by Brit Blaise
Felicia shrugged. “Don't forget you're supposed to be calling to get her to come to the class, not to your bed."
Frustrated, Mike waited until he was calm and collected. Felicia was a strong woman. He didn't have a problem dealing with strong women, but she pushed too hard, and it got his hackles up. Mike picked up the phone. He had some explaining to do.
"Thomas Financial. How may I direct your call?"
Mike paused as he thought about the receptionist's introduction. Cara owned the company? “May I speak with Ms. Thomas, please?"
When the voice at the other end of the line asked who she might say was calling, he hesitated. “A prospective client,” he decided to say, and thankfully she didn't probe.
"This is Cara speaking. How may I help you?"
What a voice. He'd been hearing it in his sleep for the last two nights. The sound sent a tremor of desire racing through him. She'd consumed his thoughts in the four days since he'd first spoken with her.
"Cara, this is Mike Nichols."
"You have three minutes.” Cara's voice implied she meant business.
"Did you see the program?” he asked.
"No, I didn't have the pleasure, but my mother taped it. It seems I've become a laughingstock because of your miserable program. Is this why you called? You wanted to ask if I watched your stupid show? You're really perverse."
Her words made him uncomfortable. When he'd watched the show, he had to admit the editing made her appear even more inept. She had every right to be angry.
"The producers seem to think you're a star. They want you to return.” Saying the words almost made him choke. The image of her face when she looked at her spoiled soufflé flashed in his mind. “Did you hear me? Hello? Cara? You there?"
Cara huffed. “You're seriously delusional if you think I'll go through that again."
As he listened to her, Mike reached across his desk for his tension ball and gave it a squeeze. “I could give you a crash course before we go on air, so nothing would happen to embarrass you.” He didn't want her to suffer another humiliation, no matter how much business increased.
"You think the only way I'd manage your class without bumbling through would be to have extra help first?” Cara sounded impatient.
When she put it that way, it didn't sound very good to him either.
"I don't think so, Chef Nichols. You'll just have to manage without me. Now, if that's all you wanted..."
"Actually, that wasn't all I wanted. I hoped you might give me a second chance—personally, that is. Would you have dinner with me this evening?” With every word, he anticipated hearing the click confirming she'd disconnected. He couldn't believe how much he wanted her to agree.
"Thank you for the invitation,” she said more graciously than he'd expected. “I'm having dinner with my mother, so I'm afraid it isn't possible tonight."
Cara had managed to surprise him again. “Are you saying if you didn't already have plans, you might consider my invitation?"
Cara sighed. “I have to admit, I've been thinking about you, despite your damned show. And while I've enjoyed your gift several times, I can't help but wonder about the nine inches you bragged about. And although you deny being a sure thing..."
"No, wait. I can be your sure thing,"
"Riva made it up, didn't she?"
"Give me a chance to prove her right."
"Let me think about it."
Click.
Astonished by the sting of disappointment he felt, Mike looked at his watch. Just enough time to check on the kitchen staff before they opened for lunch. What did Felicia expect from him? He couldn't work miracles.
What could he possibly say to Cara's mother to enlist her help? Why would she want Cara to return to the class and better yet—agree to see him socially?
* * * *
No sooner did Cara put the phone down than it rang again. The annoying shrill sound made her wince. She wondered what her office manager would say if she feigned a sick headache and went home early. Most of her regular clients seemed to think she'd appreciate hearing they'd seen her on television. The cooking program had been aired on a Sunday afternoon. Didn't anyone go to the movies anymore?
What kind of person watches a cooking show? She didn't. Her clients must be on a cooking show mailing list, judging from the amount of calls she'd received.
The building security guard said his wife had recorded it for him. The attendant at the parking garage said he'd missed it, but would borrow the security guard's copy when the supervisor finished with it. How could Mike Nichols believe she'd be foolish enough to go through that again? She'd come to the cooking class for one reason only—to get the big one, and so far she hadn't seen the real deal. So much for Riva's sure thing.
When he called, she'd wanted to be angry. However, she found it virtually impossible to ignore her attraction to him. Even if it was only physical.
And what's that about? Since when did she have a physical reaction to someone she'd just met? Hadn't both her former fiancés told her she'd rival the polar icecap for frigid? If they'd been in her bedroom the second night she had phone-sex with Mike, there would be no more talk of ice.
Cara had argued the pros and cons of seeing Mike Nichols again all weekend in Catalina with her mother. Maybe she'd just have a brief fling with him ... If he could do what he did over the phone, what could he do in the flesh? It boggled the mind. Didn't people have flings all the time? Why should she be denied? She had a lot of fantasies waiting to come to life. It'd been so long since she'd found herself attracted to anyone.
When she said she hadn't seen the show, she'd lied. She hadn't seen it when it aired, but she'd watched it when her mother gave her the DVD. Then, she'd watched it again. And again. Even in her wildest dreams, she couldn't imagine it'd be so bad. No way would she go through that humiliation a second time, even with his condescending promise to coach her first.
Funny, though, the more she thought about his offer, the more reasonable it sounded. It could mean vindication if she went back into his kitchen and prepared a meal without a hitch. It might even put a stop to all the wagging tongues. It might be worth a try.
She thought of the phone sex again. Well, maybe not all the wagging tongues.
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CHAPTER 5
On the way to her mother's house, Cara nearly turned the car around and headed back home. Her headache had settled right between her eyes with a pain so fierce she had to fight to concentrate on her driving. To make matters worse, as soon as she opened the door to her mother's house she grew suspicious. It smelled wonderful. Not at all what she'd expected.
"Darling,” her mother said. She rushed to greet Cara before she even walked inside the house. “You're right on time as usual, and it couldn't be more important this evening. A feast is being prepared in your honor."
As Cara looked at the purse in her mother's hand, a sinking feeling in her stomach took precedence over her pounding head. “Mother, what's going on? Who's helping you in the kitchen?"
She knew the answer and slammed the door, as she reacted to the thought Mike Nichols had had the nerve to come to her mother's house.
"Sorry, dear. You're on your own with this one. You know how I hate confrontations. I'm out of here."
Hate confrontations? Whatever. Cara would deal with her mom later. Without a second thought, she headed to the kitchen, intent on putting one demented chef in his proper place, even as her heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again.
"What lengths will you go to to embarrass me on TV again?” she said to his back as he leaned over a pot on the stove. Her voice trembled from an unwelcome surge of excitement. “You used my mother?"
He didn't answer her or even turn to face her. After stirring the contents of the pot, he removed his apron and laid it on the counter. Reaching to the back of the stove, he adjusted two of the dials before taking his time turning, like a tightly coiled spring.
Cara felt the
tension building inside her as she feasted her eyes on the sight of him. In the intimacy of her mother's kitchen, without the prying eyes of others, he seemed to radiate a male potency that permeated the room. Dressed better than a model in a men's magazine in buff-colored slacks with a navy cashmere sweater, he needed nothing to make him more perfect.
"Good evening, Cara,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to find him in her mother's kitchen. “I hope you're hungry. I've prepared your favorites."
Despite his closed expression, Cara sensed his vulnerability and could feel herself relenting in response. Weenie! “You must've been cooking for days because I have a lot of favorites,” she told him. She moved nearer to the stove. Nearer to him.
"So your mother said. However, we managed to settle on a few special dishes. I think you'll be pleased."
That's when the truth hit her.
The way to her heart was through her stomach. She'd had it backward. Hadn't her mother always said she'd never seen such a healthy appetite? Didn't her too-tight, size sixteen jeans say so, too?
"I think I might enjoy this. That doesn't mean I've changed my mind about attending your class.” The look on his face melted her heart. She could see this dinner mattered to him more than she imagined. Everybody deserved a second chance, didn't they? Especially when they looked like the man standing in front of her and came with chocolate-cream fudge cake in hand, she thought when she caught sight of the tempting dessert under a dome of glass, sitting in the center of the counter.
She watched as he stalked away from the stove to the island. He picked up a corkscrew and twisted it into a bottle of wine chilling in ice. There were only two glasses.
"Mom will be sorry she missed this."
"Since she had lunch with me earlier today, she cried off saying she'd have to resort to joining you at the gym. It appears she believes exercise isn't worth another of my high-calorie creations."
"I'm not surprised. Mom thinks dealing cards is exercise.” Cara tried not to read more into what being alone with him could mean. Her body, on the other hand, seemed more than willing to explore the possibilities as her temperature began to rise and her hormones started doing a tango. She studied his profile, grateful she didn't have to deal with his eyes at that precise moment. She couldn't be certain what she might do.
"She said you exercise every morning.” He popped the cork and began pouring the wine.
"I don't have a choice if I want to stay within the range of six sizes.” Cara moved a smidgen nearer to reach the glass he held in her direction. She stood as far away as she could, taking the glass by the stem so she wouldn't touch him.
"Explain?” he asked.
"I yo-yo. When I have to start wearing a larger size, I hit the panic button and exercise every day."
"Do you like the wine?” he asked as soon as she took her first sip.
Yeah, she'd switch to talking about the wine if she were a man, too. Wine—weight. Now which do you suppose a woman would prefer to talk about?
"Size sixteen.” There. She just had to say it.
"I beg your pardon?"
"In case you were wondering.” Stupid. What woman in her right mind would say that to a man who surrounded himself with single digit women in slinky black dresses?
"The wine is delicious,” she said, trying to change the subject. She raised the glass again and savored the drink. “Very good."
"Drink up. If you'll excuse me, I have crab legs cooking out on the patio."
Cara watched as he picked up an empty platter and tucked it under his arm. He walked out through the sliding glass door leading to the patio. Talking a deep breath, she continued to sip the wine. The crisp and tart taste captivated her. Just the way she liked it.
She knew she should be angry with her mother or with Mike, but she couldn't be. It felt too good to be with the man who had dominated her thoughts and dreams.
When she walked to the window she could see him taking the crab from the pot on the grill. Steam rolled into the cool evening air. Phoenix in January could be on the cold side, despite travel brochure propaganda. His strong shoulders tapered to a slender waist and hips. Her insides clenched with desire. Her breath caught in her throat, while flames heated her blood. An unfamiliar pulse began drumming a primitive beat deep inside her, turning the tango into the cha-cha-cha.
Mike turned, with his laden platter, and caught her staring at him. Could he see the passion in her eyes? Did she really want a fling with this man, or would it be enough? Who was she fooling? She'd take anything right then.
"I thought we'd eat in the kitchen,” he said as he walked back into the kitchen. “Go ahead and have a seat. I'll just be a moment."
After several trips to the table, he sat down next to her. “Salad?” he asked.
"Yes, thank you.” She leaned forward to look at the divine creation he referred to as “salad.” Finishing her wine, she watched as he lit the candle under the butter for her crab legs. He uncovered a casserole dish and a tantalizing aroma made her lean forward in her chair again.
"Potatoes?” he asked.
"Yes. They smell heavenly. What would you call them in your restaurant?"
"If I served them in my restaurant, I'd have to name them. They're a combination of a couple of recipes. Since, like a soufflé, they need to be served promptly, I choose not to serve them to the public."
"I feel privileged,” she said, picking up her fork after he spooned the potatoes onto her plate. “May I?"
Cara heard a deep chuckle rumble in his throat. The sensual sound sent her heart racing. “By all means,” he said, following her example and taking a bite.
The taste gave her a start. It seemed to burst in her mouth as flavors chased along her taste buds. If something as simple as a potato could taste so heavenly, what more might he have in store?
"I thought you said you'd prepared all of my favorites. I promise if I'd ever had these potatoes before, I'd have remembered,” Cara said, taking another bite. A big one. Her stomach told her it was in love.
"Your mother said you were partial to crab legs, and I improvised the rest of the meal with the exception of dessert. That I brought from the restaurant."
"Chocolate-cream fudge cake,” she said, knowing her mother wouldn't fail to mention her preferred dessert. “I thought my mother would be cooking tonight. This is becoming a pleasant surprise, despite everything that happened at your restaurant."
"I meant it when I said I'd coach you before the next class if you'll agree to come back. If you're available, I'd like to give you a private lesson tomorrow night?” His eyes were riveted to her face, making his invitation harder to resist.
"I'll think about it while I'm eating,” Cara told him. She picked up a crab leg and cracked it at the joint. “I wouldn't want it to appear I could be persuaded by one meal."
Bits of crab splattered her plate as she worked to crack the shell. She stabbed a freed piece with her fork and dipped it into the melted butter. She tried not to dwell on how sensual the meal made her feel. The taste, texture and hot buttery flavor seemed to be magnified by Mike Nichols’ aura.
When he reached his thumb over to capture a drip of butter on her chin, she almost jumped out of her skin. He put his buttered thumb in his own mouth and she knew for a certainty she wouldn't be able to resist him.
As she started to cut another piece, he put his hand over hers to stop her. “Allow me,” he said. “You're being too civilized."
His voice caressed her as it chased along her heightened senses. The act of eating had just become a purely sensual experience.
Cara watched as he cracked another shell. He held a large piece of crab in his strong fingers and dipped it into the butter. Her breath caught in her throat as he held it up to her mouth. A spark of mischief crossed his deep blue eyes, as though he dared her to comment.
Her stomach did a somersault as she opened her mouth, ravenous for more than food. His eyes never left hers. She could feel her
lips circle the big, round piece. Unspeakable tension built until she finally sank her teeth into it and bit down. His eyes were twinkling.
Mike dipped the remaining piece into the butter and took a bite. He chewed slowly. Too slowly. Cara found she couldn't look away from his mouth—his firm, full lips. When she succeeded, the look in his eyes sparked a sensual heat to torch her.
A small chunk of crabmeat remained in his fingers after his bite. He again dipped it into the butter and held it in front of her. Cara swallowed the piece she'd forgotten she still had in her mouth. She only intended to nip his finger as he fed her, but instead she captured his finger in her mouth. The suction of her tongue pulled his finger deeper. Cara surprised herself with her wanton act, but held his finger in her mouth until he closed his eyes and dropped his head back. Mike sucked in air audibly when she released him.
"Delicious,” she told him. When he opened his eyes to look at her, a spasm of pleasure jackknifed through her, echoing in waves of pulsating throbs.
"Touché,” he said. “I'll remember not to take you lightly again. Any thoughts on what you'd like to do with the chocolate cake?” He wagged his eyebrows.
Was there something he could do with it she didn't know about? “What're we doing? I believe I need some clarification."
"I promise I didn't have seduction in mind when I convinced your mother to let me feed you,” he said.
"I'm not very good at this. Romance makes cooking look like a breeze, and we both know how well I cook."
"You're being too hard on yourself. And you definitely make it hard on me."
Cara couldn't stop her eyes from going straight at his crotch at his words. She looked at him the same way she had in his restaurant. The tent in the front of his tailored slacks was enormous. He'd said nine inches. Was it possible? What would it look like?
"That would be my cue to say good night,” Mike said, bolting to his feet as an intense look flashed across his handsome face. “If I stay a moment longer, I might jump you right here in your mother's kitchen and, while it's tempting, the thought of your mother walking through the door to discover us...” He shuddered.