Too Darn Hot (5 page)

She’d made her feelings excruciatingly clear about both him and his restaurant, yet here she was. The Ice Goddess returneth. Again and again.

What kind of game was she playing?

He began moving among the diners, greeting them in turn. When he stopped at Lina’s table, he introduced himself to her date.

With a genial smile, the man offered his hand. “Mark Thayer. I was just telling Lina I’m tempted to desert Jersey and move to Long Island. This place is a wonder. I won’t rest until I’ve managed to duplicate your chicken breast with apricot, mango, and red onion sauce.”

Eric didn’t want to like this boyfriend of Lina’s with the firm handshake and the genial smile, but he couldn’t help himself. “You like to cook, Mark?”

“Sure. Almost as much as I like to eat.”

“Well, if you’re free some Wednesday or Thursday night, come back for a cooking class. We’re just a hop, skip, and an hour and a half from Jersey.”

“I might just do that.”

Mark resumed his seat, and Eric directed his attention to Lina, who’d listened to their exchange with a polite smile.

He said, “So. Lina. No wine tonight?”

The smile turned into a teasing grin. She tapped the menu. “I was going to order the sparkling apple cider, but I was afraid it might not have breathed for a full thirty minutes.”

“Ye of little faith! Here at The Cookhouse, we accord every vintage the utmost respect.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Be it ever so humble.”

Mark looked from one to the other, obviously waiting to be let in on the private joke. Eric thought it might be fun to fill the guy in on his competition.
You see, Mark, last week she was with this rude, leering fellow who couldn’t even wait until he got outside to begin pawing her.

He wondered whose place they’d ended up at—Lina’s or Bob’s—and how far she’d let him go.

After she’d turned Eric down.

“Well, duty calls.” He started to leave but turned back to ask her, “You like chocolate?”

“My favorite major food group.”

“Give the chocolate hazelnut tart a try. I guarantee satisfaction.”

Sapphire lights danced in her eyes. Her full, lush mouth stretched into a warm smile. “How can I resist?”

He took too long to break eye contact. Sensing Mark’s curious stare, he nodded politely and headed for the kitchen.

Lina watched until the door closed on the chef’s broad back. She realized Mark was staring at her, a small smile lighting his amber eyes.

“What?”

He leaned forward. “What’s the story with the chef?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She began picking at the last of her filet of beef tenderloin with mustard horseradish sauce.

“Come on, Lina. There was this—thing zinging around between the two of you. I could practically smell it!”

She tried for an air of cool detachment. “A thing zinging around? Could you be more specific?”

“Try boy likes girl, girl likes boy.”

She looked him in the eye. “That boy is married.”

“Ah.”

“Which didn’t stop him from trying.” She viciously stabbed the last bite of steak and popped it into her mouth.

“The devil.”

Mark knew her too well. He and his wife, Dee, were old pals from her college days. There wasn’t much that got past either of them. “And you know me,” she said. “Mixing business with pleasure is strictly
verboten,
anyway.”

During her “date” with Bob last Saturday, Lina had been astonished at the superlative food and service. First had come a small, complimentary appetizer—chopped smoked salmon mixed with dill and other seasonings, tucked into an endive leaf. Delicious. Then an exceptional salad—a mixture of impeccably fresh arugula, radicchio, and romaine with mandarin orange sections and a heavenly dressing made with raspberry vinegar and poppy seeds.

For appetizers they chose the smoked turkey quesadilla, and scallops in Oriental black bean sauce. Their entrées were boneless breast of chicken with a pecan and Granny Smith apple stuffing, and roast filet of salmon Dijonaise. For dessert: a dense, dark, and divine concoction called “chocolate wedge,” and the sautéed red pears and cherries on puff pastry she’d watched Eric prepare the week before.

Quite simply, each dish was incredible. Bob avidly wolfed down everything in front of him. Lina had to move fast to sample the items he’d ordered. Earlier she’d explained to him that his main function as her dining companion was to provide as many dishes as possible for her to taste, a role that seemed to slip his mind as soon as the food arrived.

Sure enough, after precisely thirty minutes, Cookie brought out Bob’s bad wine. Lina managed to choke down a few sips. Though she kept an eye out during their meal, to her disappointment she saw Eric only once more, as they were leaving. He politely bade them farewell while she attempted to nonchalantly dislodge the proprietary arm Bob had draped around her shoulders.

She’d wasted little time in dumping Lothario at the door of his Upper West Side apartment. Thank heavens she’d taken her own car.

So. Her plans to give The Cookhouse “just one more chance” for the sake of equity had backfired. The superior quality of the place left her little choice but to follow her usual routine. This consisted of visiting the restaurant several times, enough to sample two to three dozen dishes, before deciding whether to include it in her column. Each month Lina reviewed three New York-area restaurants.

As for The Cookhouse, part of her was thrilled to discover what appeared to be a culinary gem in this out-of-the-way location. Joy was vindicated! But another part of her dreaded having to deal with Eric week after week. She despised the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about Eric even though rationally she knew he was just another married man on the make.

But more than that, he was the owner of a restaurant she was evaluating—an even more compelling reason to shake off her adolescent fixation on the big, sexy chef with the big, sexy hands and the bottomless eyes and the postorgasmic voice.

She shivered and took a sip of mineral water, trying to leash her renegade imagination. “My editor’s really intrigued by the whole concept of this place. She wants me to cover the cooking classes as well as the restaurant in my review. If I do a review.”

“You’re still not sure?”

She shrugged. “I’ve got to visit at least one more time before I decide.” She was determined to apply the same objective criteria she did with any restaurant.

“But so far...?”

“So far it looks good.”

The waitress interrupted. “Have you decided on dessert?”

“I’ll have the chocolate hazelnut tart,” Lina said.

“Good choice. And you, sir?”

“You decide for me, Lina.”

This was why she liked bringing Mark along when she evaluated restaurants. He enjoyed himself, but never forgot the purpose of their visit, always deferring to her.

“How does the coffee mousse sound?” she asked.

“Perfect.”

When they were alone once more, Lina said, “Eric’s teaching a class on French bistro cooking this Thursday at seven, but there’s a ten-person limit. I’d better make sure they have room.” She rose and sent him a warning grin. “Save me some mousse.”

*

The mournful lowing of a distant foghorn greeted Lina as she stepped outside into the mild night. It was late May, and at least fifteen degrees warmer than the last time she’d found herself behind The Cookhouse, two weeks earlier. A blanket of mist hung heavily in the air.

Her search for Cookie had proved fruitless, and reluctantly she’d looked for Eric. He wasn’t in any of the dining rooms or the kitchen, so she’d obeyed her intuition, which led her out the supply room and through the back door.

Peering into the fog, she was on the verge of cursing her intuition when a movement half a block away caught her eye. She made out a long figure leaning against the chain-link fence bordering the public park across the street.

It could have been anyone lounging in the murky shadows, but she knew in her gut it wasn’t just anyone. She chose not to dwell on why her heartbeat sped up fractionally when she recognized the chef’s whites and faded jeans.

She approached him slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom while she watched this intriguing man who’d been too much in her thoughts the last two weeks. He’d brought a bottle of water outside with him, and now upended it to drink. Her eyes were riveted to his throat as it undulated with his swallows.

That was when she noticed he’d unbuttoned his shirt. It lay completely open, exposing a muscular chest with a mat of reddish brown hair. When he lowered the bottle, his dark eyes lit on her immediately. She paused in the middle of the street a few yards away.

“If you’re going to sneak up on people, you should wear quieter shoes.” His gaze dropped to her high-heeled black and white patent pumps, and those sexy crinkles appeared near his eyes. “On second thought, disregard that. I think if I ever saw you in sneakers, I’d cry.”

A tingling warmth invaded her, inch by inch, as his dark gaze traveled slowly back up to her face. She shivered. His expression revealed only a polite regard, so why did she feel so thoroughly scrutinized?

And it was downright balmy outside tonight, so why did she feel her nipples pucker under the gold knit fabric of her halter top? She tucked her hair behind her ear, grateful they were nowhere near the block’s lone streetlamp.

He took another long swig and held the bottle out to her, still leaning negligently against the fence. She crossed the last few yards and accepted the bottle, raising it to her lips. The water was cold, but the plastic retained the warmth of his mouth, and—was it her imagination?—the taste of him.

He watched her as she drank. When she lowered the bottle, his eyes lingered on her mouth, where a droplet remained. She licked it off and handed the bottle back. “Thanks.”

Suddenly she remembered why she’d looked for him. “I want to take the class Thursday. I hope it’s not full yet.”

He stared at her a moment, his face maddeningly impassive. He raised the bottle one last time to drain it, then capped it and set it on the sidewalk.

She endured a few more moments of silence before giving in to her irritation. “So? Is there room in the class or not?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you behave.”

Her mouth dropped open. “On whether I
what
?”

“You heard me. You have a mood-swing problem, and I don’t like it. Sweet as pie one minute, bitch on wheels the next.” Though his words were blunt, his tone was calm, almost bored. “Your boyfriends might eat up that schitzy nonsense, but I’ve had all I care to take. I don’t put up with that from my staff, I don’t put up with it from my kids, and I sure as hell don’t have to put up with it from you.”

“Why, you arrogant—!”

He could stuff his class. She turned to execute a dramatic exit, but two large, strong hands caught her and spun her back toward the fence. The shock of cold chain link against the warm skin of her half-bare back stole her breath.

Lina found herself imprisoned between two powerful arms as Eric braced himself against the fence. She glared up into smiling coffee-colored eyes.

“I’m not finished.” He sounded more maddeningly sedate than ever. “When you come back Thursday, I expect to see only one Lina: the Good Lina of the North. The Wicked Lina of the West can stay home and channel-surf.” He brushed back a strand of her hair that had fallen over her forehead. His fingers smelled like basil. “If you can handle that, we have a deal.”

“The Good Witch of the North was a dweeb,” she muttered. “Dorothy would’ve been better off with a subscription to Cosmo and a Jag with a full tank of gas.”

He grinned, his teeth glowing like a beacon in the dark. “I always thought the Good Witch was a babe.”

His smile threatened to disarm her ire. She turned her face away and watched the heavy gold wedding band wink as his long fingers curled around the wire fencing. His elbows flexed as he pulled himself closer, until less than an inch separated them. His large body was taut and controlled, his breath warm in her hair, his heat threatening to sear her.

Torn between her unappeased anger and her body’s unwelcome response to his nearness, she stood immobile, her hands at her sides, clutching the fence for support. She wished she had a broomstick to shake at him.
I’m me-e-e-e-l-t-i-i-i-ing!

A restless hunger coiled deep within her belly, like an untamed beast pawing its cage. Her breathing quickened, and as her breasts brushed Eric’s bare chest, she felt the sensitive peaks tighten even more...

...and knew Eric felt them, too, nudging him through her clingy top. He became utterly still for a moment, a long moment during which nothing existed except the hammering of his heart against hers...the rasp of his breath...the heady scent of him.

His honey-and-smoke voice vibrated on her scalp. “Maybe the rules didn’t change that much after all.”

As she struggled to make sense of this enigmatic statement, he cradled her head in one large palm and lowered his. His mouth on hers was warm and firm and devastating to her resistance. The satin caress of his lips, the taste of him, overwhelmed her senses. His other hand slipped behind her waist to press her to him. If he hadn’t been holding her up, her legs alone wouldn’t have supported her.

He nibbled her closed mouth, sucked gently on her lips, coaxing them to open. The silky tip of his tongue teased her, seeking admittance, but still she resisted. Lina sensed instinctively that if she gave him this, she’d be lost. With sensual deliberation Eric intensified his siege, threading his fingers into her hair, whispering her name again and again, his breath hot and sweet against her mouth.

With a little moan of surrender she parted her lips ever so slightly and felt his tongue slide in, breaching the barrier, victorious at last. His sweet possession of her mouth was her undoing. All sense of judgment and propriety took wing on the warm, briny breeze as her fervor matched his own, her tongue dancing with his, her palms sliding up his chest.

She slid her fingers through the wiry hair. He felt hot and solid and powerful under her hands. His heart thumped as his chest rose and fell faster, the muscles expanding with each breath.