Despite family pressure to date only women of his own social class, something about the cooking-challenged spitfire lights all Micah’s burners. Cori’s a complex dish inside a deceptively simple coating, one he’s willing to risk tackle football and jealous ex-boyfriends to sample.
His every attempt to crack her stubborn heart strikes sparks. Will they ignite the flame of love—or explode into just another kitchen disaster?
Warning: This story contains flying poultry, annoying older brothers, the occasional quote from Shakespeare, and enough sexual tension to overheat ovens—and engines.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Kitchen Matches:
Corinne Weathers, Cori to her friends and family—but not to her very proper cooking class teacher, Micah DePalma—gave a squeak of fear at the flames creeping up her apron. She slapped at them with her potholder, but it didn’t help. Her throat was so tight with panic, she couldn’t cry out for help. With one last futile whack at the growing fire, and desperately trying to remain calm, Cori reached behind her neck to untie the apron straps. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the bow and pulled it into a good, solid knot.
A brief hissing sound was the only warning she got before clouds of whatever white stuff lurked inside a fire extinguisher smacked into her gut like a fist and drifted in a halo around her head.
She coughed and waved a hand in the air in an attempt to clear it. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” A familiar male voice threaded through the cloud.
Cori grimaced. Ack. Saved by Micah DePalma, her handsome-but-cranky cooking teacher. Why couldn’t it have been someone—anyone—else? She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed for something to rescue her from his wrath. She knew a lecture was on its way, knew she deserved one for setting herself on fire, but she really didn’t want to hear it.
“Are you okay?” Micah’s low voice rumbled over her, as did one firm hand as he checked for injuries. “No burns?”
Cori ignored the warmth of his skin on hers and cracked open one watering eye to look at him. He really seemed genuinely worried. Not angry. How had that happened? She’d done nothing but annoy him since this course had started.
“I’m okay. Thanks to you.” She shrugged off his hand.
“And no thanks to you,” he replied, tossing the small fire extinguisher back and forth and giving her a lopsided smile only slightly tinged with irritation.
Uh oh. Here it came. She scrunched up her face, prepared for the worst. Maybe if she apologized before he yelled, it would help. “I’m sorry.”
“I imagine you are.” He set down the small red metal tube and stared at the disaster area that was her stove. “However, I’d say you failed this lesson. You may spend the rest of class cleaning up this mess.”
Without a backward glance to make certain Cori obeyed his royal decree, Micah turned and walked away. She took a quick look at the horrified faces of her classmates. Her face burned as hot as the flames had on her apron, but she refused to give in to the tears that threatened. Instead she snatched up a wet rag and rubbed at the spilled oil and other goop on the stovetop.
When class was finally over, she put away the cleaning supplies and tossed her dirty rags into the laundry. By the time she’d finished and grabbed her leather jacket, most of the class had already left. She dipped her head and tiptoed toward the door, wanting to sneak out before she did anything else wrong.
“Ms. Weathers,” Micah called.
Her heart jumped at the sound of her name on his lips. Now what? Cori hated that he had the ability to both arouse and annoy her, so she opted to grab hold of the annoyance with both hands. She turned and glared, tapping her foot while she waited for him to speak.
Too bad he was such a jerk to her, because he really was kind of a hottie, if a bit too slick and tidy. He had “high class” written all over him, in the way he dressed and the way he talked. That was enough to take him right off her list of potential dates, despite the way her body reacted when he got too close. She didn’t have a good history with high-class guys.
She remembered the night his mother—a slim, brittle-looking woman—joined them in class. One look at her perfectly manicured fingers and precisely coiffed hair, and Cori felt certain the woman hadn’t cooked a day in her life. She probably had some fancy French chef who lived in her mansion cooking up perfectly balanced and attractive meals for her.
Still, Mrs. DePalma made all the right noises over the masterpiece Micah had created, taking the smallest bites Cori had ever seen someone eat. No wonder the woman was so thin she’d disappear if she turned sideways. She oozed class and money, just like her son.
So, yeah. Micah was so far off the list it wasn’t funny.
“I’m too busy to walk you out,” he said without looking up from the papers in front of him. “Please let Jimmy do so.”
She rolled her eyes at his suggestion. Sure it was late. Sure it was dark. And, yeah, the parking lot was pretty well deserted. Despite all that, she could take care of herself. She’d been doing so ever since she turned sixteen and began to work nights at the garage.
She had to admit, though, she really didn’t mind letting Micah walk her to her car. It was a strange sensation, being looked after and she thought it rather nice to have him nearby. For safety, she hedged. She also didn’t stop herself from thinking that, maybe one day, he might try to kiss her goodnight. Her heart pounded just a little harder at the thought. Gah. She had a crush on her teacher. She gave a small shake of her head, disgusted. She was a cliché.
One night. One set of handcuffs. Can lovers remain friends?
Servicing Rafferty
© 2008 Janie Mason
Auto mechanic Heidi Callihan is tired of her boss treating her like one of his younger sisters. After seven years working for Rafe, what began as hero worship has grown into love—not that he’d notice. When an attractive young widow throws herself at him, Heidi’s had enough. It’s time to put herself in the driver’s seat.
Rafe only recently came to think of Heidi as more than his “Little Buddy,” but he’s determined to mask his growing attraction to her. At nine years her senior, he’s certain they’re not right for each other. He was forced to become the head of his family at a young age, and he’s determined not to let her miss out on all the fun of being a young adult.
But Heidi’s about to teach him the definition of determination—and she’s armed with a set of handcuffs. One turbo-charged night later, Rafe is left with a decision: Lose her friendship…or lose her love.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Servicing Rafferty:
Time to move on to Plan B. She took a long drink from her wineglass, summoning both her courage and a much needed poker face.
“Well, since you’re not hungry,” she said, setting down her glass, “and you have nothing better to do, you might as well help me out with something.”
Still no response. No problem, Heidi tried to reassure herself. She’d get his attention. She moved his wineglass from the steamer trunk to the floor where he could reach it, all the while careful to position herself out of his reach.
“You just sit there and relax. When you’re done pouting, help yourself to pizza.”
Heidi lifted her glass, finished her wine in one gulp and then crossed to her bedroom door. Going inside, she left the door open. Rafe couldn’t see her from where he sat along the front wall.
“I need some help deciding which outfit to wear to Gigi’s brother’s wedding,” she called.
In truth, she’d planned on wearing the same blue dress she always wore to such occasions, but Plan B involved borrowing a few outfits from her free-spirited friend. Already barefoot, Heidi stepped out of her fatigues, pulled her shirt over her head and stood before the clothes-covered bed in her pale pink bikini panties and matching bra.
“I’m not sure which dress I like better,” she said, slipping into Gigi’s crepe black sheath. She pulled up the zipper and stepped into a pair of black strappy heels. The classic blac
k dress had seemed out of place in Gigi’s closet, but Heidi understood its presence once she saw how it conformed to every bump and curve like a coat of onyx paint. Something a high-priced callgirl might wear to a funeral parlor.
Heidi glanced at herself in the mirror. She’d never been into wearing feminine clothes, but tonight she liked the sexy way the dress made her feel. She wanted Rafe to like it, too. She had even put on a little makeup before he arrived.
Heidi wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before today—maybe if she dressed more like a woman, he might see her as one. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Rafe saw her in dirty coveralls and steel-toed boots. How sexy was that?
“Well, Rafe’s about to see a whole lot more of me,” she whispered to her reflection. She’d managed to scrub her nails clean, although they were still short and masculine-looking. Oh well, some things couldn’t be helped. Mechanics and manicures just didn’t go together. Heidi applied a quick layer of gloss to her lips, scrunched her short curls for good measure and took a deep breath to try and calm the nervous jitters.
“Action,” she whispered and headed out into the hallway toward the most important performance of her life.
“What do you think?” Heidi asked, taking the three small steps to reach the edge of the living room.
Rafe didn’t move or even lift an eyelash. Ah, so he thought he could refuse to play the game. Not this time. She had gone too far out on a limb for this to go anywhere but forward. Heidi crossed to stand in front of him, just out of reach.
“Rafe, is this what you want?”
He opened his eyes as she reached inside the scooped neck of her dress and pulled a tiny silver key out of her bra. Rafe’s eyes darkened with the intensity of a tornado. His predatory gaze scrolled down her body, singeing a hot trail in its wake that almost had Heidi melting into a puddle right there on the carpet. If Rafe wasn’t at least a little bit turned on, Heidi gave up the hope of understanding human nature. And if she was right, if it was excitement in those obsidian eyes, she hoped it was out of a desire to get his hands on her, not the key. Heidi slipped it back into the right cup of her bra, the metal cool on her radiating skin. Although Rafe’s pupils followed her smallest movement like a stalking jaguar’s, his steady expression seemed to be carved out of granite.
Breathe. Breathe and focus. This won’t work if you turn into jelly just because he stares at you.
Heidi turned her head at an angle and fluffed her hair, more in an attempt to break eye contact and gather her wits than any real need to primp. With a deep but silent breath, she found the fortitude to get back into character.
“I thought that might get your attention,” she said, pasting a smile on her lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll only keep you locked up for about another hour. Why don’t you just relax? You’ll see how the time will fly by. Besides, I really do need a male opinion.” Heidi prattled on in her best airhead impersonation.
“What do you think of this dress?” She did a milder version of a runway model’s walk and turn, stopping at the spot where she’d begun.
Rafe sat stone silent, frowning.
“You don’t like it,” she said as a statement, hoping the opposite was true. “That’s okay. I wasn’t sure about it either. I’ll try on another one.” She returned to the bedroom, adding an extra sway to her hips as she walked in the form-fitting dress.
The digital clock on her nightstand read seven thirty-three. Heidi breathed a small sigh of relief. Barbara might already be on the prowl for a stand-in bed partner.
“You’re probably right, Rafe, it’s not me,” Heidi called out, a satisfied smile on her face. “A simple black dress is so conservative, and we both know I don’t come from a conservative family.”
A drunk for a father and a mother who deserts her husband and seven-year-old daughter—not exactly Carol and Mike Brady. Although, Heidi admitted to herself, there were more similarities between her and any of the Brady boys than the girls.
Which is why it was good that her best friend was a clotheshorse and wore the same size, otherwise Plan B would have included modeling her own khaki collection. She tossed the black dress on the bed and pulled a fuchsia knit dress over her head. Much like the black one, the hot-pink tank dress was as formfitting as a sausage casing. Heidi had planned to leave the black heels on but—used to wearing work boots most of the time—her ankles were already plotting a mutiny. She pulled off the sandals and headed to the living room in bare feet.
Heidi felt Rafe’s eyes latch on to her the second she stepped out of the bedroom. Not sure how to interpret the dark scowl still on his face, she decided to ignore it.
“How about this one? It definitely isn’t conservative.” Refusing to focus on Rafe’s menacing look, Heidi concentrated on her modeling routine. She turned and swayed, paused and posed. That sexy feeling was back, and she was having fun pretending to be an international supermodel at a photo shoot.
“You’re not saying anything. You hate this one, too?” Deep into her role-playing, Heidi had been avoiding Rafe’s eyes. Now she saw them focused on the dress, their intensity almost powerful enough to vaporize the fabric right off her skin. Aroused, Heidi’s nipples pebbled through her thin bra, showing Rafe the effect he had on her. His heated gaze melted any embarrassment she might have been feeling.
Then Rafe’s eyes shifted to meet hers, and there was no mistaking the desire smoldering there. She felt the electricity pulsing between them.
“Heidi, you need to let me go right now.” He didn’t bark the order as he had before. His voice was soft, and yet infused with power.
“Why?” she asked, trance-like and dangerously close to complying with any demand he might issue.
“If you don’t let me go right now, I might do something we both know would be a mistake.”
Heidi took one step toward him, placing herself only inches out of his reach.
“What might you do?” she whispered, so turned on her entire body hummed. More than anything, she longed to hear Rafe say he wanted her.
“I might not leave when you unlock me,” he said, causing the pounding of her heart to mimic the throbbing between her legs. She took a tiny step toward Rafe.
The Catcher and the Lie
Rita Oberlies
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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The Catcher and the Lie
Copyright © 2008 by Rita Oberlies
ISBN: 978-1-60504-235-0
Edited by Tera Kleinfelter
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2008
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