Recipe for Temptation

by Maureen Smith

  Revenge is a dish best served cold, Reese thought with wicked satisfaction.

  When it was her turn, she followed the production assistant down a long, narrow corridor and through an open doorway that brought them to the set of Howlin’ Good.

  Despite her newfound loathing for Michael Wolf, Reese couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement as she started down the aisle toward the kitchen at center stage. With its gleaming mahogany cabinets, granite countertops and modern stainless steel appliances, the set of Howlin’ Good had become as familiar to her as her own kitchen. To be here in person was surreal.

  Her fascinated gaze took in a kaleidoscope of cameras, lights, monitors and microphones. A network of lights hung from the ceiling, facing in various directions and at different angles. There were several technicians milling around, checking lighting, adjusting equipment and giving instructions to one another. A small group of people stood chatting around a table that had been erected in front of the stage—the judges, Reese realized when she spied another popular chef whose cable show she often watched.

  For the first time since her arrival at the studio two hours ago, she began to feel nervous.

  The feeling only intensified when she glanced around and saw Michael emerge from a doorway to the right of the stage. He was followed by his executive producer, whom Reese had met that morning, and a man wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.

  As Reese watched Michael stride purposefully toward the stage, she wondered how anyone could look so mouthwateringly good in a simple black T-shirt and jeans. But the shirt clung enticingly to his broad, muscular chest, and the jeans rode wickedly low on his hips.

  As if sensing her hungry appraisal, Michael turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the crowded set before homing in on hers. Reese’s breath caught. Her pulse thudded as his gaze swept over her, taking in her white ruffle blouse and linen slacks before easing back up to her face. Though his expression didn’t change, there was no mistaking the subtle challenge that glinted in his eyes.

  Reese lifted her chin defiantly, answering with her own silent message: Bring it on!

  A smile played at the corners of his lips before he glanced away to finish conferring with his producer.

  “You’re on in three minutes.” The production assistant led Reese onto the stage, where a cameraman clipped a tiny microphone to her lapel. “For the audition, you’re going to assist Michael with preparing a basic recipe. As I told the other contestants, the judges are more interested in your stage presence and the way you interact with Michael than your culinary skills. So just relax and be yourself.”

  “Good advice,” Reese murmured, trying not to notice that dozens of strangers were watching and critiquing her every move. She was relieved that she didn’t have to audition before a live studio audience.

  Michael awaited her at the large center island that was the focal point of the kitchen.

  It featured a restaurant-style electric cooktop and enough counter space for him to spread out his ingredients and display his culinary masterpieces at the end of each episode.

  As Reese took her place beside him, he slanted her a faintly mocking glance. “Think you can keep up?”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  Before he could respond, the director began his countdown. “Five, four, three, two—”

  On cue Michael flashed his trademark grin into the camera—the slow, wicked grin that melted women the world over and kept their eyes glued to their television sets. “Today we’ll be whipping up a classic Southern favorite—shrimp and grits. As any true Southerner knows, eating grits is a way of life, and breakfast without ’em is downright sacrilegious, as my father likes to say. But grits aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and today we’re gonna show you why. But first I’d like to introduce you to the lovely Reese St. James, who’ll be assisting me in the kitchen today.”

  Reese smiled and waved as the people gathered around the set applauded loudly in an effort to simulate a live audience.

  “Reese hails from the Lone Star state,” Michael said, smiling so easily at her no one would have believed they were enemies. “Houston, right?”

  “That’s right,” Reese said cheerfully. “It’s a pleasure to be here with you, Michael.

  Feel free to put me right to work.”

  Michael grinned at the onlookers. “Doesn’t waste any time, does she?” he drawled with a suggestive wink that earned him a round of hearty laughter.

  Not to be outdone, Reese picked up a piece of chilled shrimp from a bowl on the counter. “So what’re we working with today, shrimp? Er, I mean chef. ”

  More laughter filled the room.

  “That’s right, Reese,” Michael said, plucking the shrimp out of her fingers and dropping it into the bowl. “Today we’re working with shrimp. I’ve got some big, fat, juicy—”

  Reese fanned herself with her hand, drawing another burst of raucous laughter.

  Someone even whistled.

  Shaking his head, Michael muttered under his breath, “Good help is so hard to find,” which elicited some sympathetic chuckles.

  “What do you want me to do, Michael?” Reese asked sweetly.

  He looked her up and down slowly, then raised his eyes heavenward. “Lord, why do you tempt me so?”

  More chortles and catcalls ensued.

  When the noise had subsided, Michael said to Reese, “Why don’t you stir those grits on the stove?” As Reese moved to comply, he explained to the audience, “Most folks use instant grits, and that’s fine if you’re pressed for time. But I’m a purist who believes that the best grits are stone-ground and cooked slowly in butter and cream for at least two hours.”

  “Two hours?” Reese echoed in surprise.

  “Absolutely.” He met her gaze, his voice dipping low. “The slower, the better.”

  Reese’s belly flip-flopped as the onlookers reacted with wolf whistles. This time she really did need to fan herself.

  “So while your grits are simmering on the stove,” Michael continued, dragging his gaze from hers, “you need to spice up your shrimp. Being a Southern boy, I like mine really spicy. So that means plenty of Cajun seasoning, as well as Italian seasoning, paprika, salt and pepper. You’re gonna sprinkle the combined spices over the shrimp until they’re good and coated. And then you’re ready to sauté them bad boys.”

  As he pulled out a large pan and joined Reese at the stove, he said gruffly, “Keep stirring, woman. I don’t want my grits sticking to the bottom and burning.”

  Reese gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” Under her breath she muttered, “You can kiss my grits.”

  As laughter erupted around the set, Michael leaned close to her, his hand cupped to his ear. “I didn’t hear that. Did you say something?”

  Reese batted her lashes innocently. “I said, ‘You’re the boss.’”

  His mouth twitched. “Yeah, I thought so.” Turning on the burner next to hers, he said, “In a large pan, you’re gonna add two tablespoons of olive oil and minced garlic. Heat it up and stir for about thirty seconds, then throw in your seasoned shrimp—”

  “Throw?” Reese interrupted skeptically. “Are you sure you should be telling viewers to throw anything into a skillet of hot oil?”

  When Michael just stared at her, she said grimly, “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen more than enough third-degree burns caused by household cooking accidents. Might I suggest you find another verb?”

  He gaped at her a moment longer, then nodded tightly. “All right,” he agreed, addressing the camera. “You’re gonna ease the shrimp into the pan—”

  “Oh, much better. I like ease. ”

  Michael looked at Reese as if he wanted to clobber her over the head with the pan.

  “Anything else?” he inquired through clenched teeth.

  She grinned sheepishly. “Nope. I’m good.” The audience chortled as she hunched over the pot of grits and stirred with renewed vigor.

&
nbsp; “As I was saying,” Michael continued with exaggerated patience, “after you add the shrimp, sauté them for about three minutes—just until they’re tender. You don’t wanna overcook them. When they’re done, remove them from the pan and set ’em aside in a bowl.”

  “But not in the same bowl that had the raw shrimp, right?” Reese interjected. At his blank look, she hastened to clarify herself. “I mean, I know seafood doesn’t warrant the same cross-contamination concerns as poultry, but just to be on the safe side…”

  “Of course,” Michael said with a steely smile for the camera. “You’re going to place the cooked shrimp in a different bowl. Just like I did.”

  “Wonderful. Mmm, those look delicious,” Reese breathed, eyeing the mound of sautéed shrimp. “Can I have—”

  “No,” Michael snapped, moving the bowl out of her reach. The audience chuckled while Reese pretended to pout.

  Deliberately ignoring her, Michael continued, “Now comes the roux, which is basically a cooked mixture of flour and fat that’s used to thicken many Cajun dishes. So here’s what you’re gonna do, folks.” He explained the next few steps, demonstrating as he went along. “After you’ve cooked the roux, add a teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce and hot sauce. I usually make my own hot sauce, but if you’re looking for a shortcut, a good brand I recommend is Texas Pete—”

  “Hey, I think I know him!” Reese piped up brightly.

  This set off a new wave of laughter.

  Michael shook his head at the ceiling, but his lips were quirking, as if he wanted to smile but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It didn’t matter, though. Reese knew he was having as much fun as she was, even if he’d sooner eat stewed lizard guts than admit it.

  Grinning, she removed the grits from the burner. “What’re you gonna do with those?” she asked, pointing to another bowl filled with neat cubes of sautéed country ham.

  “Watch and learn.”

  Michael heaped a few spoonfuls of grits onto a plate and topped it with several sizzling pieces of shrimp. Next he poured a liberal amount of the roux sauce over the shrimp, added a sprinkling of ham, then presented the finished dish with a dramatic,

  “Booyah!”

  Reese joined in the vigorous applause that swept around the room. “Now may I have a taste?” she entreated him. “Pretty please?”

  Michael grinned lazily. “Sure. Why not?”

  He scooped up a forkful of shrimp and grits and brought it to her mouth. Reese opened her mouth automatically for him. As her lips closed around the fork, his gaze darkened. She let out a soft groan. “Mmmm. That is sooo good.”

  Watching her intently, Michael sampled a bite, licking their shared fork in a way that made Reese’s nipples harden and her pulse accelerate.

  Their gazes held for a long, charged moment.

  “Cut!” the director called out suddenly. In a voice laced with amusement, he added,

  “And would someone please bring me a glass of cold water? It’s hot in here!”

  An hour later, Drew Corbett was still raving about Reese St. James’s audition performance. And he wasn’t the only one. From the production assistant to the casting director, the consensus around the studio was that Reese should, and would be, Michael’s new apprentice.

  He seemed to be the only one who thought otherwise.

  “She was brilliant,” Drew declared to Michael and the four contest judges who’d gathered in the conference room to compare notes on the auditions. “She was totally at ease in front of the camera, she seemed comfortable in the kitchen and she had great comedic timing. The way she played comic ingenue to Mike’s ‘straight man’ reminded me of something you’d see on I Love Lucy. And let’s face it, folks. She’s not exactly hard on the eyes. The camera loves her.”

  There were hearty murmurs of agreement around the table.

  Paige Somers, a leggy brunette who worked as a senior editor at Food & Wine magazine in New York, raved, “Let me just add that I absolutely loved the sexual chemistry between Reese and Michael.”

  “Chemistry?” echoed a petite, pretty black woman named Lexi Austin. “That was a five-alarm fire!” Everyone laughed.

  “I’ve judged a lot of cooking competitions in my career,” Paige continued with a broad grin, “but I have never seen anything hotter than when Michael fed Reese from his fork, then took a bite himself. Whew!” she exclaimed, fanning her face. “I think we all wanted to jump in a cold pool after that!”

  Lexi snorted. “Speak for yourself. I wanted to jump Michael! ”

  More uproarious laughter filled the room. Even Michael, who’d been heretofore silent, couldn’t suppress a low chuckle.

  Drew glanced around the table, a huge, satisfied grin on his face. “These are the types of conversations women will be having at water coolers, on park benches and over coffee with their friends once Reese St. James makes her debut on the show. The chemistry between her and Michael is pure ratings gold. Their sharp repartee, the crackling sexual tension—our viewers are gonna eat it up.”

  “I agree,” Paige said vigorously, and the others nodded.

  “We all seem to be on the same page,” Lexi noted, “but we haven’t heard what the star of the show thinks.”

  Michael smiled as five pairs of eyes swung in his direction. He’d been sprawled in a chair at the head of the table, eyes hooded, arms folded behind his head, long legs stretched out in front of him. Anyone observing his lazy posture might have assumed he’d tuned out the discussion long ago. But Michael—as everyone who worked with him knew—never missed a thing.

  Still, it didn’t surprise him that Lexi had been the first to draw attention to his silence. She knew him better than anyone else in the room, as they’d been friends for over twenty years. They’d met as freshmen in college; Michael had attended Morehouse while Lexi was a student at Spelman. They’d hit it off right away, bonding over their mutual love for good food and cooking. When they graduated, Lexi had followed her true passion and gone to a French culinary school in New York while Michael went to work for a top engineering firm—a move Lexi still teased him about to this day. As a master chef instructor at a culinary institute in Atlanta, she was highly respected in the world of culinary arts. Michael considered her more than a friend; she was also a trusted advisor.

  “You wanna know what I think?” he drawled, straightening slowly in the chair. “I think that Howlin’ Good is a family-friendly show, one that stay-at-home moms can watch with their young children without having to worry about being bombarded with sexual innuendo. If we want to keep it that way—and keep the show off the FCC’s hit list—we’d better choose someone other than Reese St. James to be the apprentice.”

  A ripple of laughter went around the table.

  “Michael Sterling Wolf,” Lexi said, feigning a shocked tone. “Are you suggesting that you wouldn’t be able to control yourself around Reese?”

  Michael grinned sheepishly, rubbing his jaw. “It’d be damn hard, I can tell you that.”

  He’d had a hard enough time keeping his hands off Reese during the short time they’d been on stage together. Her coquettish smiles had been disarming enough, but when she parted those lush lips, took his fork slowly into her mouth and moaned, he’d nearly lost his mind. He’d wanted to make love to her right then and there, spectators be damned.

  “Apart from the fact that you don’t trust yourself not to jump Reese’s bones,” Paige said, “what other objections do you have to working with her?”

  For a moment Michael considered coming clean about everything that had transpired between him and Reese. But he quickly changed his mind. It was bad enough that he’d been forced to eat crow and apologize to her. If his colleagues ever found out what an ass he’d made of himself, he’d never live it down.

  And something told him that was exactly what Reese wanted. He didn’t believe for one second that she was interested in the prize money, or even fifteen minutes of fame.

  She’d come to the audition for one reaso
n and one reason only: to get back at him.

  So far, her plan was working brilliantly. She had everyone eating out of the palm of her hand, ensuring that Michael would be the bad guy if he refused to work with her. But refuse he must.

  “Look, I’m not disagreeing that she gave a great performance. She did. I just think we should keep our options open.”

  Paige’s eyebrows shot up. “Who else came close to being as good as Reese?”

  Michael racked his brain trying to recall the other contestants’ faces, but most of them were a blur. As much as he hated to admit it, the only one who’d stood out was Reese.

  “You have to admit that the stars seem to be aligned in her favor,” Drew said, pressing his advantage. “First the recipe she submitted was our test kitchen favorite. Then she just happened to be in Atlanta when we notified her. As it turns out she’ll be here on sabbatical for the next two months, which means she’ll be available for taping the apprentice episodes and attending any publicity events we ask of her. And if that’s still not enough proof that she’s the right woman for the job, she just gave an audition performance that was clearly head and shoulders above the rest.” He cast an impatient glance around the table. “Quite honestly, I’m surprised we’re even debating this.”