Recipe for Temptation

by Maureen Smith

  And the sooner, the better.

  But three and a half hours later when he pulled up to the now-familiar bungalow and saw a florist’s delivery truck parked at the curb, he got a sinking feeling in his gut. And that was before he saw Reese standing in the doorway, her cell phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she signed for the delivery. When the driver handed her a long white box tied with a red satin bow, she beamed with pleasure.

  It was like a blow to Michael’s chest.

  He waited until the delivery truck had rumbled off before he climbed out of the car and slowly started up the walk. By the time he reached the front door, his good mood had completely disintegrated, replaced by a dark, seething emotion he didn’t want to identify.

  “Michael.” Reese looked surprised to see him. Or maybe guilty was a better word.

  “I thought you were going to call when you were on your way.”

  He’d been so eager to get there that he’d forgotten. Not that he was about to tell her that. “Since I said we could go around eleven,” he said mildly, “I figured you’d be ready.”

  “I am. I just… Never mind.” She opened the door wider and nervously gestured him inside.

  As he stepped into the foyer, his gaze went immediately to a box of two dozen long-stemmed red roses that lay open on the table.

  “Nice,” Michael murmured, slowly removing his sunglasses. Roses were the kind of gift a guy sent to get himself out of the doghouse—or into a woman’s bed. Unoriginal, but highly effective.

  Reese wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes, they are nice.”

  “For you?” Please say no. Please say they came for your friend Layla.

  Reese hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “Yes. They’re mine.”

  His heart sank, though he should have known better than to get his hopes up. “So my hunch was right about you,” he said, his voice pitched low.

  Her hand fluttered to her throat. “What hunch?”

  “I suspected that you might have a boyfriend. And you do.”

  She met his gaze then, but only for a moment before her eyes slid guiltily away.

  Coward, he silently mocked her.

  Instead of answering him, she walked quickly to the table, saying, “I’m, uh, going to put these in water, then we can go.”

  As she scooped up the box of roses, a small white card floated to the floor. She didn’t see it, so intent was she on beating a hasty retreat. As she continued to the kitchen, Michael bent down and picked up the card. Unable to resist, he read the typed message.

  You didn’t say I couldn’t send roses. I miss you. Come back to me. Love, Victor.

  Michael clenched his jaw as some strange new emotion washed over him—raw, fierce, primitive. Entirely foreign, entirely unwelcome.

  He got slowly to his feet as Reese returned to the foyer, sucking her thumb where she’d presumably been pricked with a thorn. “Okay,” she said briskly. “I’m ready to go.”

  Michael held up the card, and watched as a deep, embarrassed flush swept across her face. “It fell out of the box,” he told her.

  “Oh. Thanks,” she muttered, practically snatching it out of his hand. She tapped it against her open palm for a moment, then looked up at him with an unspoken question in her eyes. Michael didn’t have to guess what she was asking. She wanted to know whether he’d read the card.

  He just looked at her, letting the tense silence hang between them.

  Not surprisingly, she was the first to glance away. “We should probably go,” she mumbled.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Michael said flatly.

  She started away from him. “I left my handbag in the—”

  “Did your boyfriend send the roses?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Did he?” Michael demanded.

  “Yes!” She rounded on him, those dark eyes flashing with fiery defiance. “Yes, the roses are from my boyfriend! His name is Victor. We’ve been together for over a year. We work at the same hospital. He loves my cooking. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Yeah.” Michael smirked, surprised by the strength of the jealousy he felt. “How does your boyfriend feel about you kissing other men?”

  It was a low blow, and he knew it.

  Reese flinched, hurt and anger flaring in her eyes. She took a step backward, glaring at him. “Maybe you should just leave,” she said coldly.

  “No,” Michael snarled, his heart beating so savagely he thought he might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. “I came to take you to the studio, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Then I’m getting my damn purse.”

  “Fine. I’ll wait in the damn car.” He turned and stalked out of the house.

  Reese joined him in the Maybach a few minutes later, slamming the door hard enough to make his teeth snap together. Without sparing her a glance he turned the ignition and gunned the accelerator, pinning her against the seat with a tight-knuckled grip on the door handle that gave him a perverse twinge of satisfaction.

  He knew he was being irrational, that he had no right to feel so possessive over her.

  Yet he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her, damn it. Wanted her like no other woman he’d ever wanted before. But as long as she had a boyfriend, she was completely off-limits to him. Because as much as Michael enjoyed playing the field, he’d always drawn the line at sleeping with women who were already taken. There were too many other fish in the sea for him to poach on another man’s territory.

  For years he’d despised Grant Rutherford for luring his mother away from Sterling.

  Grant hadn’t respected Celeste’s marriage or her responsibility to her family. He’d seen something he wanted and had gone after it, consequences be damned. As far as Michael was concerned, real men didn’t go around stealing other people’s wives. They found their own.

  Given his personal convictions, it would be hypocritical of him to pursue Reese when he knew she was in a relationship. And if she cheated on her boyfriend, how could Michael ever trust her to be faithful to him?

  Halfway to the downtown television studio, a burst of song from his cell phone cut through the frigid silence in the car. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw Reese raise a brow at the ring tone—“Fight the Power” by Public Enemy. It was his personal theme song for his brother, Marcus, the crusading lawyer.

  In no mood for small talk, Michael snatched up the phone and growled, “Let me call you back later.”

  “Whoa.” Marcus was taken aback. “Damn, what’s wrong with you? ”

  Michael impatiently switched lanes. “This isn’t a good time, little man.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, because I need a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Can you pick up Mom and Grant from the airport?”

  “Tonight?”

  “No.” Marcus sounded puzzled. “What’re you talking about? They’re not arriving tonight.”

  Michael frowned. “When does their flight get in?”

  “In an hour.”

  “What? Since when?”

  “They changed their flight a couple weeks ago. Oh, yeah, that’s right—you were on your book tour. I thought Dad told you.”

  “He must have forgot. Anyway, I’m on my way to the studio. Why can’t you pick them up from the airport?”

  “I had planned to,” Marcus said grimly, “but I’m still at the office.”

  “Why? I thought you and Samara took another week off from work to spend time with the family.”

  “We did. But I had to come in to help put out a fire involving one of our big clients.”

  “What about Samara?” Samara Wolf was a public relations consultant, so her schedule was more flexible.

  “She’s out running around with her mother, finalizing preparations for the reception next Monday.”

  “Asha’s already in town?” Michael asked in surprise. Her grand opening wasn’t for another week.

  “Yeah. She fl
ew in yesterday afternoon. She was hoping to meet with you to discuss the reception menu, but you never answered your cell phone.”

  “I was out,” Michael muttered with a sideways glance at Reese. She sat ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she stared through the windshield, simmering with hostility.

  “You turned off your phone yesterday?” Marcus asked.

  Michael grunted an affirmative. He hadn’t wanted the outside world to intrude on his time with Reese. What a joke.

  “That must have been one helluva date,” Marcus said slyly.

  Michael scowled. “It wasn’t a date.” He felt rather than saw Reese stiffen even more in her seat.

  “Whatever you say, bro.” Marcus chuckled. “So can you swing by the airport, then drop Mom and Grant off at Dad’s house?”

  Yet another surprise. “Why aren’t they staying with you and Samara like they always do?”

  Marcus heaved a sigh. “You know Mom and Asha don’t get along. It’s like they’re in competition with each other to see who can be the best grandmother. They’re always one-upping each other with gifts for the twins, and Mom thinks Asha purposely scheduled the grand opening of her boutique to coincide with Mom’s summer visit so she could steal the spotlight.”

  Michael rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Women and their drama.”

  “Tell me about it,” Marcus agreed with a wry chuckle. “Needless to say, Samara and I didn’t think having them under the same roof was such a good idea. So since Asha arrived first, she got dibs on accommodations.”

  Michael grinned. “Given the way she and Dad are always at each other’s throats, staying with him was out of the question.”

  Marcus laughed. “You got that right. They’d probably kill each other before the week was over.” A low murmur of voices could be heard in the background. “Listen, Mike, I gotta run. My client just arrived. Thanks for picking up Mom and Grant for me on such short notice. I owe you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Michael hung up and returned the phone to the center console, then glanced over at Reese. “We have to make a detour to the airport to pick up my mother.”

  She looked stricken. “You’re taking me with you?”

  “I don’t have time to turn around and drive you back home. We’d never make it to the airport in time. Not in this traffic.”

  Biting her lip, she glanced down at her snug T-shirt, denim capri pants and pink flip-flops.

  Interpreting her thoughts, Michael said impatiently, “Relax. You look fine. And even if you didn’t, so what? It’s not like you’re being introduced as her future daughter-in-law.”

  Reese bristled. “You should be so lucky.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll let you figure it out.” Fuming, she turned away to glare out the passenger window, adding under her breath, “Jerk.”

  Michael scowled.

  So much for their truce.

  Chapter 9

  Celeste Rutherford was a typical mother in that every time she came for a visit, she reacted as though it had been years since she’d last seen her children, when in her case it had only been four months. She’d flown to Atlanta earlier that year to spend Easter with the family, and before that she’d stayed for two weeks following Christmas. She would have remained longer if her husband—after enduring one too many winter nights alone—hadn’t begged her to return home to Minnesota.

  When Michael saw his mother standing alone in the bustling airport terminal, he wondered if she’d left Grant behind again. At the sight of Michael, she beamed with such radiant joy that he couldn’t help asking himself how he’d ever doubted her love for him.

  “Darling!” she cried warmly, rushing forward and wrapping him in one of those rib-crushing embraces that belied her slender, petite frame.

  Michael smiled, holding her close. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better, now that you’re here.” She clung a moment longer, then drew back and cradled his face between her hands, her cinnamon-brown eyes shining with tender adoration. “I swear you get handsomer every time I see you. How is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know.” Michael grinned crookedly. “Are you still refusing to wear your bifocals?”

  She laughed, lovingly stroking his cheek. “You look just like your father. It’s like stepping back in time.”

  Michael smiled. “And speaking of that, you look really good, Mom. All your friends must hate you.”

  “Oh, go on with you, boy,” she guffawed, blushing prettily.

  At sixty-five, Celeste’s smooth café-au-lait skin glowed with an age-defying health and vitality. Her hair was liberally woven with silver and cropped in short, sleek layers that accentuated the serene beauty of her face. Since becoming a frequent flyer in recent years, she’d learned to dress for comfort rather than style, though she still managed to epitomize casual elegance in a breezy summer top, pleated linen slacks and jeweled sandals.

  Michael glanced around curiously. “Where’s Grant?”

  “In the restroom. He’ll be right out.” Celeste’s gaze suddenly landed on Reese, who’d hung back a little to give mother and son privacy. With a discreet glance at Reese’s hourglass body poured into snug denim, Celeste undoubtedly reached the conclusion that she was one of her son’s latest conquests.

  “Hello,” Celeste murmured politely.

  Michael turned as Reese stepped shyly forward. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Reese St. James. Reese, this is my mother, Celeste Rutherford.”

  Celeste offered a friendly, if not distant, smile. “How nice to meet you, Reese.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rutherford,” Reese said warmly. “Did you have a good flight?”

  Celeste looked pleasantly surprised, as if she hadn’t expected Reese to sound so gracious or articulate. Damn, Michael thought with a pang of irritation. What kind of women does she think I date? I’m not Quentin!

  “Yes, I did enjoy the flight,” Celeste answered smoothly. “Thank you for asking, Reese.”

  Noting the speculative gleam in his mother’s eyes, Michael hastened to explain.

  “Reese just won my apprentice contest.”

  “Oh! Congratulations!” Celeste exclaimed, clasping both of Reese’s hands between hers. “You must be so excited.”

  “Ecstatic,” Reese enthused. “It’s an opportunity of a lifetime. I’m a huge fan of your son’s.”

  Celeste beamed with pleasure, completely missing the sardonic glance that passed between Michael and Reese.

  “I can’t tell you how many friends and coworkers tried to bribe me into putting in a good word with Michael,” Celeste confided. “After the contest was announced, you won’t believe the number of cards, gifts and baked goods I received. And every time I turned around, someone was dropping by for a surprise ‘visit.’” She grinned, shaking her head at Reese. “You’re going to be the envy of a lot of heartbroken women.”

  Reese sighed dramatically. “Better them than me, I suppose.”

  Celeste laughed, amused and delighted.

  Michael had never been more relieved to see his stepfather approaching. Grant Rutherford was of medium height and build, with a receding thatch of curly gray hair and sharp green eyes that revealed his biracial roots. Dressed in a crisp polo shirt and neatly pressed khaki trousers, he looked like he’d just strolled off his favorite golf course.

  He grinned broadly and greeted Michael with a quick bear hug. “Good to see you, Michael. Your mother has been looking forward to this trip ever since she returned from the last one.”

  Michael smiled. “I’m glad you both could make it.” Turning to Reese at his side, he quickly performed the introductions.

  As Reese shook Grant’s hand, she said, “You wouldn’t happen to be Dr. Grant Rutherford of the Mayo Clinic, would you?”

  Grant nodded. “That would be me.”

  Reese’s face lit up with excitement. “Oh my goodness! It’s such an hon
or to meet you, Dr. Rutherford. I’ve been following your studies on stem cell research in the New England Journal of Medicine. ”

  “Is that right?” Grant beamed, his chest swelling with pride as he eyed her with keen interest. “Young lady, are you a physician?”

  Reese nodded. “Obstetrics and gynecology. I work at The Methodist Hospital in Houston.”

  “You don’t say?” Grant’s brows arched with obvious approval. “Methodist is a very good facility. I understand it was recently recognized as one of the nation’s best hospitals by U.S. News & World Report. ”