Secret Ingredient: Love

by Teresa Southwick

  “You’re on. How much?”

  “A buck.”

  “Wow, you’re really sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she teased.

  “I’m walking a fine line here,” he explained. “I don’t want to take too much from a lady on a budget. But the bet has to be enough to preserve your pride.”

  She laughed. “Just don’t you worry your pretty little head about my pride. It’s yours that will be needing a trip to the trauma center in a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Ladies first,” he said. “You break.”

  She grabbed the triangular shaped rack and put the striped and solid-colored balls inside, pushing it back and forth several times to keep them in formation. Then she removed it.

  “You’re sure you want me to go first?” she asked archly. “It does give me the advantage. And a dollar is a mighty powerful motivator.”

  “I’m absolutely positive.”

  She bent over the table, giving him a spectacular view of her rear end. And what a work of art it was. Encased in denim, she had curves that made his palms itch to touch her. He couldn’t classify her body language as a deliberate cheat, but she’d distracted him just the same. And he felt his hands shaking. It was time to level the playing field.

  At the same moment she drew her elbow back to take the shot, he said, “Don’t rush, Fran. Take your time.”

  She jerked her arm, but didn’t touch the ball. Then she straightened and smiled sweetly. But there was a challenging expression in her eyes that thrilled him. “You know, Alex, retaliation is a petty, ugly thing. Beneath you, I’d say.”

  He would go to his grave without explaining that his motive wasn’t revenge so much as making the most of this opportunity to gaze a little longer at her shapely fanny. With her four brothers and father just a cue ball’s throw away, that confession would never pass his lips.

  “You’re right. I apologize. Go ahead. I’ll be good.” He paused. “Frannie.”

  She straightened again and glared. “Okay. You want to play dirty, I can arrange that.”

  If “playing dirty” meant kissing, she could count him in. Alex released a long breath. Ever since sampling her lips, all he could think about was Fran for a full course of necking. And the feeling was getting stronger. But his timing couldn’t be worse, what with her bodyguard brothers close by. He could probably handle them one at a time. He wasn’t chief financial officer for the company, but even he knew that four-to-one odds were not in his favor. Actually, it was five to one if you included Leo, who was still in good shape for an older guy.

  “Define ‘playing dirty,”’ Alex said.

  She slanted him a narrow-eyed gaze. “It’s the glasses that confused me. They make you look so bright. I’m saying that if you want to keep up the running commentary to throw me off—”

  “Throw you off?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I won’t stoop to calling it cheating,” she said loftily. “But if you want to keep up the chatter, that’s fine and dandy. Be prepared for a sneak attack in return. And you know I’m just the woman who can do it.”

  Yes, indeed. The perfect woman. He dismissed that thought even as his blood hummed through his veins at the very idea. His heart kicked up a sensuous rhythm, and sweat popped out on his forehead. What was wrong with him? He didn’t just mean the fact that he wanted to neck with her right here under the watchful eye of testosterone times five.

  He was amazed that he’d thought of it at all. One little kiss had changed everything. Not only had it made him hot all over, but he’d begun to question his loyalty to the memory of his lost love. Did Beth even deserve his loyalty any longer?

  “Yes, you’re just the woman—”

  Alex stopped when he heard Fran mumble something under her breath. He saw her frown, then followed her gaze. Aurora was piling up dirty dishes.

  Fran leaned her cue against the table and moved toward her family in the other part of the room. “Hold that thought,” she said to him.

  “With pleasure,” he answered softly.

  “Ma, what are you doing?” She took dessert plates from her mother, who was gathering them together.

  “I’m just cleaning up. Go back to your game. Entertain Alex,” she said.

  “It’s your birthday,” Fran reminded her. “This is your day and you don’t need to do for everyone else.” She stacked the dirty plates and forks on the coffee table. “Sit down and relax. I’ll take care of these and the rest of the kitchen.”

  Her mother smiled at her. “All right. But while I’m up, does anyone want anything?” she asked the semi-comatose men.

  “I’d like a glass of milk,” Max said.

  Fran huffed out an impatient breath. Then she looked at her mother. “I’ll get it. Sit down, Ma.”

  “You’re sure, sweetheart?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Fran disappeared with the plates and returned a few moments later with a tall glass of milk. “Here you go, Maximilian.”

  “Thanks, Sis,” he said, absently watching TV. He glanced at her and said, “Geez, you milked the whole cow. I only wanted half a glass.”

  Even from across the room, Alex recognized the mutinous expression in Fran’s eyes. He held his cue stick and watched with anticipation, waiting to see what was coming. She didn’t disappoint.

  “Half a glass?” she said with deadly calm.

  In the blink of an eye she tipped the glass, dumping the liquid in her brother’s lap. As he let out a yelp, she righted it for a moment to assess the remaining contents, then poured a bit more on him. “There, that’s one-half,” she said, handing him the glass.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he hollered, jumping to his feet.

  “Francesca Carlino, what in the world has gotten into you?” her father asked, his voice raised.

  “Not fractions. They always were a challenge for me,” she said to her father. “In spite of that, I’m just as important as the boys. I do have hopes, dreams and accomplishments—just like them.”

  Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the house.

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Eight

  F ran turned her key in her apartment door and opened it. The two of them had left her parents right after she’d baptized her brother with the milk. She’d apologized to her mother when she’d said goodbye at the door. But she and Alex had hardly spoken on the way home. She hadn’t known what to say. Somehow she felt she needed to give him an explanation for her behavior, however.

  No matter her attraction, he was her boss. And it was the same old thing. If a male chef acted badly, it was genius. If a female showed temper, she was just a witch having PMS.

  She glanced at Alex over her shoulder. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

  “Are you going to pour it on me?”

  “Only if you make me cook and clean, fetch and carry, and be subservient,” she answered shortly.

  She knew he was teasing. Bless him, he had done his best to stand up for her in front of the formidable Carlino clan. He’d gone above and beyond the call of duty and still it hadn’t been enough to keep her from snapping.

  Why?

  She’d been dealing with her family all her life. She was used to them. She’d put up with their matchmaking since she’d passed into what they considered the spinster zone. She couldn’t help thinking what a small window of time it was from chaperoning her every waking moment to practically taking out billboards on the San Diego Freeway proclaiming that she was available. And she’d taken it in stride, she thought proudly. But she’d lost her cool tonight, and she knew it had something to do with Alex. Did she actually want the same guy the Carlino clan wanted her to have? Was she, even subconsciously, on their side?

  Little did they know that he wasn’t interested.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to take out my frustration on you. If I promise not to dump anything on you, would you like to come in?”

  Not only because she enjoyed h
is company, she didn’t want to be alone to think about the fact that she was going to hell for what she’d done. And she didn’t want to psychoanalyze why she’d done it. She relaxed when he slanted her an easy grin.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “And you can dump on me if you want. As long as it’s words.”

  It was nice the way he knew that she needed to vent. She wasn’t used to anyone, any guy, paying that much attention to her.

  He followed her into her apartment. “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Something that doesn’t stain.” He held up his hands at her indignant huff and dramatic eye rolling. “I’m kidding. How about coffee? I haven’t had enough stimulation today.”

  “Yeah, me neither. My adrenaline certainly hasn’t pumped in a while,” she joked.

  “Just give me a few seconds head start if you decide to pump it in my direction.”

  “Deal,” she said, laughing. “I’ll make a pot—coffee, not adrenaline,” she clarified.

  She pulled the automatic coffeemaker out of the cupboard, then put water in it and measured out fresh grounds. Finally, she plugged it in and flipped the On switch.

  She heard the coffeemaker start to sizzle and drip, and realized how glad she was to be home. It was the last week of January and the weather had turned cold. But her cozy apartment wasn’t the only thing she was glad about. Being with Alex factored in as well. Not only had he braved spending time with a psychotic woman, but he’d made her laugh, teasing her out of an angry, self-pitying mood.

  She finally looked at him, and something about the way he looked back, the spark of intensity mixed with a healthy dose of hunger, made her stomach flutter, her heart race and her thoughts turn to kissing. From there it was a stone’s throw to that odd sensation of her toes curling.

  He’d sat down on one of her bar stools to watch her in the kitchen. If possible, he was cuter than ever in his worn jeans and preppy pullover sweater, his white shirt collar sticking up from the crew neck. She couldn’t see his feet from where she stood, but she remembered that he was wearing loafers. She always remembered the smallest details about Alex.

  He hadn’t said anything while she’d made the coffee. It was as if he was giving her space. To cool off? To form her thoughts? Would he have kept quiet if he’d known she wanted him to kiss her again? No matter. Either way, she appreciated his sensitivity.

  She could add that to Alex’s adjectives, his list of S words: suave, smiling, sad, sexy, sensitive. And suddenly she had to know something. It had been on her mind since her first day of work at the company. After their kiss yesterday, the answer had taken on monumental importance. Even after tonight’s temporary insanity, she still wanted to know. Because she figured her heart was in no danger. He wasn’t in the market for love. And what man in his right mind would want a psychotic shrew?

  Here goes, she thought.

  “What did you do to make it impossible for your secretary to forget me?”

  She leaned on the counter, just in front of where he sat at the bar. Looking him straight in the eye, she resisted the urge to sigh adoringly. She just wasn’t the adoring type, although Alex was the first man to make her think about changing.

  He gave her a blank look. “What?”

  “My first day at Marchetti’s. I was surprised when your secretary, Joyce, knew me. She remembered my name and said that you’d made it impossible to forget me. What did she mean? What did you do? Why did she say that?”

  “Because she’s a troublemaker,” he said, squirming as he pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  Fran shook her head. “I don’t believe that for a second, or you wouldn’t keep her around.”

  “Okay.”

  She waited for him to say more, and wondered why she didn’t let him off the hook. Why did she need the validation? Because she didn’t get it from her family? Probably. Because her self-esteem needed shoring up? No doubt. And Alex was just what the doctor ordered, because he wasn’t looking for love any more than she was. And after tonight’s Carlino catastrophe, she didn’t care how pitiful or obvious, she needed a self-confidence booster. She was blatantly fishing for compliments.

  “So what did you do?” she prompted, when he wasn’t forthcoming.

  “I had the Carlino countdown on my calendar,” he said.

  “You mean you kept track of the days until I started?” At his nod, she continued to fish. “And she looks at your calendar every day?”

  “That’s what subservient secretaries do,” he confirmed. “Besides making coffee,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Fran decided to ignore his barb. “And that’s all? You never said or did anything else that would keep me at the forefront of her memory?”

  “I might have mentioned your name once or twice, in the two weeks before you started work. Why?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Just curious. I’d been wondering about it and—”

  “You’re a gifted chef, Fran. I don’t have to be psychic to predict a long and stellar career for you.”

  She met his gaze. “What did I do to deserve such a glowing commendation?”

  “You spent the day with your family.”

  She felt the corners of her mouth turn up. Apparently she was as subtle as her father. Alex had read her easily. Again.

  “I’d like to thank you,” she said.

  “It’s nothing more than the truth. You’re very good at what you do. And in spite of what your family thinks, it is a career. One that’s just as important as what your brothers do.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t talking about the glowing commendation, although I very much appreciate the sentiment. I mean I really need to thank you.”

  “For what?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Where do I start?” she said with a sigh. “For coming with me to take the edge off being with my family. For enduring the matchmaking—with good humor, I might add. For trying to defend me.”

  Especially that. For the rest of her life she would always remember how he’d gone into battle for her. At his own family castle, he might be third son dealing with second-son syndrome, but he was chock-full of chivalry, with a generous dollop of cute.

  “Coffee’s done,” he said, pointing to the electric appliance behind her.

  She turned and realized it was, but she’d been too busy worshiping at Alex’s feet to notice. Someday soon she would have to do something about the whole adoration thing where he was concerned. She took two mugs from the cupboard, then poured the steaming dark liquid into each. “Do you take it black, or with cream and sugar?” she asked.

  “Both,” he said. “Although black fits my mood better.”

  She handed him a cup, retrieved the appropriate condiments for his preference, then curled her hands around her own mug. She watched him spoon sugar and pour cream into his coffee until it was light brown. “You? In a black mood?”

  He was the most even-tempered man she’d ever met. It was one of the things she liked best about him.

  “It really fried me that they dismissed you out of hand.”

  “I told you. An engagement ring on my finger is the only thing that will get my father’s attention.”

  “No wonder you’re resistive to a serious relationship.”

  “So you understand now?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “The thinking is so Middle Ages.”

  “Unlike second-son syndrome,” she teased.

  “I thought we agreed that was a by-product of doing the family proud.”

  “We did. I just couldn’t resist. And in spite of the way it looks, they do love me,” she said. “Even if I’m not married.”

  “I never said they didn’t. They made their feelings clear. But your accomplishments are just as important as your brothers’. No wonder Max is wearing his milk.”

  Alex understood, she thought. In spite of herself, she released an audible, adoring sigh. “My father will never see cooking as a career choice unless I do it in my husband’s kitchen,” she said.
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  “I have a kitchen.” He looked surprised, as if he hadn’t meant to say that.

  “Yes, you do. At work, and probably one at home, too.” She blew on her coffee as her heart pounded almost painfully against the wall of her chest. What was he saying? “Is there any reason in particular why you pointed that out to me?”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “No. Just my convoluted way of saying that stereotypical typecasting is absurd.”

  So it wasn’t his nebulous way of saying that she could be the special woman in either or both of his kitchens. The stab of disappointment took her completely by surprise, because for so long she had run from wanting a man in her life.

  He met her gaze. “What I’m trying to say is that I care about you. I care what happens to you.”

  “You mean after my commitment with your company is over,” she clarified.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But I like you, Fran. I want to be your friend.”

  “What about Beth?” Why had she asked that?

  “She’ll always be a part of me. I’ll never forget her. But I have to move forward.”

  “So you’ve changed your mind about looking for love?”

  Darn. Fran couldn’t seem to stop putting her foot in her mouth. But because her own feelings had shifted, she needed to know where he was coming from.

  “No. I already had my chance at that. But it just hit me that I have to move forward with my life without feeling disloyal to her memory every time I enjoy myself.”

  “And this revelation happened at my folks’ house today?” She shrugged. “Funny. I thought I was the one taking the hits. I didn’t see the lightning bolt zap you.” His grin, so sudden, so appealing, made her want to grip the counter she leaned on, to keep from dissolving into a puddle at his feet.

  He tipped his head in a sheepish gesture. “It’s hard to explain, but I guess you could say it came over me about the same time you dumped your message on Max,” he said wryly.

  Then, in a roundabout way, she’d helped him, too. “So is there something you’d like to say?”

  He looked puzzled. “According to my sister there are only two things a woman wants to hear from a man. ‘I was wrong’ and ‘it will never happen again.”’