Kiss the Cook (18 page)

Damn.

He firmly told his pesky inner voice to shut up.

~~~

"That was a great breakfast," Melanie said, leaning back and patting her full stomach. "Best cheese danish I've ever eaten."

Chris winked at her. "You should try my cinnamon buns."

She winked back. "I thought I already had."

"Are we still talking about breakfast?"

"Beats me." She pointed to the unpacked grocery bag on the counter. "What's in there?"

Chris stretched out his legs and sipped his coffee. "Cake stuff."

"What do you mean, 'cake stuff?"

"Stuff to make a cake. It's on your things-I-want-to-do-before-I-die list. Besides, you're a gourmet cook. You should know what cake stuff is."

Curious, Melanie reached in the bag and pulled out a box of chocolate cake mix. Next she pulled out a can of chocolate fudge frosting. She pulled out the last item and choked back a laugh.

"Condoms?" she asked, raising her brows. "What do condoms have to do with making cakes?"

"We have to do
something
while the cake is in the oven," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her onto his lap.

"The cake only has to bake for thirty-five minutes. This is a package of thirty-six condoms."

"So we'll have one left over.”

Melanie laughed. "Maybe we should try to pace ourselves."

"No can do. In case you can't tell, I want you again."

"I can tell, and I must say I'm amazed. And flattered." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his stubbly jaw. "Don't you ever get tired?"

"If you'd asked me that question last week, I would have said yes. Today, the answer is no. It appears that you are to me what spinach is to Popeye." He nibbled on her neck. "One taste of you and I have the strength of a thousand men."

"A
thousand
men? I think you're gonna need some more condoms, Popeye."

"Now you're
talkin'." he said, chuckling. "But first we shower. Then we bake. Then… well, we'll have to see." He shot her an exaggerated leer. "I have a feeling we'll find
something
to do."

Melanie laughed at his expression and tried to ignore her racing pulse. Again she had to force herself to remember that this was an interlude. An affair. No commitments, no promises. She had to enjoy it while it lasted, then let it go. No more relationships for her. No way. Just fun and games.

Now all she had to do was convince her heart. Which, unfortunately, was proving far more difficult than she’d anticipated.

He wrapped his arms around her and stood then headed toward the bathroom. "Yes, a shower sounds perfect. You, me, naked, soapy.  Perfect.”

Melanie clung to his shoulders and gave her best nonchalant shrug. “Oh, well, if you insist. Never let it be said that I haven't done my part in the global water conservation effort."

"Very green of you," he said in an approving tone. He set
her on feet outside the shower then opened the glass door to turn on the water spray. “Besides, we have to do something to keep up with our tradition of getting wet every time we're together."

In the blink of an eye he
stripped off his clothes then unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off her shoulders. Whoa. He really was talented-- and fast-- with those hands. And speaking of hands, he held one out to her in invitation. "Come with me."

"Hmmm. Now there's a phrase that's ripe with pos
sibilities," Melanie said, managing to keep her tone light in spite of the ever growing tightness in her throat. Her heart and mind were battling it out again in the Olympic love-versus-lust war. She had a sinking feeling that Heart was going to win.

She slipped her hand into his and stepped into the shower.

Oh, well. Let the Games begin.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“
You look great," Chris said several hours later, leaning back to survey his handiwork. Melanie lay in the middle of his bed, naked except for several well-placed swirls of fluffy fudge frosting. "Fabulous, if I may say so myself."

"This is
not
how you decorate a cake," she informed him, squirming as he continued to "paint" her abdomen. "I've read dozens of cookbooks, and I've never seen instructions like this. If Betty Crocker even
suspected
what you're doing with that frosting, she'd fall down in a dead faint.

He drew a heart around her navel. "Who?"

"Never mind. And this may come as a shock," she added in a breathless voice, "but baking is normally done in the kitchen
.
Not the bedroom."

"This is not baking," Chris countered, dipping his finger into the
frosting container and spreading another dab of chocolate icing on her nipple. "This is decorating. We burned the cake. I wouldn't think of wasting all this great frosting." He leaned forward and sampled the delectable treat he'd just made. "Delicious," he pronounced.

Melanie leaned up on her elbows.
"We
did not burn the cake," she informed him in a haughty tone that made him smile.
'You
burned the cake."

"Only because you wouldn't let me take it out of the oven when the timer went off."

"Wouldn't let you! How do you figure that?"

"You were on top," he reminded her in a calm tone. He suppressed a laugh at the bright red blush creeping up her cheeks. "I couldn't move."

She shot him a dirty look. "Oh. Well, you could have moved if you'd wanted to."

"Ah, but I didn't want to.
" He spread a thin layer of icing on her bottom lip. "I was very happy where I was."

He watched her eyes darken with remembrance of their earlier lovemaking, and
there it was again-- that warm rush of love sweeping over him. It washed through him, leaving a lump in his throat that he had to struggle to swallow around.

Even though she hadn't said so, he knew she was feeling the same things he was. She had to be. He could see it in her eyes every time she looked at h
im, feel it in her touch, taste it in her kiss. He wondered how she would react if he told her he loved her.

You idiot. She'd run like a scared rabbit.
And that was
the last thing he wanted. It was too soon.

Besides,
what was the best way to tell her? Just open his mouth and let the words flop out? Or plan something elaborate? He’d have to think on it. Which was fine because he wanted the moment to be right and he needed to wait until she was ready. He'd give her another week. Nodding to himself, he decided that
was fair. She could have one more week to realize they were meant to be together, and he’d have a week to figure out the best way to tell her he was ass over backwards, crazy in love with her. Then he'd tell her, she'd say she loved him back, and that would be that. Perfect.

A sobering thought burst through his reverie
to dump all over his perfect mental scenario.
What if she doesn't love me? A
shudder ran through him, and he swatted the disturbing idea aside.

She does. She has to. And if she doesn't yet, she will
. Right. ‘Cause he certainly wasn’t
going to marry someone who didn’t love him. And since he was
going to marry her, she just had to love him. Period. B
ottom line. End of discussion.

He was about to dip his finger into the frosting again when his hand froze.
Holy crap.
Did I just think what I think I thought?

Sure did, buddy,
his inner voice replied.
You just thought the dreaded
M
word.

Marriage.

Lifelong commitment. House in the suburbs. Kids.

He sat perfectly still, waiting for panic to seize him.

Only panic never came.

Instead, a warmth unlike anything he'd ever felt suffused him. Like bachelors everywhere, he'd always avoided the M word like it harbored E. coli.

But not anymore. Not since he'd met Melanie. In fact--

"Are you okay?" Her voice penetrated his musings.

He looked at her, feeling dazed. "Huh?"

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "I asked if you're okay. You look like a piano just fell on your head."

He laughed and wondered just what his expression looked like. "Squashed and half an inch high?"

"No.
Kinda shocked, surprised, and… “ she peered at him, "green around the gills." She grabbed the container of frosting from him and set it on the night-stand. "You've eaten enough of that. You're obviously suffering from sugar-induced dementia."

No. Actually he wasn’t suffering at all. In fact, he was happier than he’d ever been.
He leaned over her and licked her bottom lip. "On the contrary, I haven't had nearly enough."

She leaned back and sighed. "You'll get a tummy ache."

"It's not my tummy that's aching."

"Think of all those cavities."

"I have a great dental plan," he whispered against her lips. "Any more arguments?"

She arched against him. "Would there be any point?"

"Nope."

"Very well. Carry on."

He settled himself between her thighs. "Okay. If you insist."

~~~

At ten o'clock Sunday evening, Melanie sat in the Mercedes, her thoughts in turmoil. They would arrive at her house in less than five minutes, and she had no idea what to say to the man with whom she'd just spent the last thirty-six hours. Naked.

An offhand "Thanks, it's been great" didn't really seem appropriate, but neither did "I
think I love you madly, please don't make me go home."

And unfortunately,
now more than before, she stood in mortal danger of falling in love with him. Everything about him appealed to her. His smile. His laugh. The way he really listened when she talked. The way he made her feel in bed. Out of bed. They’d talked about everything from finance to politics to religion to books and movies. They agreed on all the important points, and on the lesser important ones where their opinions differed, their debates had been lively and respectful. She’d never enjoyed conversing with a man more. He was intelligent, thoughtful, and made her feel like the most beautiful, desirable woman on the planet. Yup, it would be ridiculously easy to fall madly in love with him.

He
had asked her to stay, but she’d somehow found the strength to say no. After spending only one night in his arms, she was addicted to the feel of him. The taste of him. If she stayed another night, her heart would suffer a fatal attack of the love-sickies.

Oh, w
ho was she kidding?
She already had the love-sickies so bad she was ready for the intensive care unit.

Which was really bad. If she had to fall for someone-- not that she wanted to-- but if she had to, a confirmed bachelor was most definitely
not the smartest choice. In fact, it would win the gold medal for Most Idiotic.

She looked out the window and cursed her
stupid hormones for getting her into this mess. It was entirely their fault. She should have shot those suckers dead the minute they started acting up. Bang! Death, followed by a hormone funeral and a brief period of mourning. Then back to her orderly life.

But
nooooo. She had to meet Mr. Gorgeous. One look at him and all her plans had jumped out the window and plunged forty stories to their demise.

She sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eyes. There he sat, calm, cool, collected, humming off-key to the radi
o, while she was suffering. Mr. Confirmed Bachelor had probably already forgotten about their time together. No doubt the minute he left her, he'd forget her name. She bet he'd come up with some excuse to not see her for the rest of the week, then conveniently "forget" to ever call her again. She’d become another statistic to be filed away in the dreaded Slept With The Dude Who Will Never Call You folder.

Well, that was fine. Who needed him anyway? They'd spent their time together, now it was finished. She'd go on with her life, he with his. Two ships that pass in the night, make
love several times-- okay, more like several dozen
times-- then say
adios.

She needed to nip
this now. She knew firsthand where falling in love left a person-- in a big, dark, painful hole with your skin ripped off. It had taken her a long time to climb out of that dungeon once before, and she didn't ever want to do it again.

She'd had her fun; now it was time to end it
.

Before it was really too late.

“You're a million miles away, Mel Gibson."

She blinked at the sound of his voice and realized they were parked in front of her house. The porch lamps blazed cheerfully and the kitchen light glowed, announcing Nana's presence.

Melanie stared at him, unable to look away. She wanted to say something,
anything,
but she couldn't force any sound past the lump lodged in her throat. God help her, she didn't want to go inside and leave him. But she needed to end this before he did and left her in tatters.

He touched her cheek with a single, gentle finger. "I'm sort of at a l
oss for words.”

Melanie swallowed. "Yeah. Me, too."
Say good-bye.
Say have a nice life. Get out of the car.
Her mouth and feet refused to cooperate with her brain. She remained silent and motionless.

Taking her hands, he entwined their fingers. "This was the most incredible weeke
nd of my life," he said in a soft, husky voice.

Not trusting her voice, she simply nodded.
Tears were on their way, and it took all her concentration to hold them at bay.

"I'm leaving on a business trip tomorrow afternoon," he said, "and
unfortunately I won't get back until late Friday night. How about I pick you up Saturday morning and take you out for breakfast?"

"Chris, I--
"

"I want you to spend the night again. The whole weekend." A sexy
half grin touched his lips. "We still have some skinny-dipping to do."

'I
can't." There. She'd said it. Whew!

"Why not?"

Good question. "I, ah, can't sleep over."

"Sleeping wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

The tears hovering close to the surface threatened to spill over. Sure, that was fine. He had nothing to lose. A few weeks of sexual fun and games, then he'd move on to the next woman.

And that was the way it was supposed to be for her, but her heart was involved, damn it
. Even though she'd firmly ordered it not
to, her stupid heart had jumped into love faster than ice
melted in July.

"Listen," she
said, "last night was fun, but-- "

"No
buts.
As I recall, you owe me a cooking lesson. You're not trying to welsh on your promise, are you?"

"I never promise
d-- "

"Because I deal with promise-welshers very harshly." His tongue traced a warm path up her palm, and a legion of pleasurable tingles skittered up her arm. "You'd find yourself on the receiving end of a severe tongue-lashing."

Oh, my.
Clearly his definition of a tongue-lashing was not the one that appeared in Webster's Dictionary. The mere thought evaporated her concentration like a puddle in the Sahara.

"And then there's the matter of the tennis match
you
want to play," he murmured against her palm. "How's your game?"

"Ah, pretty
good. Why?"

"There's a guy at work I wouldn't mind trouncing
on
the court. You up for the challenge?"

She
looked into his beautiful dark blue eyes and knew she couldn't refuse. Not when her hormones and every bone in her traitorous body had joined forces and ganged up on her
.
She didn't stand a chance. So she’d spend one more weekend with him. And guard her heart the entire time. And then end it.

“Okay, y
ou've got yourself a tennis match. And since I'd never let it be said that I'm a promise-welsher, I'll teach you how to cook something. Any requests?"

A half smile curved his lips. "Lots of them."

"I meant for our cooking lesson."

"Oh. Anything, as long as it's not complicated. You have a very bad effect on my ability to concentrate." Cupping her face between his palms, he kissed her long and deep, until she could barely recall what planet she lived on. "See what I mean?" he whispered against her lips. "I can't remember what we were just talking about"