His Wicked Love

by Anya Summers

  Temporarily. She’d make a comeback if it killed her.

  In order to have the slightest chance, her testy behavior and sarcasm with Mason had to end if she wanted an attempt to make this place work. Otherwise, it was so long, dream of having her own kitchen, perhaps even owning her own place one day. Instead, it would be hello, Olive Garden—forever. And yes, that last infusion of sugared crème from that ding dong had been a bad idea. Regardless, she should watch her step. It would help, though, if the man didn’t vex her, almost like he was doing it on purpose. At this point, she didn’t know whether she wanted to smack him or kiss him. Nor did she want a definitive answer to that question.

  She laid her case that carried her set of Yaxell Damascus knives on the center prepping island.

  “You really carry knives with you?” Cole asked, running a hand over his shadow beard, contemplating her. She didn’t miss the flicker of hope this chick’s not crazy that flashed through his kind gaze.

  She wanted—nay, needed—to put her new bosses at ease and make them like her. Perhaps if she won Cole over, Mason would follow suit.

  Giving Cole her friendliest smile, she replied, “Yep. They’re a bitch to get through TSA security when I fly, too. But it’s not uncommon, we chefs tend to find knives that we like, that work well for us, and will guard them like they’re our children. If you two want to give me an hour, tops, I can prepare a lunch for you as my test run.”

  She glanced between the two brothers. Big men; rough cowboys bred and forged by the land. And yet only one set her blood boiling and spilling over the ledge. It didn’t bode well for her future here and she’d not been in town an hour yet.

  “It better be worth the wait,” Mason said and swiveled on his heel, stalking from the kitchen.

  Her hand closed around the handle of her paring knife. It took everything inside her not to lob it at his back.

  Yeah, that whole redheads have a temper thing? It was true.

  Every. Word.

  And that man, as he strode out the door with the finest grade A prime buns she’d ever seen, lovingly cupped in denim, seemed capable of pushing every single one of her hot buttons and flipping the all systems engaged switch.

  “Don’t mind him. If you don’t need anything, I’ll be just outside prepping for the fishing trip I’m leading tomorrow,” Cole said, his gaze missing nothing.

  Blowing out a frustrated breath, Emily nodded and waved him off with her free hand. Cole departed with a tilt of his head before he retreated out the door. Staring around the space she hoped to call hers, the usual excitement she typically felt at the beginning of a new challenge was tempered by her unforeseen chemical response to Mason.

  She had to overlook the rampant desire he engendered. Ignore the melting sensation in the pit of her stomach. Temper her body’s response to him and infuse those unrequited emotions into her cooking. Nothing said I’m sexually frustrated quite like making her dishes mini-orgasms for the taste buds.

  Shoving her thoughts of Mason under lock and key, Emily quickly familiarized herself with the kitchen. Did a quick cataloging of the dry food storage. Checked the spices on hand. She couldn’t keep herself from running a hand over the countertop, claiming this space.

  My kitchen.

  Whatever she had to do, had to sacrifice, she wanted this place to be hers. Even if the Elkhorn proved to only be temporary and a stepping stone to get back into the big game.

  Before she proceeded any further, Emily withdrew the spare ivory chef coat that buttoned up the front and fell past her hips, from her bag. The rest of her supply of chef attire was in her suitcases. Then she piled her hair up into a bun on top of her head to keep it out of the way. Usually, she’d cover it with one of her hats, but she’d apparently put them all in the rest of her luggage. For today’s little test run, she wasn’t worried about it. Then, with a dish in mind, she opened the fridge and withdrew ingredients, setting them on the center counter prepping station.

  She enjoyed the routine as she started making her pizza dough. The blockhead wanted her to wow him. She would. This recipe was a party favorite among her friends. Not to mention, it was quick, and so routine she didn’t need a recipe. Emily added the ingredients for the dough into the pastry blender. Once it was mixed, she covered it with a cloth to allow the quick rising yeast to do its job while she chopped, sliced and slid into her age-old rhythm.

  From the time she had been a little girl, Emily had loved to cook. She wasn’t really sure where it came from. It may have started with the easy bake oven she’d gotten in first grade. Or the first time her parents had taken her and her siblings to Hawaii on vacation and they’d stayed in one of those all-inclusive resorts. Everyone else remembered the waves, and the beach. She remembered it was the first time she’d had grilled pineapple with chicken. And she’d been sold. Cooking gave her a sense of purpose and joy. When she was in the midst of creating, nothing else mattered.

  She loved the scents. The combinations. The ability to blend ingredients that one would think shouldn’t fuse well together and in turn create a masterpiece that made your taste buds sing in praise. By the time lunch was prepared for Cole and Mason, her stomach was growling.

  Emily found a wait staff tray, loaded it with their salads, prepped silverware rolled in linen napkins, and a bottle of sparkling water with two water goblets. If they wanted anything else to drink, they could help themselves. The water would help cleanse their palates between the salad and main course.

  With the pizza finishing in the oven, she carried out the tray of goodies. The two cowboys sat at one of the tables near the window. She ignored the liquid pull of desire that spiked her blood. Any woman would be turned on when presented with such raw, untamed masculinity. Hell, she’d have to be dead not to feel her blood pressure rise exponentially in their presence. And, last she’d checked, she still had a pulse. The brothers spoke quietly in hushed tones.

  When Mason’s hard gaze noticed her, all talking ceased as she approached.

  Emily had been working in restaurants as long as she could remember. And, ordinarily, balancing a serving tray was as ingrained in her as breathing, but under Mason’s firm glare, her hands trembled. Refraining from dumping what she knew was a sumptuous salad in his lap, she set a plate before each man. As she placed the rolled utensils beside the plates, she explained the dish. “This is a salad made with spinach, arugula, beets, red onion, toasted chickpeas and toasted pecans with a warm balsamic vinaigrette. If you want to get started on these, I will be back out with the main course.”

  “Looks great,” Cole said, digging in before she left the dining room.

  Whereas Mason’s movements were unhurried, almost baiting her, daring her to snap.

  “Be right back,” she replied with a forced smile, escaping before she gave in to the urge to bean Mason upside the head with the serving tray.

  Inside what she already considered her kitchen, Emily drew in a deep breath, attempting to calm herself. Not that it worked, but at least she tried. The oven timer beeped and mobilized her into action. Slipping on silicone oven mitts, she withdrew the sizzling pizza. The aroma caused her mouth to water.

  Once her little audition was at an end, she would whip up some lunch for herself. As it was, the show must go on. Emily cut the pizza into triangles. Placing the pan on the serving tray with a trivet beneath it, she added plates and a pizza slice server. Then she hefted the tray once more and, with a deep breath, headed back into the dining area.

  She felt like she was about to do battle with Goliath.

  Emily bit back her grin when she saw Cole’s salad nearly demolished. Likewise for the blockhead. Not like her cooking? Please.

  She might fail in a lot of areas of her life: relationships, commitment, balancing her checkbook, but there was one thing she knew she was exceptional at, and that was cooking. It was both an art form and a passion for her.

  She grabbed a tray stand on her way and erected it by their table. She set the tray down on top
and then served each man two slices onto a plate before placing the dish on the table in front of them. Then she took a step back and said, “This is a made from scratch pizza with fig, prosciutto, goat cheese, and parmesan.”

  She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until Cole, an expression of bliss on his face, said around a bite, “You’re hired. You can’t leave. I won’t let you.”

  Mason eyed her speculatively. Then, after taking a few bites, he said, “You’ll do. You can have the rest of the day off and then start in the morning.”

  “Actually, if I could put my suitcases where I will be sleeping, I would prefer to acquaint myself with the kitchen and menu already in place. Perhaps cook a special dinner for the employees as a trial run this evening. I realize the rest of the kitchen staff won’t be in until tomorrow, but I can manage.” People were easier to win over when they were happy and had a full belly. In her humble opinion.

  “Yes to dinner tonight. Let me finish this slice and I can show you. Hey, dude—” Cole was cut off and glared daggers at Mason.

  “I will show you where you will be staying. Follow me,” Mason said, putting his linen napkin on the table as he stood.

  Being this near him, Emily had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. She wasn’t short, but Mason made her feel every inch of her five-foot-four stature as he stared down at her. His gaze was shuttered and unreadable.

  As she followed him out of the restaurant, she figured it was a toss-up as to whether they would survive being in the same space with each other. The man made her want to either commit serious acts of violence, or strip him and have her merry way with him.

  She hadn’t yet decided which was the better route to take.

  Chapter 3

  Mason escorted Emily out the front of the main lodge building. He always felt a measure of pride at surveying what belonged to him, what he and his brother had turned this place into. Even if that pride was a bit dented at present. He noticed the little blue Mazda hatchback Emily was ambling toward. If she was going to last here—not just at the lodge but in Wyoming—they needed to have a discussion about her choice of vehicle. That little matchbox toy on mountain roads, or any of the country roads around here, especially during winter, would be treacherous.

  “Let me just get my suitcases from the trunk,” Emily murmured, striding past him and giving him another glimpse of her spectacular ass. He nearly sawed his tongue off to clamp down on the groan in his throat. Logically, the last thing Mason could do was bed his new chef. Although logic didn’t seem to matter; the Dom in him hungered to leave his mark on the firm globes. He yearned to see what they looked like red and covered with his handprints.

  She opened the hatchback, leaned in, and hoisted a large, bright purple suitcase from the trunk. Damn thing was half her size. Shaking his head, he strode over.

  “Here, let me help before you hurt yourself,” he grumbled.

  He commandeered the first one from her hands and set it on the ground beside her vehicle. Nudging her out of the way, he lifted the second equally large suitcase from the back. There was a third, slightly smaller suitcase lying across the rear seat. When he didn’t relent, she stomped around the side and opened the passenger side car door.

  Shutting the trunk, Mason hefted her two suitcases as she yanked the third one out. The whipping fall wind blew escaped wisps of her hair around her entrancing face. The urge to wrap one around his fingers swamped him. But her movements, combined with the wind, caused an empty potato chip bag from the front seat to flutter out and fall to the ground outside her car door. At her short curse under her breath, he hid a smile. Emily jerked as she picked the bag up and shoved it back inside before slamming the door shut.

  “Barbeque?” he asked, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

  She whirled around, her entrancing eyes wide, and asked, “What?”

  “The chips.” He nodded toward where she’d tossed the bag in the car.

  “Salt and vinegar,” she responded, her consternation clear as day across her expressive face. She’d never be good at poker. The woman wore what she was thinking crystal clear on her face. It was refreshing.

  “Good choice. You’ll want to clean anything like that out of your car before long or it may draw wildlife,” he instructed. Last thing he needed was for her to draw bears or raccoons. They had enough of a difficult time keeping wildlife at bay.

  “I will take that under advisement.”

  “Good. Your cabin is back this way. There’s parking by the cabins if you want to pull your car around later,” he advised, lugging her two suitcases. They were heavy. Not that he struggled with them, but a woman her size would. What in the blasted hell did she bring with her? Transplanted palm trees?

  Mason led her back through the cabins. The Black Elkhorn Lodge and Resort had been created cabin by cabin. He and his dad had constructed the majority of them ten years ago. Or had started it with his dad, at least. Mason and Cole had finished them, brought the lodge into fruition after their dad passed away. There were three circular drives with cabins spaced along them. In front of each cabin was parking for two vehicles. They were small and functional, since most of their visitors spent time hiking and enjoying the outdoors. And they were private, so guests were not right on top of one another.

  Mason sensed Emily behind him as they walked. Hard not to, considering it felt like he’d plugged himself into a lightning strike in her presence. He’d put her in cabin G, about as far away from him as possible. As if distance would erect enough of a barrier to keep him from putting his hands on her. He took the two steps up onto the wooden porch to the cabin’s front door and opened it with the set of keys he’d grabbed from the front desk.

  Ushering her in, he watched her expression as she viewed her living space.

  “It’s not overly large, but it does have a kitchenette. On Wednesdays, employees have access to the laundry room in the main building.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, setting her suitcase on the floor.

  “Are you certain you want to cook tonight and wouldn’t rather get settled?” he asked, eyeing her luggage with a speculative glance.

  “I can do that later this evening,” she said and glanced his way. Then, “Spit it out, Mason. What aren’t you saying?”

  Pleasure washed over him at hearing his name uttered in her sultry tone. Christ, it made him hard. And he wondered what it would do to him to hear her say Sir or Master. Considering the ferocity of his desire for her, it might make him get a load off without even touching her. He mentally shook the image from his mind.

  “I will have the contract for you to sign tomorrow for a temporary thirty-day trial run. If we decide that we are a good fit for one another, then we will renegotiate the terms,” he stated, his gaze fixed on her reaction.

  Mason saw it, the flare of temper, before her eyes narrowed and she murmured, “That’s if I decide to stay in Podunk, USA.”

  “Well, then it’s good that we aren’t entering into anything too long-term. You can find your way back to the main lodge. I have other things begging for my attention,” he said, enjoying the way she stiffened and glared at him. He wished he could say that he was sorry for egging her on.

  But he wasn’t.

  If she was angry and glaring daggers at him then he wouldn’t be tempted to close the distance between them and sample her luscious lips. Discover if they tasted as sweet as they appeared. So he would continue to goad her, since currently, those same lips were pressed into a thin line. Not that it diminished her appeal in any way.

  “I’ll see you at dinner, Emily,” he said, tipping his hat, then exited her cabin before he did something infinitely stupid. Like back her against the nearest wall and kiss her until she begged him to fuck her.

  The sad fact was, Mason wouldn’t need much prodding.

  As he strode over the path to the main lodge, his phone rang in his back pocket. He slipped it out and grimaced when he spotted the number. It was the bank. Ag
ain. With a deep breath, he answered, “Mason Stewart.”

  The call shifted his focus back to where it belonged. His top priority was saving the Black Elkhorn Lodge. Not wondering how his newest chef would look bound to a St. Andrew’s Cross.

  Not that the distraction worked. Emily Fox had staked a claim in the back of his mind. One she didn’t vacate as he dealt with accounts and the business of running the lodge.

  Chapter 4

  By the time Emily trudged back to her cabin later that evening, she was ready to drop from her insanely long day—but also thrilled. Dinner had been a knockout hit. Well, for the most part. The only black mark that dulled the edges of her excitement and the evening was Mason. Emily didn’t understand his grumpy attitude toward her. As if the very air she breathed offended him, judging by his stern glances and hooded gazes. Then again, it could be that was just the way the man was with everyone.

  He was the one blight on her enthusiasm.

  Emily stood in the doorway to her cabin and surveyed the landscape. The cabin sat on a small hill, a bit of a minor foothill, really, that overlooked a ginormous field of tall green grass dotted with forests filled with evergreen. Off in the distance, she spied a shimmering blue strand of a stream winding through the field like a garden snake.

  And the craggy spires of slate that seemed to touch the heavens were bathed in the last golden rays of sunshine.

  It took her breath away. The huge expanse of blue sky, deepening to indigo. The first few stars sparkled. She’d have to check once night had fallen completely, but she’d bet she would be able to see the Milky Way out here.