Recipe for Temptation

by Maureen Smith

  Reese couldn’t take her eyes off him. And it wasn’t lost on her that Michael seemed in no particular hurry to move on to the next table. His dark eyes traced her features in a slow, deliberate perusal that elevated her blood pressure. When his gaze drifted to her cleavage and lingered, her breasts swelled to aching. She was afraid to look down and see her nipples saluting him through the lightweight sarong dress she wore.

  “Is this your first time here?” Michael asked, returning his attention to her face.

  “Yes.” But it definitely won’t be my last!

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “Two days.” Reese gave him a saucy smile. “How did you know I was from out of town?”

  Michael chuckled softly. “We’ve been open for seven years. If you were really one of my biggest fans and you lived in Atlanta, it wouldn’t have taken you this long to visit the restaurant.”

  Her smile widened. “Good point.”

  They stared at each other. The voltage between them scorched her nerve endings and left her feeling hot and tingly all over.

  “Well,” Michael murmured, “I’ll let you get back to your dinner.”

  Reese felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She didn’t want him to leave. There was no guarantee she’d ever see him in person again.

  Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Why don’t you join me?”

  He looked at her, a smile lurking in one corner of his mouth. If he was surprised by her invitation, he didn’t show it. No doubt he was used to strange women throwing themselves at him.

  “I already had dinner,” he told her, lips quirking.

  Reese boldly held his gaze. “Then keep me company until I finish mine.”

  Something hot and wicked flared in his eyes. “With pleasure.”

  As he lowered his long, powerful body into a chair, she caught the subtle, masculine spice of an expensive cologne. She couldn’t help noticing that every eye in the restaurant was trained on them, as if a spotlight were beaming down on their table. Several women were glaring enviously at Reese, making her glad that looks couldn’t kill.

  “What’s your poison?” Michael asked, nodding toward her half-empty glass.

  “Riesling,” she answered.

  With the barest hint of a nod, he signaled to her waiter, who must have been standing at the ready. A bottle of Riesling was produced within moments.

  “Wow,” Reese said after the young waiter had topped off her glass and glided away.

  “You didn’t even have to crook a finger. I’m impressed.”

  Michael chuckled softly. “I take good care of my employees. They like to return the favor. Finish your food before it gets cold.”

  “Yes, sir.” Smiling, Reese picked up her fork and continued eating. “This stuffed salmon is to die for.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Michael stated, leaning back comfort ably in his chair. “It’s one of my favorite dishes on the menu.”

  Reese gave him a teasing, hopeful grin. “Any chance you could share the recipe?”

  “That depends.” There was a wolfish gleam in his eyes. “What would I get in return?”

  Heat rushed into Reese’s belly. She stared at him, the air between them vibrating with sexual awareness. For several moments she forgot how to breathe, let alone speak.

  “Well?” Michael prompted at length. “What would I get in return for giving you the recipe to one of my prized signature dishes?”

  Reese smiled slowly. “My undying gratitude?”

  Michael laughed, a low, husky rumble that made her nipples tighten. God, he was sexy. Sexier than any mortal man had a right to be. “And here I thought you’d promise to write a glowing review of the restaurant or something,” he teased.

  Reese guffawed. “You already have a ton of those. What difference would mine make?”

  Before he could respond, they were interrupted by two attractive black women, each bearing a copy of Michael’s latest bestselling cookbook.

  “Excuse us, Mr. Wolf,” gushed the taller of the pair. “We couldn’t wait for you to make your way over to our table. May we have your autograph?”

  “Of course,” Michael answered smoothly, standing to greet the women like the Southern gentleman he was.

  As he signed each of their books, they raved about his show and told him how much they’d always enjoyed eating at his restaurant, which they declared to be the best in all of Georgia. He took their compliments in stride, smiling and conversing with them with a lazy charm that Reese found utterly disarming.

  At one point, the taller woman whipped out her cell phone and turned to Reese with a giddy smile. “Would you mind taking a picture of us with Michael?”

  “Not at all,” Reese said.

  She snapped a group photo, then two more as each woman insisted on posing alone with Michael.

  After they left—with obvious reluctance—Reese said to Michael, “I’ve kept you from the rest of your customers. I’m sorry.”

  His eyes glinted. “Are you?”

  She paused. “Not really.”

  They smiled at each other. The moment stretched into two.

  Dragging her gaze away, Reese returned her attention to her plate. “So,” she began idly, “do you always come to the restaurant dressed in a tux?”

  Michael glanced down at himself, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. “I was at a fundraiser dinner. I decided to stop by the restaurant on my way home.” His voice deepened as he stared at her. “I’m glad I did.”

  Reese felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl. “So am I.”

  His mouth curved with a slow, sexy smile. “What brings you to Atlanta, Miss—?”

  “St. James.” Reese took a long sip of wine. No way was she telling him about the devastating tragedy that had sent her fleeing to Atlanta. He didn’t need to hear about her personal problems.

  Smiling demurely, she said, “What if I told you that I came to Atlanta just to eat at your fine establishment?”

  Michael chuckled softly. “I suppose I’d be flattered. If I actually believed you.”

  “You should. I’m one of your biggest fans, remember?”

  “Of course. How could I forget?”

  They exchanged playful grins.

  Finished with her meal, Reese sat back in her chair with a deep, satisfied sigh. “That was heavenly.”

  “Ready for dessert?” Michael asked.

  Only if you’re on the menu!

  Aloud she said laughingly, “I don’t know if I have any room left. I’m stuffed.”

  “Come on. You can’t leave my restaurant without trying one of our amazing desserts.”

  Of course, Reese needed little convincing.

  On cue, the waiter materialized with the dessert menu.

  “What do you recommend?” Reese asked Michael.

  He smiled. “I think everything’s good, but of course I’m biased. Why don’t you try the sweet potato pecan pie?”

  Reese smiled. “Sounds good.”

  As the waiter bustled away, Michael shook his head slowly at Reese. “Dangerous,”

  he murmured. “What?”

  “Your smile. It’s a heartbreaker.”

  Reese laughed, even as her stomach bottomed out. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “No,” he said softly, “just you.”

  They gazed at each other.

  If someone had told Reese that on her second night in Atlanta she’d find herself seated at a cozy dinner table with America’s sexiest chef—as Michael had recently been dubbed by People magazine—she wouldn’t have believed it. Not in a million years. She wanted to pinch herself just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  But, no, this moment had to be real. Michael Wolf sat close enough for her to see the thick, spiky lashes that rimmed his dark eyes. Close enough for her to detect the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. Close enough for her to reach out and touch him—if she dared.

  Before she could ev
en think about working up the nerve, her dessert arrived. She let out an involuntary gasp when she saw the enormous slice of pie on her plate. “Oh my God.”

  “Something wrong?” Michael sounded amused.

  “There’s no way I can eat all this by myself.” She gave him a beseeching look.

  “You have to help me.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think—”

  “No, really, I insist. Can you bring another fork for your boss?” she asked the waiter.

  After another set of silverware had been supplied, Reese pushed the pie plate to the center of the table, and she and Michael dug in.

  “Mmmm,” she said appreciatively after her first bite. “Delicious.”

  “You like?”

  “Mmm-hmm. You are looking at one very satisfied customer.”

  “That’s good,” Michael drawled, gazing at her. “Your satisfaction is our number-one priority.”

  Reese’s pulse thudded. The dark, intoxicating timbre of his voice had her imagining a number of other ways he could satisfy her. Ways that had nothing whatsoever to do with food.

  As if Michael had read her mind, a shadow of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He ate another forkful of pie and chewed slowly, watching her. Transfixed, she stared at his full lips, wondering if they were as soft as they looked, wondering how exquisite they’d feel pressed against her mouth, wrapped around a taut nipple, sliding up her inner thigh toward her—

  “I know we just met,” Michael said quietly, interrupting her lascivious thoughts,

  “but I was wondering if I could call you sometime?”

  “I’d like that,” Reese responded, surprising herself. “In fact, if you’re free tonight, I could use a ride home.”

  Chapter 2

  Michael didn’t make a habit of picking up women at his restaurant—though not for lack of opportunities. In the seven years he’d been in business, he’d received more than his fair share of propositions from customers. Some were subtle, while others…not so much.

  He’d had half-naked women sneak into the kitchen where he was cooking, while others had tried to bribe his waiters into divulging his home address and phone number.

  Yeah, Michael was no stranger to getting hit on. But he’d never believed in using any of his restaurants as his own personal hunting ground.

  Until he saw her.

  The moment he’d stepped into the crowded dining room that evening, his gaze had been drawn to a lone woman seated at a table in a private corner of the restaurant. Flawless deep brown skin gleamed under the recessed lighting. Layers of sleek black hair framed dark cat eyes, high cheekbones and lush, pouty lips that made him envy the fork she was sliding into her mouth. Full, voluptuous breasts beckoned to him from the low neckline of her dress.

  Michael had always made a practice of greeting his guests and making them feel at home. But tonight he’d been distracted as he played gracious host, keeping one eye on the exotic mystery woman as he slowly but surely worked his way toward her. When he finally reached her table, she’d looked up at him with those sultry eyes and breathed his name in a siren’s voice that sent a bolt of pure lust tearing through his body.

  When she’d invited him to join her at the table, refusing her never even entered his mind. He wanted her with a ferocity that had intensified with every seductive smile she gave him, every heated look they’d exchanged.

  He wanted her like no other woman he’d ever wanted before.

  As luck would have it, she seemed willing to let him have her.

  After dinner, she excused herself to use the ladies’ room before they left. Michael watched her go, admiring the view of her lushly rounded butt in a white sarong dress that molded every ripe, delectable curve.

  Once she’d disappeared from view, he made a beeline for the kitchen to tell his staff he was leaving. As he neared the back foyer he passed Griffin Palmer, the restaurant’s maître d’.

  “Evening, Griff,” he said.

  “Evening, boss.” Griffin gave him a sly smile. “You and Miss St. James seemed to be getting along rather well.”

  Michael grinned. “You could say that. She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “That she is.” Griffin winked at him. “And I suppose it never hurts to give food critics the VIP treatment. Not that you need to bribe anyone into giving the restaurant rave reviews,” he added quickly.

  Michael stared at him, his grin faltering. “What’re you talking about, Griff? Who’s a food critic?”

  “Miss St. James. She called two weeks ago, said she’d never been to the restaurant and thought it was high time she paid us a visit.” Griffin frowned. “Didn’t she introduce herself to you?”

  “No.”

  Once upon a time, food critics had prided themselves on their secrecy. They’d conducted reviews anonymously because they understood the value of experiencing a restaurant just like ordinary patrons. But nowadays, many food critics didn’t hesitate to reveal their identities. Michael had trained his staff to treat all customers the same—with warmth, courtesy and respect. He didn’t believe in kissing anyone’s ass just to get a good review.

  “What paper does Miss St. James write for?” he asked Griffin.

  “The Houston Chronicle. I spoke to her when she called to make the reservation.”

  Michael clenched his jaw. “What did she say her first name was?”

  “You mean the whole time you were cozying up to her, you didn’t ask for her first name?”

  Michael scowled. “It wasn’t important.”

  “Her name’s Randi St. James.”

  The name struck Michael as vaguely familiar. Then suddenly he remembered why.

  He’d met Randi St. James two years ago at one of his book signings in New York City.

  While he’d autographed multiple copies of his latest cookbook—she’d bought enough for family and friends—she’d told him that she was a food critic and had enthusiastically lobbied for a Wolf’s Soul to be opened in Houston.

  The beautiful, alluring stranger he’d encountered tonight was not Randi St. James.

  So who the hell was she? And what was she up to?

  Noting Michael’s thunderous expression, Griffin heaved a deep sigh. “Don’t tell me that nice young lady isn’t who she says she is.”

  Michael said nothing, inwardly seething. He felt like a damn fool. He was used to women employing creative tactics to get his attention, but he’d never imagined that one would go so far as to pose as a food critic. The woman was either the most aggressive fan he’d ever met, or she was seriously unbalanced for attempting such a scheme.

  “Wait a minute,” Griffin said. “She didn’t introduce herself to you. That doesn’t make any sense if she expected to receive preferential treatment. How did she know you’d find out her identity?”

  “She obviously assumed you’d tell me,” Michael muttered.

  “Maybe…” Griffin was unconvinced.

  Biting back an impatient oath, Michael said, “Look, I’ve met the real Randi St.

  James. Unless there are two writers by the same name reviewing restaurants for the Houston Chronicle, the woman is a damn liar.”

  He sent a dark glance toward the corridor that led to the restrooms. His mystery woman—whoever she was—had just emerged. Despite what he’d just learned about her—

  that she was a fraud, possibly a deranged stalker—his body still stirred at the sight of her.

  With her exotic beauty and a body made for sin, she was a recipe for temptation that any red-blooded male would find hard to resist. Unfortunately, that included him.

  As Michael watched, she glanced around the foyer, searching for him. When their gazes connected, she gave him one of those slow, entrancing smiles that sent blood rushing straight to his groin.

  Damn it all to hell. Why did she have to ruin everything by lying? They could have had such a good time together. Incredible, he amended, mindful of the throbbing ache between his legs.

  But no matter how b
adly he wanted her, one thing Michael had never tolerated in women was deceitfulness. It was an automatic deal breaker for him. Always had been.