Recipe for Temptation (3 page)

“No, really, I insist. Can you bring another fork for your boss?” she asked the waiter.

After another set of silverware had been supplied, Reese pushed the pie plate to the center of the table, and she and Michael dug in.

“Mmmm,” she said appreciatively after her first bite. “Delicious.”

“You like?”

“Mmm-hmm. You are looking at one
very
satisfied customer.”

“That’s good,” Michael drawled, gazing at her. “Your satisfaction is our number-one priority.”

Reese’s pulse thudded. The dark, intoxicating timbre of his voice had her imagining a number of other ways
he
could satisfy her. Ways that had nothing whatsoever to do with food.

As if Michael had read her mind, a shadow of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He ate another forkful of pie and chewed slowly, watching her. Transfixed, she stared at his full lips, wondering if they were as soft as they looked, wondering how exquisite they’d feel pressed against her mouth, wrapped around a taut nipple, sliding up her inner thigh toward her—

“I know we just met,” Michael said quietly, interrupting her lascivious thoughts,

“but I was wondering if I could call you sometime?”

“I’d like that,” Reese responded, surprising herself. “In fact, if you’re free tonight, I could use a ride home.”

Chapter 2

M
ichael didn’t make a habit of picking up women at his restaurant—though not for lack of opportunities. In the seven years he’d been in business, he’d received more than his fair share of propositions from customers. Some were subtle, while others…not so much.

He’d had half-naked women sneak into the kitchen where he was cooking, while others had tried to bribe his waiters into divulging his home address and phone number.

Yeah, Michael was no stranger to getting hit on. But he’d never believed in using any of his restaurants as his own personal hunting ground.

Until he saw
her.

The moment he’d stepped into the crowded dining room that evening, his gaze had been drawn to a lone woman seated at a table in a private corner of the restaurant. Flawless deep brown skin gleamed under the recessed lighting. Layers of sleek black hair framed dark cat eyes, high cheekbones and lush, pouty lips that made him envy the fork she was sliding into her mouth. Full, voluptuous breasts beckoned to him from the low neckline of her dress.

Michael had always made a practice of greeting his guests and making them feel at home. But tonight he’d been distracted as he played gracious host, keeping one eye on the exotic mystery woman as he slowly but surely worked his way toward her. When he finally reached her table, she’d looked up at him with those sultry eyes and breathed his name in a siren’s voice that sent a bolt of pure lust tearing through his body.

When she’d invited him to join her at the table, refusing her never even entered his mind. He wanted her with a ferocity that had intensified with every seductive smile she gave him, every heated look they’d exchanged.

He wanted her like no other woman he’d ever wanted before.

As luck would have it, she seemed willing to let him have her.

After dinner, she excused herself to use the ladies’ room before they left. Michael watched her go, admiring the view of her lushly rounded butt in a white sarong dress that molded every ripe, delectable curve.

Once she’d disappeared from view, he made a beeline for the kitchen to tell his staff he was leaving. As he neared the back foyer he passed Griffin Palmer, the restaurant’s maître d’.

“Evening, Griff,” he said.

“Evening, boss.” Griffin gave him a sly smile. “You and Miss St. James seemed to be getting along rather well.”

Michael grinned. “You could say that. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“That she is.” Griffin winked at him. “And I suppose it never hurts to give food critics the VIP treatment. Not that
you
need to bribe anyone into giving the restaurant rave reviews,” he added quickly.

Michael stared at him, his grin faltering. “What’re you talking about, Griff? Who’s a food critic?”

“Miss St. James. She called two weeks ago, said she’d never been to the restaurant and thought it was high time she paid us a visit.” Griffin frowned. “Didn’t she introduce herself to you?”

“No.”

Once upon a time, food critics had prided themselves on their secrecy. They’d conducted reviews anonymously because they understood the value of experiencing a restaurant just like ordinary patrons. But nowadays, many food critics didn’t hesitate to reveal their identities. Michael had trained his staff to treat all customers the same—with warmth, courtesy and respect. He didn’t believe in kissing anyone’s ass just to get a good review.

“What paper does Miss St. James write for?” he asked Griffin.

“The
Houston Chronicle.
I spoke to her when she called to make the reservation.”

Michael clenched his jaw. “What did she say her first name was?”

“You mean the whole time you were cozying up to her, you didn’t ask for her first name?”

Michael scowled. “It wasn’t important.”

“Her name’s Randi St. James.”

The name struck Michael as vaguely familiar. Then suddenly he remembered why.

He’d met Randi St. James two years ago at one of his book signings in New York City.

While he’d autographed multiple copies of his latest cookbook—she’d bought enough for family and friends—she’d told him that she was a food critic and had enthusiastically lobbied for a Wolf’s Soul to be opened in Houston.

The beautiful, alluring stranger he’d encountered tonight was
not
Randi St. James.

So who the hell was she? And what was she up to?

Noting Michael’s thunderous expression, Griffin heaved a deep sigh. “Don’t tell me that nice young lady isn’t who she says she is.”

Michael said nothing, inwardly seething. He felt like a damn fool. He was used to women employing creative tactics to get his attention, but he’d never imagined that one would go so far as to pose as a food critic. The woman was either the most aggressive fan he’d ever met, or she was seriously unbalanced for attempting such a scheme.

“Wait a minute,” Griffin said. “She didn’t introduce herself to you. That doesn’t make any sense if she expected to receive preferential treatment. How did she know you’d find out her identity?”

“She obviously assumed
you’d
tell me,” Michael muttered.

“Maybe…” Griffin was unconvinced.

Biting back an impatient oath, Michael said, “Look, I’ve met the real Randi St.

James. Unless there are two writers by the same name reviewing restaurants for the
Houston Chronicle,
the woman is a damn liar.”

He sent a dark glance toward the corridor that led to the restrooms. His mystery woman—whoever she was—had just emerged. Despite what he’d just learned about her—

that she was a fraud, possibly a deranged stalker—his body still stirred at the sight of her.

With her exotic beauty and a body made for sin, she was a recipe for temptation that any red-blooded male would find hard to resist. Unfortunately, that included him.

As Michael watched, she glanced around the foyer, searching for him. When their gazes connected, she gave him one of those slow, entrancing smiles that sent blood rushing straight to his groin.

Damn it all to hell. Why did she have to ruin everything by lying? They could have had such a good time together.
Incredible,
he amended, mindful of the throbbing ache between his legs.

But no matter how badly he wanted her, one thing Michael had never tolerated in women was deceitfulness. It was an automatic deal breaker for him. Always had been.

Always would be.

“I think she’s waiting for you,” Griffin told him.

“I know,” Michael murmured, holding the woman’s dark gaze. “I’m driving her home.”

He thought about calling her out on her lie and sending her packing. But then a better idea came to him. He’d play along with her just to see how far she was willing to go.

Then, when she least suspected it, he’d spring his trap.

By the time he was through with her tonight, the woman would think twice about pulling another stunt like this.

Reese’s stomach was a vicious tangle of nerves as she and Michael left downtown Atlanta and cruised onto the freeway in a sleek black Maybach. She stared out the passenger window, too preoccupied with her racing thoughts to register the passing scenery.

She couldn’t believe she’d asked Michael Wolf to drive her home.

It was the most impulsive thing she’d ever done in her life. Her sister, Raina, had always teased her about being the older, wiser, sensible sister—one who was never ruled by her hormones or emotions. But
that
Reese had been nowhere to be found tonight. In her place was a woman who’d seen something she wanted and had gone after it, consequences be damned.

Boyfriend be damned.

Reese bit her lip, suffering a sharp pang of guilt at the thought of Victor. They’d only been apart for two days, and already he’d been reduced to an afterthought. She definitely hadn’t been thinking about him when she’d invited Michael to keep her company over dinner. And she
definitely
hadn’t been thinking about Victor when she’d asked Michael to take her home, to which he’d responded in a voice like dark velvet, “Nothing would please me more.”

Reese shivered at the memory of that steamy, tantalizing exchange. She couldn’t believe she’d been so bold, so reckless.

“Where are you from?”

Michael’s deep voice snapped Reese out of her reverie. Startled, she turned from the window to stare blankly at him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “I asked where you’re from.”

“Oh.” She let out a breath. “Houston.”

Michael nodded. “Right.”

Reese thought she detected a hint of mockery in his expression. But, no, it must have been a trick of the passing streetlights.

“I’ve been thinking about expanding to Houston,” he told her.

“Really? That’d be wonderful!” Reese grinned, unable to contain her enthusiasm.

“I’ve been hoping you’d open a restaurant in my hometown. So have a lot of people I know.”

“That’s definitely good to hear. I can’t take credit for the idea, though. It was pitched to me by someone I met at a book signing.”

Reese nodded. “I’m no market analyst, but something tells me that Wolf’s Soul would do extremely well in Houston.”

“My marketing and research team seems to think so, too.” He slid her a lazy smile.

“Maybe you’d be the first to review the restaurant.”

Reese grinned. “I’d be honored.”

“I assure you, Miss St. James, the honor would be mine.”

Reese flushed with pleasure.
Am I dreaming?
she wondered, not for the first time that evening.
Is any of this really happening?

As Michael returned his attention to the road, she couldn’t help admiring his handsome profile. The strong bridge of his nose, the sculpted perfection of his square jaw, the curve of those full, masculine lips she wanted so badly to kiss and taste. Her gaze drifted lower, lingering on the strong column of his throat before continuing to the hands resting on the steering wheel. They were big, broad and long fingered, the nails clipped to the quick. Reese thought about the culinary masterpieces those talented hands had produced. She could only imagine the things they could do to a woman’s body. To
her
body.

At that moment Michael turned his head, meeting her gaze. Slowly he smiled, as if he’d read her mind. Her stomach fluttered.

“And to think that I almost went home after the fundraiser,” he said softly. “What a shame that would have been.”

“A travesty.” Reese smiled. “Of course, this wasn’t going to be my only visit to your restaurant. I planned to keep returning until I’d tasted everything on the menu.”

Michael chuckled. “Is that right?”

“Of course.” She grinned playfully. “Any food critic worth her salt knows that multiple visits to a restaurant are absolutely necessary in order to provide a fair, accurate review.”

“But of course.” Michael gave her a long, appraising look. “Do you enjoy what you do for a living?”

Reese’s grin faded at the reminder of the hospital, and Deidra Thomas. She turned away, staring out the window. “I do enjoy my job,” she said quietly. “I enjoy it very much.

But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about work.”

Michael said nothing.

She could feel his gaze on her, and could only speculate about what must be going through his mind. She hoped to God that she hadn’t offended him. Things had been going so well between them. She didn’t want to ruin the evening with depressing topics of conversation.

After a prolonged silence, Michael murmured, “You’re quite an intriguing woman, Miss St. James.”

Reese was about to tell him to call her by her first name when she got sidetracked by a giant image of him splashed across a billboard along the freeway. It was an advertisement for his TV show. In it Michael stood with his arms akimbo, a white chef’s hat slanted low over one eye and a wickedly sexy grin curving his mouth.
Who’s Afraid of
the Big Bad Wolf?
the bold caption declared.

“Very clever,” Reese said, laughing. “But what does the big bad wolf have to do with cooking?”

Michael chuckled. “They couldn’t resist the play on my last name.”

“Clearly.” She stared wonderingly at him. “Do you ever get used to it?”

“What?”

“Being famous. Seeing your face plastered everywhere—on TV, on billboards, on book and magazine covers.”

“It took some getting used to at first. But nowadays I don’t give it much thought.”

“Really?”

He glanced at her. “Fame can be fleeting. Here today, gone tomorrow. It always helps to keep things in perspective.”

Reese felt her admiration for him go up another notch.

Soon they exited off I-85 and headed into Buckhead, an affluent section of Atlanta renowned for beautiful mansions, upscale shopping and fine restaurants. Reese’s friend Layla lived in the historic Buckhead Forest neighborhood, an eclectic enclave of cottages, ranch houses and European stucco homes situated on wooded lots.