Recipe for Temptation

by Maureen Smith

  Something snapped inside Sterling. Before he could stop himself, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. Hard and possessively.

  After several moments—the sweetest, most pleasurable moments he’d enjoyed in ages—Asha broke the kiss and staggered back, staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

  Mortified by his actions, Sterling hung his head in sheepish contrition. “Aw, hell.

  I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over—”

  Asha lunged at him, throwing her arms around his neck and crushing her soft mouth to his.

  With a muffled groan of hunger, Sterling swept her into his arms and carried her to his bedroom.

  Chapter 12

  The scene at the breakfast table the next morning would have been good material for a sociological study on human dynamics.

  In an ironic role reversal from last night, Reese was sullen and subdued while Michael bantered cheerfully with his family. His upbeat mood rankled her, taunting her with memories of their illicit moonlight encounter—an encounter that had left her body thrumming with sexual tension and frustration for the rest of the night.

  Every time Michael laughed or flashed one of his killer grins, Reese wanted to stab him with her fork. Once, when he’d caught her glaring at him, he’d smiled and winked at her. If small children hadn’t been present, she might have given him the finger.

  But Michael wasn’t the only one in an exceptionally good mood. Marcus and Samara were back to stealing private smiles at each other, while Sterling was so jovial and relaxed that if Reese didn’t know better, she would think Marcus wasn’t the only member of the Wolf pack who’d gotten laid last night.

  In sharp contrast, Celeste was silent and grim faced, shooting dirty looks at Asha throughout the meal. But Asha seemed unconcerned, exuding an aura of serenity that repelled any and all daggers thrown her way.

  Only Grant, buried behind a newspaper, seemed oblivious to all the undercurrents at the table. When Celeste discreetly nudged him at one point, he set aside the paper with a sheepish grin and reached for his coffee mug. As he drank, he appeared to be casting about for something to contribute to the conversation.

  Finally, he blurted the first thing that obviously came to mind: “That sure was a beautiful full moon last night.”

  “Sure was,” Michael agreed, his wicked gaze meeting Reese’s. She hated herself for blushing.

  Marcus smiled lazily. “You know what they say. Strange things happen when there’s a full moon.”

  Sterling chuckled into his coffee. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Asha choked on the orange juice she’d been sipping.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Samara asked in concern.

  Asha nodded quickly, her dark eyes glimmering with mirth as she set down her glass and delicately fanned her face with her hand. Celeste frowned.

  Marcus grinned at his father and brother. “Hey, remember what we used to do on our camping and fishing trips? When ever there was a full moon, we’d all sit around the campfire—”

  “—and howl at the moon,” Sterling and Michael finished, laughing.

  “Is that where Michael got his famous howl from?” Reese asked curiously, still not addressing him directly.

  Sterling grinned. “If anything, we got it from him. Starting from the time he was five years old, he’d always howl after eating something he really liked. So we started putting food into two categories—there was good, and then there was howlin’ good. ”

  Reese smiled at Michael, so charmed by the anecdote that she temporarily forgot she was supposed to be mad at him. “So that’s how you came up with the name of your show.”

  He nodded, his eyes glinting with amused satisfaction. As if he, too, realized that she’d let her guard down.

  “Needless to say,” Celeste chimed in, brightening for the first time all morning,

  “whenever my cooking received one of Michael’s coveted ‘howlin’ good’ ratings, I strutted around for the rest of the day like I was Julia Child.” Everyone laughed.

  Reese didn’t miss the smug glance Celeste shot at Asha, while Grant looked pleased that his innocuous comment had generated such a lively discussion.

  Unable to resist an opportunity to make Michael squirm, Reese said ever so innocently, “Someday I’d love to hear the other story behind the howl.”

  “What other story?” Sterling asked.

  Everyone looked inquiringly at Michael, whose expression had gone carefully blank.

  “Oh, come on, Michael,” Reese prompted in a deceptively puzzled voice, as if she couldn’t understand why he was playing dumb. “You know the story I’m talking about.

  Remember? The one Quentin said would offend my feminine sensibilities?”

  Celeste gasped. “Michael Sterling Wolf,” she scolded, as only a scandalized mother could.

  As Michael ducked his head, laughter erupted around the table.

  From beneath the thick veil of his lashes, he gave Reese a look that promised retribution. She responded with a huge, triumphant grin.

  She’d already learned that when it came to besting this man, she’d take whatever victories she could get. Because she knew they’d be few and far between.

  Reese’s cell phone rang as she stepped through the front door that evening, her arms laden with shopping bags. Bumping the door closed with her hip, she divested herself of her baggage and fumbled the phone out of her handbag on the final ring.

  “Hello?” she answered breathlessly.

  “Hey.” Michael’s deep voice poured into her ear.

  And just like that, her knees went weak.

  Dragging her fingers through her hair, she made her way into the living room and sank into the nearest chair. “I just got home,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “I know.”

  “You know?” She glanced around, half expecting to find him lurking in the shadows with his phone pressed to his ear.

  Michael chuckled, as if he’d intercepted her paranoid thoughts. “I just spoke to Marcus. Samara had called to tell him that they were dropping you off and would be home soon.”

  “I see. And had you already instructed Marcus to call and give you a heads-up?”

  “Pretty much.” There was a smile in his voice. “How was the shopping trip?”

  She sighed. “Fun. Exhausting. I see why Lenox Square Mall is considered the Shopping Mecca of the South. And Asha wore me and Samara out.”

  Michael chuckled. “And she’s the older one. What’s wrong with that picture?”

  Reese grinned. “What can I say? The woman was in her element.”

  “I can imagine. So, did you get something pretty?”

  “I got a lot of something pretty,” Reese said laughingly, surveying the mountain of bags bearing the emblems of glitzy, upscale shops. Not only had Asha handpicked every outfit for her—the woman knew fashion like nobody’s business—she’d also footed the bill for the entire shopping excursion. Though Reese had vigorously protested, Asha had refused to take no for an answer. And, as expected, they’d received red-carpet treatment everywhere they went, greeted by gushing salespeople who’d tripped over themselves to do Asha’s bidding. The first time they were served champagne, Reese had gaped at Samara, who’d shrugged and grinned, saying, “It’s a pain in the ass, but you get used to it.”

  Reese didn’t see how that was remotely possible. Though she’d thoroughly enjoyed shopping with Asha, the dizzying pace of the experience had left her craving a hot, relaxing bath and a glass of chilled wine.

  But first she had to get Michael off the phone.

  She opened her mouth to tell him good-night, but what came out instead was

  “Where are you, anyway?”

  “At the restaurant.”

  “You’ve been there all day?”

  “Yeah.”

  She slipped off her flat sandals and rubbed her sore feet, thinking of their sublimely sensual midnight encounter. It alarmed her to realize that this man, whom she hardly knew, could possess such m
astery of her body. If they ever made love, she’d be ruined forever.

  “I don’t hear a lot of noise in the background,” she observed.

  “That’s because I’m sitting on the balcony,” Michael murmured. “At our table.”

  Our table. The words reverberated in her mind as a melting warmth spread through her, a deep longing.

  She forced out a laugh that sounded strangled to her own ears. “So now we have a table?”

  “Yeah,” he said huskily. “We do.”

  “Come on,” she scoffed. “Do you really expect me to believe you’ve never taken another woman up to the balcony?”

  “You’re the first, Reese.”

  God help her, she believed him. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, shaky breath and slowly exhaled. “Michael…”

  “I need you—”

  “Michael.”

  “—to come down to the restaurant.”

  Her eyes snapped open. That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “You need me to do what?”

  “Come to the restaurant. That’s actually the reason I was calling. If you want to be my apprentice, you should familiarize yourself with the inner workings of a restaurant. So tonight I’m giving you a front-row seat to our busy kitchen.”

  Reese groaned. “That sounds lovely, Michael, but does it have to be tonight? ”

  “Tonight’s perfect. Tuesdays are generally our slowest nights, so it won’t be a complete madhouse. Besides, aren’t you the one who said you were trying to get into your new role as my apprentice?”

  The man remembered everything, damn him. “I did, and I am. But tonight doesn’t work for me.”

  “Tonight, Reese.”

  “Oh, come on, Michael,” she wheedled. “It’s already after seven. And Asha ran me ragged today. My feet are killing me.”

  He laughed. “Don’t ever whine to a chef about having sore feet after a leisurely afternoon of shopping. Trust me, you won’t get any sympathy.”

  She bit her lip, feeling a pang of shame. “I guess you have been on your feet all day, slaving in a hot kitchen.”

  “That’s right, and you don’t hear me complaining. So suck it up, buttercup.”

  Reese heaved a dramatic sigh of resignation. “All right. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  “Mmm,” came his low, husky rumble. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

  Heat stung her cheeks at the sexual innuendo. “Down, boy.”

  “Too late.” He chuckled. “Anyway, your cab should be there in a few minutes.”

  “What? You already called me a cab?”

  “Yeah. I’ll drive you home afterward.”

  Her hackles rose. “Don’t you think it was a bit presumptuous of you to call a cab before you’d even spoken to me?”

  “Absolutely.” He was infuriatingly unapologetic. “Look, babe, I have to go. I’ll see you when you get here.”

  Reese sputtered in protest, but he’d already hung up on her.

  When she arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes later, Michael met her outside, looking good enough to eat in his crisp white chef’s jacket. He helped her out of the cab, then paid and tipped the driver so generously that the man’s eyes lit up like he’d just won a million-dollar jackpot.

  As the taxi lurched off down the street, Michael and Reese lingered on the sidewalk, gazing at each other. He touched her face, smiling warmly into her eyes. “Hi.”

  Her insides melted. “Hi.”

  “Glad you came.”

  She made a wry face. “You didn’t give me much of a choice, slave driver.”

  Chuckling, he took her by the hand and led her inside.

  Reese glanced around the crowded restaurant in disbelief. “I thought you said Tuesdays are slow.”

  Michael slanted her a grin. “This is slow.”

  He hung a right, ushering her down a short corridor to the kitchen. Just beyond the swinging door was a fast-paced world of sweat, stress and chaos punctuated by the noisy clang of pots and pans.

  Michael escorted Reese through the bustling labyrinth of work spaces to a semiprivate area partitioned off by a long, stainless steel table. From there she’d have an up-close-and-personal view of the action without getting in the way.

  Moments after she’d sat down, Michael set a steaming plate before her. Reese’s mouth watered as the most heavenly aroma wafted up her nostrils.

  “What’s this?” she breathed, eyeing the appetizing meal.

  “Another house specialty. Bourbon-glazed pork tenderloin with caramelized plantains.”

  “Oh my.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Eons ago. We stopped for an early lunch.”

  “Good. Then I expect you to clean your plate.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice,” Reese said, already seizing her fork.

  Michael smiled as he poured her a glass of wine.

  “Riesling,” she said wonderingly. “You remembered.”

  “Of course.” His smile deepened. “I remember everything.”

  She grinned. “Don’t I know it.”

  He winked at her. “I’ll be back to check up on you later. Enjoy the show.”

  And what a show it was, a riveting choreography of cuisine that was unlike anything Reese had ever seen before. As a self-professed foodie, she’d always assumed she knew what went on behind the scenes of a busy restaurant. Now, with a front-row seat to one of the most famous kitchens in the country, she realized how little she’d understood about the level of coordination that went into preparing an entrée before it was served to customers. And everyone, from the line cooks to the sous chef, knew their roles and executed them with brisk efficiency.

  It came as no surprise to Reese that Michael’s kitchen ran like a well-oiled machine.

  Though he was clearly in charge, he didn’t yell at his crew like some obnoxious, foulmouthed tyrant. He barked orders, but he was never obscene. He scowled when mistakes were made, but he never spared praise. He was intensely focused, but he could disarm with a sudden grin and a joke that drew raucous laughter. He didn’t have to resort to bullying for his commanding presence to be felt throughout the kitchen. His employees understood that he demanded perfection, and they did their damnedest to deliver it. What did surprise Reese was how hands-on Michael was. He made a final inspection of every plate that went out and usually added finishing touches—a garnish of celery leaves on lobster, an artful drizzle of sauce over a chicken dish. Unlike many other celebrity chefs who owned restaurants, Michael was no figurehead. He was the heart and soul of Wolf’s Soul.

  The hours flew by. Before Reese knew it, it was eleven o’clock and the restaurant was closed. While Michael was out front seeing off the last of his customers, she shocked the staff by pitching in to clean up the kitchen, overriding their protests. Michael returned to the sight of her elbow deep in a sink full of dishes, laughing in response to someone’s off-color joke.

  When his employees glanced around and saw him frozen in the doorway with an arrested expression on his face, they sobered at once, no doubt afraid they’d get in trouble for allowing his guest to wash dishes. Undaunted, Reese met Michael’s gaze with a look of haughty defiance, silently daring him to reprimand anyone.

  Without a word he went to work emptying a trash bin, and the clean-up efforts continued in cheerful camaraderie until the kitchen was spotless.

  After everyone had gone home, Reese and Michael collapsed into chairs at the prep table, exhaling sighs of happy exhaustion.

  “What a day,” Reese declared, kicking off her sandals.

  Michael grinned, propping his big, booted feet on the table and lounging back.

  “Nothing like an honest day’s work. Well—at least for one of us.”

  “Hey!” Reese laughingly protested, slapping him playfully on the leg. “Shopping with Asha Dubois is work!”

  “Right,” he drawled, mouth twitching. “I’m sure it was really strenuous for you, lifting those glasses of champ
agne to your lips and lugging around all those heavy boxes of designer shoes. Poor baby. You’re gonna need weeks to recover.”

  Reese tried to glare at him, but the amusement won out. Throwing back her head, she laughed so hard that tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Watching her, Michael couldn’t help laughing.