Grill Me, Baby (18 page)

“And that, my friends, is how easy it is to make a delicious gnocchi that will melt on your tongue.” Paolo savored the pillowy dough in his mouth with a look of bliss and smacked his fingertips lustily. 

While the camera filmed the audience’s animated reaction, Paolo caught Michaela surreptitiously reaching into her pants pocket to extract a white paper. When the cameraman turned the lens on her, she smiled and seamlessly explained how to make low-fat Mediterranean vinaigrette with fresh herbs and tiny capers while she lowered her hands beneath the counter top. Puzzled, Paolo watched her pull the backing off thick, double-sided tape on the piece of paper she had taken out of her pocket.
Was she going to consult a recipe?
he wondered, surprised that an accomplished chef would have to revert to that.

Then suddenly, surprisingly, Michaela slapped her right buttock and proclaimed, “This vinaigrette will never fatten your booty and neither will the dreamy dessert I’ll be serving up later. So, girls, you can wear your favorite pair of skinny jeans and still eat happily.”

The audience clapped, but only Paolo could see the paper Maki had attached to the seat of her pants. BITE ME taunted him in bold, black letters and he would have happily obliged if he thought she really wanted him to.
Caramba
, was that her idea of an insult, he wondered, grinning wickedly at the pleasure he would have doing just that. He leaned into her space, drawing her immediate attention. 

The cameraman moved in for a close-up of the two. 

Paolo’s gaze lowered to Michaela’s cute backside and back to the camera. With a suggestive wink, he bared predator teeth in a broad smile and goaded, “Just
one
bite
, Maki? There you go again, skimp, skimp, skimping in the name of dieting!” 

From behind the counter, he squeezed her right bottom cheek as he tore off the paper and crammed it into his shirt pocket with a wolfish smirk. Michaela gasped and stomped her foot.
Ouch!
Her sharp heel landed on Paolo’s instep, almost causing him to lose his balance. He quickly recovered and was amazed when she went right into her segment as if nothing had happened. 

“Lemon is an ingredient I include when making my feather-light gnocchi,” she said. “Just one squeeze will bring radiance to the simple little dumpling.” Paolo leaned in closer just as she squeezed the lemon and a drop landed in his eye.

“Argh!” Paolo roared, covering his stinging eye with the guilty hand that had just squeezed Michaela’s sweet cheek. “Damn.”

“Oh… I’m sorry,” Michaela said. 

The cameraman turned his lens on Michaela, whose left eye was twitching out of control. 

“Cut,” Jim, the director said. “Let’s go to commercial.” 

Paolo splashed cool water in his eye to wash out the lemon juice. “That was a low blow, Maki,” he muttered under his breath. “Try that again and I’ll drown your ‘feather light’ gnocchi in a pound of butter.”

“It was an accident and you know it. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been hovering over me,” she retorted, her face turning pinker by the minute. “And don’t think you can get away with groping me, you…you…”

“Then don’t paste tasty notes on your behind. Next time I’ll follow the instructions.”

Red-faced, she snapped, “Paw me again and I’ll fry you in a vat of lard!”

Jim advanced upon them with a disapproving frown. “Let’s keep things civil, Miss Willoughby. This is a cooking show, not a showdown.” 

“Precisely what I was thinking.” Paolo gave a disapproving shake of his head.

It was all Michaela could do not to fling herself at Paolo and pummel his chest.

Chapter Thirteen

Michaela refused to heed the knock on her door when she looked through the peephole and saw Paolo standing there with a self-satisfied smile on his face. The
nerve
of him to show up! Hadn’t he bedeviled her enough during the taping? Was he planning to rub it in that he’d been the victor today? 

“Maki, open up. I know you’re in there,” Paolo called out.

“Go away!” she yelled, turning from the door and walking away. 

“I have something important to tell you. I hear your footsteps.” 

Michaela ran back to the door. “I said
go away
!” 

She didn’t want to see Paolo, or anyone else, for that matter. All she wanted to do was burrow in her kitchen and eat a pound of chocolate, especially since she was still tormented by visions of her family’s dismayed faces in the audience. She closed her eyes against the memory of her father’s stern and disillusioned look. He had made an impatient hand motion she was all too familiar with that said, “Focus. You’re making a fool of yourself, Michaela!” 

Mom’s reaction hadn’t been any better than Dad’s. She had caught her mother rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disapproval when it became increasingly obvious that Paolo was outperforming her. Mom’s presence in the audience had dredged up unpleasant memories of when she had attended Michaela’s high school government debates and sat in the first row of the audience, rigid with steely determination for her daughter to win. 

“I’m not leaving until you open the door and hear me out.” Paolo lifted a magnum of champagne and held it in front of the peephole. “We have reason to celebrate.”

Michaela wrenched the door open and stared at him in disbelief. “Are you some kind of a sadist? We have nothing to celebrate, now please leave.” She struggled to get the words out through clenched teeth. When he didn’t budge, she demanded, “Is this your idea of celebration? Showing up here to gloat?”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Nonplussed, his black eyes regarded her beneath furrowed brows. “I never realized what a little
rabiosa
you are.”

“Don’t call me names. What is a
rabiosa
anyway?” she asked, giving in to perverse curiosity, even though by the way he said it, it was certain not to be a compliment.

He shook his head. “A
rabiosa
is a bad-tempered firecracker like you. Now be quiet and let me tell you why I said we should celebrate.”

“Forget it. You should be here to apologize, not celebrate!”

Paolo threw his hands up in the air and gave her an incredulous look. “Me, apologize? For what?
You
are the one who didn’t play fair today.”

“Why should I play fair when you are a womanizing trickster?” The thought of him and Bernice together made her want to clobber him.

“Now who’s calling whom names? You owe me an apology, Maki,” he stated evenly, his eyes sharp lasers of accusation.

“Forget it! I know you’re half-Italian, but that doesn’t give you the right to grope a girl’s behind. You did that to trip up my performance.” 

“You stomped on my foot and then almost blinded me with lemon juice,” Paolo countered, chucking her under the chin with a flick of his forefinger. 

“I already told you the lemon was an accident! It was your fault for crowding over me. Don’t you have any sense of personal space? Now, thanks to you, the producers think I’m unprofessional and bad-tempered.”

“I doubt that.” Paolo gave a dismissive shrug and strolled past her with loping strides, entering her kitchen as if he owned it. While she gaped at him open-mouthed, he deftly opened the champagne, poured it into two flutes, and handed one to her. 

He lifted his flute in a toast to her. “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. I forgive your quick temper, Maki. I know you don’t like to be outshined,” he taunted devilishly.

Michaela’s hand tightened around the glass stem. How could he tease her over something that meant so much to her? Paolo had not only outdone her with his over-the-top performance, but now he was acting like she should be celebrating his success! 

He would probably laugh if he knew the number of chastising phone calls she’d received from Mom, Dad and Aunt Magda. This was turning into the worst day of her life. Where was parental loyalty and support when she needed it most? Ironically, Aunt Magda’s sole worry was that Michaela had lost the opportunity to rope in such a handsome and perfectly “charming” catch.

After the show, dear Aunt Willow had pressed her treasured Tibetan Mani Stone into Michaela’s palm as she consolingly patted her back and urged her to rub the stone for good karma. 

Tiffany had tried to offer comfort with a few compliments on her appearance—even though Michaela hadn’t worn the sexy red dress Tiffany had bought her. She knew her sister meant well, but Michaela hadn’t wanted compliments on her appearance; she had wanted to outperform Paolo and she had failed—miserably. 

“I’m in no mood for your champagne.” She looked Paolo in the eye and she emptied her champagne flute into the sink. With wicked satisfaction, she watched his smile turn into a scowl.

Paolo’s eyes darkened with displeasure. “You just threw away an excellent Perrier-Jouet.” 

Michaela lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster. She knew it was rude of her to toss his champagne in the sink like dirty water, but she didn’t feel like apologizing. 

Paolo slanted a hard look at her. “What is wrong with you?” 

“Hmm, let’s see. For starters, you never met with me to rehearse, knowing how important it was to me. You probably never intended to rehearse in the first place. You were just humoring me, right?”

“Wrong,” Paolo replied, his mouth flattened into a grim line. “I had every intention of rehearsing with you,
querida
. Can I help it that Claudia decided to have her baby at the most inopportune time?”

“Maybe you couldn’t help that, but you could have kept your pants zipped when it came to Bernice Blumenthal last night!” Michaela’s blood boiled at the image of Paolo seducing the older, fleshy flirt for his personal gain. 

Paolo’s mouth spewed the champagne as he doubled over in mirth. “Bernice Blumenthal? You think I was sleeping with Bernice?” he roared in disbelief, his broad shoulders shaking as he erupted into guffaws. 

“Damn you, it’s not funny!” Michaela turned on her heel, stomped to the front door and flung it open. “Get out!” Her index finger trembled as she pointed to the hallway outside her door.

Paolo forcefully set his glass down on the countertop and joined her in the foyer. He reached for her arm, but Michaela angrily shrugged out of his grasp.

“Calm down, Maki,” Paolo said. “I never slept with Bernice. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Don’t act innocent. I know the reason you were so late last night is because you were with her!”

“We were having a business meeting,” he stated in an even tone.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Damn right I do. It was only a business meeting, nothing else,” Paolo said implacably, his eyes hardening to onyx. 

“Oh,
really
? More like monkey business. I heard she was all over you in the parking lot of your restaurant,” Michaela huffed, seething with distrust. “And then you arrived all disheveled and late and stinking of her perfume!”

“I’m not sure what your sources saw or who they are, but I met with Bernice to plan her dinner party for the tenor, Palmentieri.”

“And it took you until midnight?” she asked in a cynical tone.

Paolo’s jaw tightened. “I cooked dinner for Bernice and then we planned the menu. If you had listened to me last night, Sherlock, instead of tearing off in the middle of my explanation, you would have known that I was late because I had to change a flat tire. End of subject,” he stated tightly. 

“I still don’t see why—” Michaela began to protest. 

Paolo ignored her and shut the door. “I have something important to tell you and you are going to listen to me.” She wasn’t amused when he firmly grabbed her arm above the elbow and propelled her into the kitchen. She stood rigidly beside him, ready to pounce if he dared make light of things as he lifted the champagne bottle and refilled his glass. 

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

“You
will
listen and you won’t interrupt,” he said firmly. He skewered her with a stern look. “Not a word until I’ve finished, Maki, or I won’t give you the good news.”

“Good news? Ha!” Michaela planted her fists on her hips and rounded on him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll give you two minutes and then I want you to leave.”

Paolo looked like he wanted to wring her neck. “The good news for you is that we are both still in the running for
Miami Spice
. The producers haven’t made a final decision.”

“What?” Michaela’s chest expanded with hope and her heart began to hammer against it with excitement. “Did you just way we’re
both
still in the running?”

“You heard right. Mr. Blumenthal invited both of us back to do another taping. The next one will be in a studio.”

Michaela froze; she could barely believe her ears. A surge of joy made her want to jump up and down and repeatedly squeal “yes!” with accompanying fist pumps. “For real? Are you telling me the truth? This better not be some kind of practical joke,” she warned.

Paolo looked heavenward and shook his head. “
Dios
mío
, you try the patience of a saint.”

“Your last name might be Santos, but you are no saint.” 

“Damn straight I’m not.” Paolo grinned. “Ellie called this afternoon and said that Mr. Blumenthal has decided to have the two of us back for another taping.” 

Michaela felt the wind under her sails fizzle as she regarded Paolo dubiously. “Why didn’t Ellie call me?”

“Because I told her I’d take care of letting you know.” 

“Oh.” For once, she was speechless and then giddy relief mushroomed inside her until she thought she would burst.

Paolo held out his hand. “Truce?” 

In a daze of euphoria, Michaela shook his hand. “Truce.” A sexy current sizzled between them making her quickly release his hand, but Paolo’s exotic eyes held her captive. “When is the taping?” she asked through suddenly parched lips.

“At the end of next month. But this time we get a solo show each.”

“Yay!” she cried. “I can’t wait to call Ellie for more details.”

Michaela grabbed the champagne bottle from his hand, put her mouth on the bottleneck and drank deeply. Champagne had never tasted so good! She closed her eyes, choking as the sparkling froth cascaded down her throat, spilling over the sides of her mouth and onto her cheeks, and drenching the front of her blouse. When she opened her eyes, she caught Paolo watching her, his handsome face lit up with amusement. But she didn’t care. She was bubbling over with joy, flying high with the thrill of getting a new chance at winning!