Grill Me, Baby (2 page)

“It will be fun, just not…high in calories,” she said, trying not to let Paolo’s comments annoy her.

Mr. Blumenthal gave her a measured look. “I’m sorry, Miss Willoughby, but my mind is made up. I’m sure you can come up with a menu together to complement your individual styles. We’ll need a complete meal that you will prepare together before the audience.”

“No problem,” Paolo said, before Michaela could answer. “We would be happy to, right, Maki?”

“Right…Paulie,” she countered. If he insisted on calling her a nickname, she might as well do the same.

“Good,” Mr. Blumenthal said. “I can see you two are well acquainted.”

Paolo threw his arm around Michaela’s shoulders. “No, we just met in the lobby. But I can tell we’re going to be good friends.”

Did he have to smell so good? Paolo’s muscular arm around her was making her feel as wobbly as one of his
flan
desserts. She moved away from him and put some steel in her backbone.

“After the pilot, one of you will be chosen to come back to make a solo tape. And may the best man—or woman—win,” Mr. Blumenthal said. “Based on the results before the live audience, we’ll make our final decision. Any questions?”

Michaela had many questions she wanted to ask, but Paolo beat her to it.

“Just one.” Paolo leaned forward eagerly. “Actually, it’s not a question, but a suggestion. My gimmick is sure to be a hit.”

Mr. Blumenthal looked delighted. “That’s the type of enthusiasm I’m looking for, but save the gimmicks for later. If you’re invited back, you can use it on your solo show.”

Michaela wondered what Paolo’s gimmick was. He was quite the performer, with a growing fan base. She had heard from her clients about the sexy way he wore a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and tucked into black jeans, with a bandanna tied over his jet-black hair as he prepared food behind a glass panel in full view of the Bella Luna patrons. The showman didn’t only prepare food, he did little dance steps and sang tangos as he sliced, chopped and flambéed.

“We’ll tape live before an audience next Monday morning at ten sharp. You have a week from today to prepare,” Mr. Blumenthal said briskly. “Ellie will put you in touch with Ted Marton, the culinary producer. He’ll need the menu list so the kitchen staff and supporting chefs can prep your ingredients.”

Mr. Blumenthal stood, signaling that the meeting was over. Raising bushy brows, he peered at them through steel-rim glasses. “If you have further questions, don’t hesitate to call Ellie any time this week.”

Michaela extended her hand. “Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yes, likewise, Michaela,” Mr. Blumenthal replied, shaking her hand.

The ever-inappropriate Paolo gave Mr. Blumenthal a man hug. “Great meeting you, sir. You won’t be disappointed. Maki and I will plan a menu sure to make the audience’s mouth water.”

Michaela’s left eye began to twitch out of control.

Paolo winked at her. “Let’s go, Maki.” He gently nudged the small of her back with his big hand. 

She shrugged his hand away from her back as she strode to the elevator. When the doors were shut, she pressed the lobby button and turned to him. “Listen, Paolo, this is a professional arrangement and we need to get along. You can start by calling me Michaela, not Maki.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Why were you winking at me?”

“I wasn’t. You winked at me!”

He pointed at her eye. “Your left eyelid was moving up and down. Don’t deny it.”

“It twitches sometimes when I’m stressed out.” She shouldn’t have admitted it. He probably thought he had the upper hand now. 

“I thought you said you were relaxed. You don’t act like it, Maki.”

Normally she could relax, but he had the unfortunate ability to rile her up. They rode the elevator in silence. As soon as they descended to the lobby and the doors opened, she rushed out. 

“Hey!” he called. “Slow down.”

Michaela didn’t stop until she reached her car and her eye had stopped twitching. “
Nena
,” he said once he reached her. “What have I done to upset you?”

“First of all, stop calling me
nena
.” 

He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Why? It is an endearment in Spanish.”

Endearment?
“We just met, so there’s no need for endearments. And don’t call me Maki. You did it again after I told you to call me Michaela.” 

Paolo’s roguish dimples snagged her attention. “I couldn’t help myself. I think Maki is cute—like you. It suits you.”

She looked away from the seductive twinkle in his eyes. That was a first. Nobody ever called her cute. Her sister Tiffany was cute, but not Michaela. “Save your charms and gimmicks for someone else, Santos. I’m on to you.” 

Paolo laughed out loud. “Is that the worst you could come up with?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Would you like me to curse?” 

He gave a casual shrug of his wide shoulders. “It works for me when I’m mad. Let me warn you, little spaghetti—” Paolo’s genial expression turned serious, “—I don’t get angry easily or often, but when I do, you won’t want to be there. And you won’t like hearing me swear in Spanish.”

“Ooh, I’m terrified. I don’t care if you curse in Spanish or Japanese.” 

He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good.” 

“We need to come up with a menu as soon as possible.”

“I’ll leave my sous chef in charge tonight. How about we meet at my place at seven?”

His place? Uh uh. “Can’t tonight. Let’s meet tomorrow…at my apartment.”

He chuckled. “Pretty bossy aren’t you?” He surprised her by handing her his business card. “Call me.”

She read his card aloud, “Paolo Santos, magnificent chef.” She chuckled. “We’ll see about that.”

“I’m not bragging. It’s true.” 

She waved his card. “Who came up with your title?” 

“My immigration lawyer. I came to this country with a visa that states I have extraordinary ability.”

“Oh brother.”

His gaze turned sharp and his smile faded. “I’m planning on winning,” he stated as if it was a done deal. 

“I plan to knock ’em dead,” she said confidently. “I want this job more than anything in the world.” 

Paolo’s eyes glinted like onyx stones. “Me too, and I always win.” 

“You hadn’t met me yet,” she said, poking his chest with her pointer finger.

He rubbed his offended chest. “Your cooking is more suited to anorexic socialites. Mine is purely for pleasure.”

“I guess the sky’s the limit when you’re clogging arteries,” she retorted.

“I don’t only prepare Italian and Argentinean cuisine. I can make everything and it is delicious.” He kissed his fingertips with a resounding smack. “Grilling, or
parrillada
as we say in Argentina, is my specialty. Now you’re probably going to say that grilling isn’t healthy.”

“Scoff all you like, but my conscience is clear. My clients eat well and feel great. Many of them have serious conditions such as diabetes and heart disease.”

“You forgot boredom and too much money,” he said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “What can you do that Weight Watchers hasn’t done?”

The man was getting on her last nerve. 

“My cooking wins hands down,” he added blithely.

“Ha!” she huffed. They were getting nowhere exchanging barbs. She spun on her heel and stalked away. 

Paolo caught up with her in two strides. “Until tomorrow. Maki
Ciao
,
.
Can’t wait to see your gimmick.” His dimples flashed to taunt her as he turned and ambled toward his tomato red Alfa Romeo convertible. How fitting that he drove that car; he was an Alpha Romeo, all right. 

Michaela watched him take off his jacket and fling it on the back seat, her gaze drawn to his broad shoulders and wide back that tapered into a lean waistline above a compact butt. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop staring as he got into the car and drove away. Damn the man for looking so hot as the wind ruffled his thick hair. 

As Paolo exited the parking lot, he turned to wave good-bye with a confident grin. Michaela quickly looked away and got into her car. She glanced up at the April sky and noticed a cluster of purple clouds closing in on the clear blue expanse. It would be fitting if he got caught in the downpour. Smiling to herself, she took great pleasure in an image of Paolo, sopping wet and bedraggled as he drove his flashy convertible back to Flamingo Island.

He was so full of himself, she was itching to take him down a few pegs and roast him over his own
parrillada
.

Magnificent chef, indeed! 

Chapter Two

Paolo drove his convertible onto the Flamingo Island ferry, put it in Park, and then turned off the engine. He leaned his head back on the leather seat and soaked up the sunshine with pleasure. Turning his gaze across the bay, he noticed the waterspout over the island and wondered if Michaela had been spared a drenching. A little water would definitely cool that temper of hers. What a little spitfire! So tantalizing, he thought, smiling as he closed his eyes and got a vivid picture of her lush pink lips forming an O as she watched him drive away. 

The appetizing redhead’s slim body had just the right curves. Michaela’s dress had shown off her figure to perfection—not too tight, it skimmed over her pert breasts and the sweet curve of her bottom. And those legs, damn, that was a whole other matter… 

He was used to women using their looks to their advantage, but Michaela didn’t seem to realize how appealing she was. It was refreshing; the camera would love her. All she had to do was loosen up and she’d have the audience eating out of her hand.

Her features were deceptively angelic, but her personality wasn’t. Maybe it was true what they said about redheads and their fiery tempers. He had certainly gotten a rise out of her. Not that he hadn’t had fun goading her. Who could blame him for wanting to shake her up a little to see that small patrician nose raised in disdain and her fair cheeks turn pink? He’d enjoyed watching her intelligent, blue-green eyes flash with fire at his teasing.

Michaela’s striking aquamarine eyes, clear one moment and tempestuous the next, had captivated his attention. But it was her luscious, plump lips that had really turned him on. She had the kind of mouth that invited fantasies and he’d had a few while waiting in Blumenthal’s office. Her seductress’s mouth might have enticed him, but her dismissive response to his flirting had puzzled him. Not that he was Casanova, but women, as a rule, liked him. And he liked women. However, Michaela didn’t seem to like him. Paolo was used to women and their mercurial moods, but the pretty redhead’s feistiness had gotten under his skin. 

Paolo had been raised as the sole male among a household of women: his widowed mother, his four sisters and his grandmother, Nonna, all had lively personalities. His love of cooking was nurtured at a young age, from hanging around in the kitchen with these women as they cooked and gossiped. As the only boy, the women had spoiled him with an outpouring of affection and devotion. He loved women and felt he understood them, and he was tolerant of their dramas when it came to matters of the heart. 

But for all his experience with women and their moods, he had been taken aback by the bossy redhead. When he’d tried to get her attention before the interview, Michaela had sat upright, her graceful hands folded on her lap, high-heeled pumps planted on the floor and slim ankles pressed together. Her thick copper hair had been secured half up making Paolo eager to see how she would look with it tousled about her flushed face.

Señorita Willoughby was going to be a real pain in the ass, but he could handle her. He had no intention of letting her ruin his excellent cuisine with her rabbit food. Paolo’s mood brightened at the prospect of dueling with the tempting peach. He would beat the fancy pants off his fiery competitor—literally—with her own spatula if necessary. That fantasy led to hearty chuckles as he started the ignition and shifted gears when the ferry arrived at posh Flamingo Island. 

Paolo loved working on Flamingo Island, lavish playground of millionaires, sports figures and celebrities. He had really lucked out on being hired as executive chef of Bella Luna Restaurant on the exclusive tropical resort encompassing over two hundred acres. The whole island operated like a private country club to its residents—some American, but the majority from Latin America and Europe. Residents owned a piece of the island and of the par thirty-five, nine-hole golf course, and they had full access to all the amenities including four first-class restaurants, a state-of-the-art spa and fitness center, fourteen tennis courts and a private beach and marina where they could dock their yachts. 

Paolo heeded the required thirteen-mile per hour speed limit as he drove past verdant hedges, royal palm trees and rows of crimson, coral and white petunias and impatiens. Vibrant fuchsia bougainvilleas cascaded over low stone walls encircling Mediterranean style villas and opulent homes that bordered the island with unfettered ocean views. When he reached the massive Art Deco waterfront mansion rumored to be haunted, he waved at the two elderly Bryce sisters who were steady lunch clients at Bella Luna. A wealthy, debauched Italian count, Salvatore Giamano, had once owned the 1920’s mansion situated in the middle of a beautiful park where peacocks roamed freely and huge banyan trees offered cool shade even on the hottest summer day. 

Turning the corner, Paolo saluted a trio of joggers leaving The Island Spa. He veered to the right a few blocks farther and pulled into the restaurant lot. He parked his car outside the back door and found Gil, the sous chef, taking a cigarette break.

“
Hola
, Gil,” Paolo called out, ambling toward him. “How’s things?”

“Going good.” Gil took a drag of the cigarette. His round, swarthy face and thick, prizefighter’s neck was in stark contrast to his gentle disposition. He was the closest thing Paolo had to a brother and he cherished their friendship. “How did it go with the producer?”

“My meeting with Mr. Blumenthal went great. But the chef from The Island Spa was another matter. Michaela Willoughby is one tough
biscotti
.”