bad luck. Plates go out the door as fast as multilingual curses fly about the room and if there’s a glitch—and there’s always a glitch—it’s certain to be your fault.”

  Michelle’s eyebrows rose. “Every time?”

  “On occasion, the men might begin by blaming the new guy or the new pans or the customer who was stupid enough to order the squash when they should know it’s not cooking up right that day.” Nikki shrugged. “But in the end, it will be the fault of the woman in the kitchen.”

  “And the penalty is…?”

  Nikki studied her cup. “What makes you think there’s a penalty?”

  “The expression on your face.”

  “It’s not so bad.” She glanced up at the woman, then back at her coffee. “You get kind of used to it.”

  Michelle frowned. “Yeah? Used to what?”

  “Insults. Intimidation. Sex.”

  The other woman choked. “What?”

  “A kitchen is small, no matter how many work in it or how many it’s expected to serve. The space between the ovens and the stoves and the prep areas are close. Very close. Tick off another chef and he’ll take four of your six inches. He’ll bump you with his body, he’ll press his groin against your butt as he passes, he’ll find a way to brush his hand against your breasts half a dozen times during your shift.”

  “Sounds like some dates I’ve been on.”

  Nikki laughed. Sometimes you had to. “It’s worse, though, because the sexual aspect is a tool. He uses sex, but not because he wants your body. What he wants is your discomfort. What he wants is to feel power over you.”

  In the awkward quiet that followed, she considered banging her forehead on the granite countertop. This was why she didn’t do the girl-gab thing. The way Michelle’s gaze was sliding away from hers to a point over Nikki’s shoulder shouted she’d made the other woman more than a little uneasy.

  “TMI,” she said, grimacing. “Sorry, Michelle. Too much information.”

  A different voice responded. “’Shelle, your ride’s leaving.” Jay’s voice. Jay, who Nikki realized now was that focal point that had snagged Michelle’s attention.

  The brunette couldn’t slide off her stool quick enough. With thanks to Nikki and Jay, she and the others were gone.

  The surf was loud in the awkward vacuum left behind. The legs of Nikki’s stool scraped against the floor as she got to her feet and started to busy herself about the kitchen. Without giving Jay a glance, she could feel him standing there, staring at her.

  Outside, seagulls screeched, berating each other like Nikki wanted to do to herself. She was supposed to be putting walls between herself and Jay and now, she feared, she’d unwittingly given him a window.

  For a man who liked things simple, Jay decided he couldn’t have stumbled across something—someone—guaranteed to complicate his life more than Nikki Carmichael. She was bustling about the kitchen, wiping countertops that were already spotless and adjusting canisters that were standing shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers. All the while obviously tightening that armor she wore around herself as if she were expecting a firefight.

  He should walk away and refuse to engage.

  After a weekend without her, he’d decided to do that very thing. He’d reconsidered the plan of pursuing her for a little romp in his bed. Out from under the influence of her unbalancing blue-and-green gaze, he’d decided once again to back off—it would be the simplest solution, after all.

  But then she’d sent him that sidelong look as he’d come in from the water and he’d immediately started thinking with his other brain. The one that liked her gaze on his body. The one that wanted to know her body well enough to fit her for a custom wetsuit.

  “I would have thought you’d have put your black belt to use,” he said to her now, though he suspected her martial arts skills were as imaginary as his in ocean-gear design.

  She didn’t pretend not to understand as she rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. Salt on the left, pepper on the right. Pepper on the left, salt on the right. “Karate kicks tend to break crème brûlée cups as well as kneecaps. Restaurant owners aren’t happy with broken chefs or broken crockery either.”

  When Jay had brushed against her earlier in the kitchen, when she’d nearly jumped out of her skin and then tried warning him off with her big talk of self-defense and black belts, he’d wanted to laugh. But now, understanding why she was so skittish around him only made her that much more tempting. It was reasonable for her to be wary, given the way other men had used sex against her. It made sense that she jumped when he got too close. But what was so damn intriguing was that Nikki never quite jumped completely away.

  His blood ran hotter thinking the attraction was just that strong—and it made him want to make love to her with such finesse and to provide her with such pleasure that she’d overcome her prejudice against his gender.

  She turned away from him to play the shell game with a set of spices and he noted her back was stiff enough to serve as a picnic table. Oh, yeah, her armor was buckled tightly in place.

  “I’d plow my fist in every one of their faces if I could,” he said.

  She didn’t spare him a glance. “I can take care of myself.”

  Which went without saying, of course. He hadn’t thought for a minute that she’d welcome the sentiment because it didn’t take a genius to know that his cookie didn’t want to appear capable of crumbling. No tears and trembling lips for this woman—she’d scratch before she cried.

  So sympathy was wasted on her…and was no way to get her into his bed.

  “I want you anyway.”

  She paused now and gazed at him over her shoulder, a feminine sneer curling her upper lip. “Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly spoiled?”

  He pretended to consider. “One of our centerfolds. It was May, I think. I suggested a rainbow-colored thong and a fan that looked like a butterfly. She wanted yellow panties and a peacock feather.”

  “Let me give you some free advice,” Nikki said. “No real woman—or woman who retains her real body parts, that is—wants to hear about your uncooperative cover bimbos.”

  “They’re not bimbos! They use their modeling fees to pay college tuition.”

  “Yeah. For the College of the Casting Couch.”

  He grinned. “In any case, cookie, all this resistance of yours has the competitor in me itching to go a round or two.”

  “Even Rocky Balboa couldn’t hold onto his champ status forever. So give up, Jay. The truth is, I believe I’ll find it infinitely more satisfying to be the hiccup in your uninterrupted winning streak than just another warm body in your bed.”

  He moved so fast that before her mermaid eyes could widen he had her in his arms.

  “Wha—”

  “Shanna. Coming up the deck steps.”

  “But—”

  “A deal’s a deal, remember? For a month you agreed to at least look like that warm body in my bed.”

  Nikki tried to peer around his shoulder, but he caught her chin between his thumb and fingers and lowered his head.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “I won’t. This is just for show.” Except already he could feel her skin heating like a fever beneath his hand. And despite her big talk, her body was leaning into his as if she couldn’t help herself. He gathered her nearer, his forearm pressed against that dip at the small of her back so that their bellies were pressed close.

  Apparently close enough for her to feel his aroused response. She frowned. “Jay…”

  His mouth was just a whisper from hers. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to try taking this any further. I understand now about your sexual hang-ups.”

  Everything that was soft about her stiffened. “What?”

  “Sexual hang-ups. Sexual block. Inade
quacy. Whatever you want to call it.”

  He’d never thought of green as a color that could burn, but it was keeping up with the sudden, laser heat of her blue eye. “It’s what I want to call you,” she retorted. “And that’s completely mistaken. I’m not hung up, damn it, or blocked, or the least bit inadequate in any way.”

  “But those men in the restaurant kitchen. How they treated you—”

  “Is part of the job. I coped.”

  “By closing yourself off.” Jay held his breath, waiting for the pinch of guilt he surely deserved. When sympathy hadn’t worked, he’d figured baiting her might, and it looked as if he’d been right. “By being unwilling to indulge in your own desires.”

  “My desire for you, I suppose.”

  He slid his hands to her waist then dragged them a few inches upward, hearing her sharp intake of breath as a shiver shook her body. “Is that part of your coping mechanism? To pretend you’re not reacting to my touch? To pretend you’re not curious about what it would be like to be with me in my bed?”

  Nostrils flaring, she placed her hands on his chest and shoved him back. He gave her space, then gaped as she reached for the bottom of her stretchy T-shirt.

  “You make it sound like I’m afraid.” In one quick move, she drew it off and threw it to the floor. “Since Shanna is obviously not coming inside, it’s time to prove I’m not afraid of sex or of you.”

  He took another step back as she slipped out of her sandals and then put her hands to the snap at her waistband. “Nikki…”

  The beautiful monster he’d created wasn’t listening. She was breathing hard—if she was a dragon there’d be flames—causing her plump breasts to rise over the cups of her bra that was printed with tiny daisies. It was a hell of a pretty sight to behold, and only the abrupt shucking of her jeans could have drawn his eyes away from it.

  But she did that, pushing down her pants and then stepping out of them to reveal the creamy curve of her hips and her long legs. Daisy-printed panties made him want to roll around in fields of Nikki-scented skin. And though she was covered by more fabric than made up most bikinis on the Malibu beaches, he still couldn’t catch his breath.

  “Well?” One eyebrow—the one over the green eye—rose in a challenge as she regarded him from his place four feet away. “Who’s afraid now?”

  So this was it. He’d baited her to the point of having her. Right now. Right this minute he could lead her to his bed and plant himself in the very center of her summer morning. It would be as simple—and, oh, how he liked simple—as that.

  His cock was standing at attention, clamoring to get on with the plan, reacting like the randy adolescent that was all he’d ever expected of it. That was all, maybe, that he’d ever expected of himself.

  Ouch. There was a thought that pinched.

  And Nikki looked ready to take her own hefty twist out of him. “Well?” she said again, a hand on her hip.

  Well, shit. He’d pushed her into half-nakedness, working with that exact suspicion that she’d want to prove she didn’t lack anything—which would give him the chance to prove to her that a man could use his sex only for pleasure.

  Her pleasure.

  That was suddenly damn important to him, but Tricky Nikki would never make it so easy.

  Clamping down on his inner horndog, he stepped forward and took her into his arms. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, yet held her loosely, gently, enjoying the seductive brush of her bare back against his inner forearms, of his cheek against her temple as he breathed in the faint vanilla scent of her hair.

  His mouth found hers and he kissed her, kissed her sweet, not dirty like he wanted to, taking his time to savor the softness of her mouth like that first day in his entryway. He’d been amused by his reaction to her then, but it shook him a little now, and he used the unsettled feeling as reason to restrain his impulses.

  The Jay he knew wanted to slide down her body. He wanted to catch the edge of her bra with his teeth and yank it over her breasts so he could suck at her nipples. But that wouldn’t be enough. The Jay he knew wanted to go down on his knees and deflower her pussy. He could see himself hooking his forefingers in those pretty daisy panties to slide them to her ankles while placing soft kisses on the inside of her thighs. He wanted to breathe in the scent of her arousal and taste the flavor of her wetness.

  But that wasn’t going to happen…yet.

  “Well?” she said again, when he lifted his head.

  “Well, I’m just not that kind of man,” he told her. “I insist on dinner first.”

  “Dinner?” She blinked. “I’ve cooked you dinner every night.”

  “I mean a dinner someone else cooks. A date.”

  “A date?”

  She was unsure and wary again, and he knew it was because he wasn’t reacting the way she’d expected to all the attitude she’d been throwing at him. He wasn’t sure why he was reacting this way either. Why wasn’t he taking immediate advantage of what she’d offered?

  Though he didn’t want to think too hard about it, he couldn’t ignore the answer. The fact was, Jay wanted to get close to Nikki before he got inside of her.

  Nine

  If you’re a kid in Southern California, somebody—whether it’s you or your parents—throws your hat in the ring and I think everyone had a commercial or two.

  —DANNY BONADUCE, ACTOR AND RADIO PERSONALITY

  Shanna trudged through the sand from Jay’s house to hers, trying to put the image of him and his private chef out of her mind. But it was there despite her best efforts: the way he’d scooped the woman against his body, the way he’d cradled her to his chest, the way he’d been focusing on her with a single-minded intensity that only made Shanna…yearn.

  That’s what she wanted. As she approached her mid-thirties, she felt less solid, as if parts of herself could be scattered by the ocean breezes. To be safe, she wanted a man—Jay—to gather her close and keep her in one piece.

  To make her whole again.

  Or maybe for the first time ever.

  The sole of her shoe found a strand of half-buried, rust-colored kelp. As she trod upon it, one of the attached grape sized bladders popped, just like what kept happening to her Jay-and-Shanna-forever fantasy.

  Inside the security fence enclosing her father’s marble palace, she settled on one of the stiff chaise lounges, listening to the sound of the surf battling the rush of water over the pool’s three-tiered waterfall. Maybe she should go into town to see if Rico, her stylist, had time to blow out her hair. Or she could call her massage therapist to check if he had a last-minute cancellation.

  Or maybe she could give up men forever.

  What had they ever done for her anyway—shiny hair and rubbery muscles excepted—besides disappoint and diminish her confidence?

  Plenty of women were happy without a man. She could be one of them.

  Shanna slid lower on the lounge and stared unseeing across the pool, contemplating a new kind of life. She was a blonde because everyone knew men liked blondes best. Her generous C-cups were thanks to what men wanted, too. A friend of hers had augmented all the way up to Ds to please her man, but in the end he’d deserted her anyway, leaving her with a closetful of shirts that wouldn’t button across the chest unless they came paired with maternity waistlines.

  The denizens of fashion design needed to share a few beers with their breast-obsessed brothers, Shanna concluded. Maybe then they’d add “Augmented” to the usual size scale of Small, Medium, and Large.

  In her new life, though, the one where males mattered not at all, she could eat more, highlight less, and never wonder at what age collagen injections became a Glamour “do.”

  The wind shifted direction, drawing her hair across her eyes, and as she fingered it away, she noticed movement at the property next door. One of the massive and snarled bougainvillea bushes between her house and the next was waving and shaking, as if sending out signals by semaphore.

  Curious, she hurried through her
gate and down the beach toward the old Pearson place. There, a man was half-buried in the bougainvillea beside the back deck, his head and shoulders embedded in the massive bush and only his denim-covered butt and long legs visible.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  A voice cursed—it sounded like a curse, anyway—in muffled Spanish. The leaves shook some more and blossoms drifted onto the pale gray deck like scarlet snowflakes. There was another curse, and then the man backed out of the tangle of green leaves, red flowers, and nasty thorns. He turned to face her, his hand cradling something to his chest—an orange marmalade kitten.

  It was Jorge Santos, holding the small creature as close as she’d wanted Jay to hold her, before she’d sworn off men.

  “Ms. Ryan,” he said, nodding.

  “Shanna,” she corrected, her gaze on his scratched brown hand and the creature that was struggling to free itself from his grasp. “A new friend?”

  He grimaced as its claws sank into the thin cloth of his workshirt. “She thinks I’m the enemy, I’m afraid. I’ve seen her running between Jay’s place and this one. I thought I could find her a better home with my niece. But she’s not going along with the idea.”

  As if to prove him right, the kitten gave another all-body squirm and broke free of Jorge’s hold. Tiny paws bolted down his leg and the animal disappeared into the bush.

  Hah, Shanna thought. So young, and yet already the kitten had decided she didn’t need a man. Smart. Smarter than Shanna had ever been.

  The rejected rescuer sighed, then muttered something unintelligible.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head, as if ridding himself of frustration. “And how are you? How is your project coming?”

  A flush of embarrassment crawled up her neck. Her project. He was looking over at the Pearson house now—the house she’d claimed a few days before she wanted to rehab. The house he’d encouraged her to work on herself.

  But she didn’t know how to work. So she’d done nothing more since then other than moon about Jay and contemplate getting him back.