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Easy there, big boy,
he admonished his cock,
she’s most likely having a bad dream.
But her door had only been closed for about five minutes, hardly enough time to go into REM sleep and dream. He put his palm against the door, applying the lightest of pressures. It opened a few inches.

Moonlight spilled over the bed, and Gabe nearly fell to his knees at the sight that greeted him. Reggie’s eyes were closed, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip as she fought to stifle the little sounds working their way out of her throat. One hand had disappeared up her shirt, the other down the front of her pajama bottoms, and from the way she was squirming around, she was showing herself a very good time.

He held his breath, afraid he’d groan if he let it out. He wanted to dive on the bed, strip off her clothes and replace her hands with his own. Her movements stopped, and he froze, half afraid, half hoping she’d realized he was watching. Then she’d beckon him over to the bed, spread her legs wide to show him how wet she’d made herself, all in preparation for the real thing.

Then she started again, her hand moving in sure, deliberate strokes. She arched up into her hand, fucking herself with a steady rhythm, his cock pulsed a matching beat. His fingers itched to feel her soft, slick flesh, to feel the tight, muscular grip of her pussy closing around him like she couldn’t get enough. She uttered a stifled cry and stiffened, and his heart pounded in his ears. He was so hard he hurt, wanting with every cell in his body to join her in that bed, to see if fucking her could possibly be as good as he remembered.

Instead he watched her get herself off. Her body relaxed in post-orgasmic satiation. Gabe knew he should move, should walk away before she saw him standing in the doorway. Instead he stared, cock aching, as though willing her to open her eyes. If she turned those big brown eyes on him, he had no faith in his ability to practice self-restraint. He’d be a dead man.

His stomach curled in anticipation as she shifted to make herself more comfortable. Instead of turning toward the door, she rolled onto her stomach without opening her eyes, completely oblivious to his presence in the doorway.

Muttering a vicious curse, he slunk back to the foldout couch, his hand wrapped around his aching cock. He flopped back on the foldout bed, wincing as a metal bar nearly severed his spine through the flimsy excuse for a mattress. He’d thought the training he’d gone through for Special Forces was hard. But tailing Reggie Caldwell without touching her was going to be the longest month and a half of his life.

B
iddy Lee Hughes gave new meaning to the term
Guest from Hell.

Miss Biddy Lee was the owner and operator of Biddy Lee’s Teahouse, a restaurant in Savannah, Georgia, that dated back to the Civil War. And from the looks of her, so did Miss Biddy Lee herself. While she might yet hold the secrets to perfect buttermilk biscuits in her little blue-tinted head, her short-term memory had pooped out somewhere circa 1989.

At first everything had seemed fine. By the time Reggie and Gabe arrived, the crew was set up and ready to go. Biddy’s rinse and set curls were picture perfect, and she smiled up at Reggie with a pearly white set of dentures.

The trouble started when they started preparing Biddy’s special family recipe for Shrimp and Grits. Reggie asked her how the recipe came about. What started as a story about the shrimping boats turned into a half-hour-long, rambling story about how Biddy didn’t like crackers in her soup. Meanwhile, she’d only managed to chop half an onion and the butter had burned.

Carrie pulled her aside. “Reggie, you’re going to have to take over.”

A little flutter of panic bloomed in her belly. “But I don’t know the recipe!” Though all recipes from the show needed to be tested and verified by the Cuisine Network kitchens before being posted on the show’s Web site, Biddy Lee’s assistant had been adamant about not giving it out ahead of time. As a result, beyond the basic ingredients spread out before her, Reggie had only the vaguest idea of how they were all put together.

Carrie gave an impatient shake of her wild red mane. “This happens sometimes. That’s why we need a strong host to carry the show. You’ll have to wing it.”

Reggie closed her eyes and said a little prayer. She was a strong enough host to save the segment from a crappy guest, dammit. Wasn’t grits the American South’s version of polenta? She’d made that a thousand times.

That in mind, Reggie started putting the ingredients in the Dutch oven heating on the stove top. Every so often Biddy Lee would ask her who she was, and Reggie would ask her what she should do with whatever ingredient was at hand.

But then, in the middle of it all, Biddy Lee wandered off. Reggie turned her back to stir the pot, and Biddy Lee walked out of the kitchen, into the dining room, and promptly asked one of the waiters to bring her a glass of sweet tea.

When Carrie tried to coax her back into the kitchen, Biddy Lee cheerfully claimed to have no idea what she was talking about, and that it was time for her lunch. That it was five o’clock in the evening seemed to make no difference.

Now Reggie slumped in a chair that one of the crew had thoughtfully provided. A glass of sparkling water appeared in front of her. Icy, fizzy water adorned with lime never looked so delicious.

“You looked like you could use it.” Gabe’s low, velvety voice washed over her like a balm. Her shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I would have brought you a beer, but I figure you need your wits about you.”

Reggie gulped gratefully at the cold drink. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

He crouched next to her chair. “It’s getting late.”

Reggie looked at her watch and groaned. There was no way they were going to make their flight to Memphis. “I better call Natalie.”

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Gabe asked.

Reggie shrugged. “Hell if I know. I’ve only ever been in the studio.” She never thought she would miss the close confines and controlled environment of the
Simply Delicious
set so desperately. “I feel bad for Jeremy, though.”

Jeremy, the line producer who had booked Miss Biddy, was busy getting a new asshole torn by Carrie. “How could you not have realized she was senile when you talked to her?” Carrie’s small, wiry body vibrated with fury.

“Her assistant said she was a local celebrity, one of the best-known cooks in the region,” Jeremy protested.

“So you never talked to Biddy Lee herself?”

“No, but—”

“Of course her assistant is going to say she’s wonderful. She wants the free publicity for the restaurant. From now on, you talk to the talent first, and at least make sure they’re mentally capable of filming a segment.”

Jeremy hung his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Somehow they got through the rest of the shoot. After a snack, Biddy Lee was moderately more lucid, and with Reggie’s guidance they managed to come up with a finished dish that would suffice for the “ta-dah!” shot at the end.

And Gabe, bless his heart, ate his share without protest and proclaimed it the best Shrimp and Grits he’d ever tasted.

Natalie went over Reggie’s schedule one last time with Tyler. She stole a glance at the clock. She’d been here for forty-five minutes already. How many times did they need to review it?

It was ridiculous that she could feel claustrophobic in his office. Tyler had a spacious work/living loft in South Beach, and his huge windows provided a glorious view of the Bay Bridge. But still she felt short of breath, crowded by him even in the large room, his spicy cologne permeating every breath she took.

“For the fourth time, yes, you can book a signing in Dallas at seven
P
.
M
. Why do we have to keep going over this?” She hated the snappish tone in her voice. But even though she and Tyler had settled into a moderately friendly working relationship, she always felt on edge around him.

“Because I need to make sure I have Reggie’s most up-to-date schedule before I confirm appearances,” he explained patiently.

“All I’ve changed are the hotel bookings—”

“Which I still need,” Tyler interrupted.

Natalie ran a frustrated hand through her hair. How was she supposed to explain tactfully that Gabe had instructed her not to give Reggie’s hotel information to anyone, including Tyler? Her cell phone rang. “It’s Reggie, gotta take it.”

Reggie told her about the Miss Biddy Lee catastrophe and their subsequent delay. “I’ll get you on a later flight,” Natalie said. “How was mom?” She winced as Reggie relayed their dinner conversation. “Nothing ever changes. You’re a fat loser and I’m a stupid loser. Speaking of which, are you working out? Remember, the photo shoot is a little over a month away.”

She said good-bye and hung up, startled when she met Tyler’s icy blue glare. “What?”

He merely shook his head, saying nothing.

Great. Now he thought she was a jealous bitch, compelled to put her sister down because of her own insecurities. Sadly, he wasn’t far from the truth. She tried to stop herself, she really did, but she couldn’t seem to keep herself from making sly digs at Reggie’s expense. Reggie, with her affable good humor, always laughed it off. Natalie convinced herself that Reggie knew she was joking. Besides, it wasn’t like Natalie didn’t get her own fair share of criticism from her mother and the endless stream of casting directors.

And while Tyler seemed to appreciate her sometimes cutting sense of humor, clearly her remarks about Reggie made her look petty and mean-spirited. No wonder she seemed to be the only woman in San Francisco he didn’t bother to look at twice.

Needing to escape his suffocating presence, she said, “Can we wrap this up? I have another meeting to get to.” For some reason she felt compelled to redeem herself. “I’m going to meet with Max to pitch my own show for the Cuisine Network.” See, she had no reason to be jealous of Reggie, because soon she’d have a show of her own.

He couldn’t keep the stunned disbelief off his face. “You? Doing a food show?” He didn’t even bother to choke back a laugh. “What are you going to talk about? The many virtues of Diet Coke?”

Natalie tightened a grip around her can of said soft drink. Usually she enjoyed their teasing banter, but that hit a little too close to home.

Shaking his head, Tyler continued, “I don’t know if you realize this, but the most popular women on Cuisine Network are the ones who actually look like they eat.”

“What about Reggie?”

Tyler shook his head. “As you so kindly point out to her at every opportunity, while Reggie is relatively thin in real life, on TV she looks like a normal, healthy weight woman. And she’s attractive enough to draw in the minority of male viewers.”

“I bet guys would like me,” Natalie retorted, knowing she sounded pathetic.

“Maybe,” he conceded, his voice laced with doubt.

She sat back with a frown. What did Tyler know, anyway? Max liked her idea well enough to take a meeting with her. He wouldn’t bother if he didn’t think it was at least worth a shot.

She pushed herself back from the desk and gathered up the papers. “I’m meeting Max at Reggie’s apartment in half an hour. I’ll call you later to give you any schedule updates.”

As she reached for the doorknob he called out to her. She turned, surprised to see a faintly uncomfortable expression on Tyler’s face. “Uh, I just wanted to say good work getting that contact’s name at
Good Morning America
.” He laced and unlaced his fingers. “We never would have gotten Reggie’s story covered if we hadn’t been able to call him directly.”

As she walked out to where she’d parked Reggie’s car, she tried to convince herself that it wasn’t Tyler’s compliment that had raised her mood a good ten degrees.

The little bitch was trying to hide from him. He’d nearly trashed his house the other night when he found out his message hadn’t reached her in Boston. She wasn’t where she was supposed to be, and he had no way to find out without causing suspicion. She must have changed hotels. No doubt at the behest of that big goon she had shadowing her like a faithful rottweiler.

Her bodyguard, she said. But he knew different. The gorilla wanted her. But Gabe would never know what a woman like Reggie needed. Not like he did.

Once he found her, he’d convince her of that. And soon he’d pay her a personal visit, to show his darling Reggie how very devoted he was.

“What do you mean there’s no new reservation?” Reggie leaned over the check-in counter, hoping the woman would suddenly realize her mistake.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you missed your earlier flight to Memphis and I have no updated reservation for you.”

Reggie put her head down on the counter. It was already nine o’clock, she’d been up since six, and after wrangling Miss Biddy Lee all day, she was so tired she wanted to cry. “Dammit, I knew I should have done this myself, or at least checked in with Natalie.” But her cell phone had gone dead, and in the rush to pack up and get to the airport Reggie had decided to put her faith in her sister and for once give her the benefit of the doubt.

More fool she.

“What’s the next possible flight to Memphis we can get on?” Gabe asked, his Southern accent thickening like honey as he laid on the charm. “Reggie here has an important meeting tomorrow morning and it’s real important that she get a good night’s sleep.” He smiled beseechingly at Wanda, who looked momentarily shell-shocked at the surprising sweetness of his smile.

She frowned at the screen. “I have seats available on a flight at eleven tonight…” She looked up from her screen and studied Reggie for a moment. “I know you, you’re on TV! My granddaughter loves your show! She comes over and plays Reggie Caldwell in my kitchen. Leaves a heck of a mess, but sometimes her concoctions are actually edible.”

Reggie immediately perked up, returning the woman’s delighted smile. “I started cooking when I was a kid too. How old is your granddaughter?”

Gabe’s foot began to tap. Reggie grabbed his hand and gave it a warning squeeze.

“She’s twelve. And it’s so nice to see her watching your program rather than all that other trash that’s on TV. I know this is an imposition, but would you mind signing something for me?”

Reggie reached for the pen and paper, then thought better of it. “I have a better idea.” She grabbed her wallet and handed Gabe a couple of bills. “Gabe, can you go over to that bookstore and see if they have a copy of my book?”

“I can’t leave you alone.”

The eager light faded in Wanda’s eyes. “Don’t worry about—”

Reggie turned to Gabe and dropped her voice to a low whisper. “If we’re nice to Wanda I bet we’ll get on an earlier flight.”

Gabe dutifully headed for the bookstore, which was only about ten feet away, grumbling under his breath. Sure enough, by the time he got back with the book, Wanda had booked them two first-class seats on a flight leaving in a half hour.

Reggie wrote a quick inscription and autographed the book, and they took off for the security checkpoint.

They settled into their seats, and Reggie eagerly accepted her complimentary glass of champagne and hot towel. “I’ve never ridden first class before,” she confided, luxuriating in the leg room in front of her seat. “It really is different up here. Is this your first time too?”

“No.”

Frustrated by his lack of communication, Reggie continued to prod, “With another client?”

He grunted something that sounded like “yeah” and settled back against the headrest with a yawn. “Mind if I sleep? That foldout couch about killed me last night.”

“Of course not.” Reggie looked around the plane. “I doubt anything can happen to me here. Why didn’t you say anything about the bed?”

He peered at her through one eye. “What would you have done about it?”

“We could trade off sometimes so you can have the real bed once in a while.” Or you could have shared that great big lonely king size with me, she thought naughtily.

“Reggie, you’re paying me. I’m your employee. You’re not obligated to give up your bed.”

She grimaced at the harsh reminder that while she might entertain fantasies about slathering him with dark chocolate and licking him clean, to him, she was just another client, one he wanted to have as little personal interaction with as possible.

Tired but unable to fall asleep, Reggie accepted another free drink—this time a very nice glass of merlot—and a light snack. She fired up her laptop and set to work transcribing another pile of scribbles to send to her editor.

Every so often she snuck a glance at Gabe. His hard features softened in sleep, his soft, sensual lips slightly parted. He looked almost cute, if a guy who was six-foot three and probably outweighed her by a hundred pounds of solid muscle could be described as such.