Kiss The Cook

Chapter 9

They'd been on the road for a good fifteen minutes before Chris felt the death grip she had around his waist loosen a bit. The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon, bathing the sky with a palette of pinks and oranges. He cruised down the road, feeling the tension of the past several hectic weeks ease from his body and mind. There was nothing like a motorcycle ride to relax a person.

And there was nothing like a warm female body pressing against his back, hugging his waist, to remind him that not every part of his body was relaxed. He smiled, remembering the look of utter stupefaction on her face when she'd first seen his Harley.

"You okay back there?" he shouted.

He felt her helmet un-jam itself from between his shoulder blades and knew she'd lifted her head at last.

"Prop your chin on my shoulder," he urged loudly. "I promise you'll love it."

It took her a minute, but she finally settled her chin on his shoulder.

"I don't have to open my eyes, do I?" she yelled.

"If you don't, you'll miss the most beautiful sunset you've ever seen," he yelled back.

They drove on in silence, along a tree-lined, winding road that ran parallel to the Chattahoochee River. Chris smiled when he felt her rigid body slowly relax. By the time he parked in front of his condo, he suspected she'd changed her mind about motorcycles.

He turned off the ignition and looked behind him. "Well?"

She pulled off her helmet and shook her head, spreading a flurry of curls that settled like a halo around her face. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed pink.

"That was awesome," she said, laughing. "Incredible."

He grinned. "I hate to say I told you so…"

"Oh, go ahead and say it. You were right, I was wrong. You're a big macho motorcycle hunk and I was a wuss." She swung her leg around and slid off, then practically danced around the bike in her excitement. "What a feeling. Like flying. Like nothing I've ever done before."

"Glad you liked it."

"Yes, sir," she enthused, patting the Harley, "I've gotta get me one of these babies." She looked at him and asked in a dead-serious tone, "How do you think I'd look in one of those black leather biker-chick outfits?"

The thought of her dressed in black leather gave him palpitations and made his knees sweat. He removed his helmet and hung it by its strap on the handlebars. "Come here."

Her eyes narrowed and a knowing, provocative, totally sexy smile curved her lips. She sauntered over to him, hips swaying. It was all he could do to remember to breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

She stopped when she stood directly in front of him. Reaching out, she walked her fingers up the front of his shirt.

"You'd better not be thinking about trying anything funny, big boy," she whispered in a husky drawl that tightened his groin and raised his temperature ten degrees. "I'm a real badass, bitchin', Harley babe now."

"Oh, yeah?" he challenged. "Prove it."

"All right." She gracefully swung her leg over and straddled the leather seat, facing him. Then she looped her arms around his neck and wrapped her long legs around his waist. "How's this?"

Chris hoped his tongue wasn't hanging out. It took every ounce of his rapidly deteriorating concentration to keep his feet planted on the ground so the Harley didn't keel over.

She leaned forward and gently nipped the side of his neck with her teeth. "Am I doing okay?"

A shaky laugh escaped him. "Yeah. You're a real badass." His skin suddenly felt too tight, like it had shrunk a couple of sizes in the last two minutes. But there was no way he was going to bypass this opportunity.

Hauling her up even tighter against him, he said, "I hope you know CPR."

Her tongue flicked out and brushed his earlobe. His eyes glazed over.

"CPR?" she whispered. "Why's that?"

"Because I'm about to have a heart attack," he said, his voice a low growl. Fisting his hand in her hair, he dragged her mouth to meet his in a kiss that left him shaking.

He didn't know why this woman affected him the way she did, but he was apparently helpless to stop it. He hadn't wanted this, but this was the hand he'd been dealt, and by God he was going to play it.

No longer gentle, his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth, plundering the silky interior, claiming it as his own. She tasted like sugar and cinnamon and she smelled like flowers. His hands caressed her impatiently, kneading her back, then coming forward to cup the soft fullness of her breasts. He stroked his thumbs over her nipples and groaned when they peaked into hardened points.

God, he wanted her. So badly he couldn't think straight. So much he'd forgotten they were in the parking lot. Good thing it was nearly dark and no one was around. He was in no condition to make apologies to his neighbors or give explanations to an arresting officer. He had to get off this bike, out of this parking lot, and into the privacy of his condo before he exploded. He was so hard he didn't know if he'd ever be able to walk again.

"Chris," she murmured against his neck. "Chris, we have to stop… while we still can. Please. This isn't the time… or the place."

He heard her words through a steamy haze of passion. He lifted his head, breathing hard. Sweat dripped down his spine and his heart pounded so hard he wondered if he really was having a heart attack.

She stared at him, her brown eyes huge and dazed. Her hair was a mess thanks to a combination of the helmet and his plundering hands. Her lips were moist and swollen from his kisses. Reddish abrasions marked her cheeks and neck where his five o'clock stubble had rubbed her. The tip of her tongue peeked out as she wet her lips.

"My God," she whispered in a breathless tone. She eased herself away from him and slid off the bike on legs that were clearly unsteady. Chris made no move to stop her. Indeed, he decided it was best that she move away from him before he simply let nature take its course.

Drawing a deep breath, he gripped the handlebars and forced himself to calm down. Whatever had just possessed him, he was pleading temporary insanity. At the moment he wasn't sure if he wanted to drag her off and make love to her until they both passed out, or run away from her and whatever potent spell she'd cast on him as fast as his shaky legs could carry him.

Havoc. That's what this woman wreaked. Havoc. With his senses, his mind, his body. He'd only met her a week ago, and his life was turned upside down. A week ago he'd wanted nothing more than his bachelor freedom. Now he wanted Melanie. And nothing else.

She touched his arm. "You okay?" she asked in a small voice. "You're a million miles away."

He tried to smile and failed. He wanted to say he was fine, but that would have been an outright lie.

"To be perfectly honest," he said, plunging unsteady fingers through his hair, "I'm a bit shaken."

"I know what you mean." She wrapped her arms around herself. He knew she couldn't be cold. It had to be two hundred degrees outside. "I'm sorry about that, Chris. I guess I just got caught up in the moment." She raised questioning eyes to his. "How about you?"

"Caught up, yes. Sorry, no."

"I think it might be best if…" Her words trailed off and a frown formed between her brows. "Where are we?"

"My place." Forcing a calmness he was far from feeling, he locked the bike, set the kickstand, then swung his leg over the leather seat. "I hope you're hungry." At her blank stare he added, "I'm making dinner."

"You're cooking me dinner?"

He took her hand and pulled her toward his front door. "That a problem?"

He actually heard her gulp. He smiled, glad she wasn't calm while he was like Elvis-all shook up.

"No problem," she said. "I'm just surprised. What's on the menu?"

"Steak, potatoes, salad. And my famous martinis. Real bachelor-guy stuff."

"I thought bachelor-guy stuff was moldy bologna, stale potato chips, and beer."

"That was last night. Tonight, we feast." He unlocked his door and pushed it open with a flourish. "Welcome to my humble abode. I haven't had much time or inclination to decorate, but all the essentials are covered."

"Essentials?" she asked, craning her neck.

"Beer in the fridge; towels in the bathroom; gym equipment in the dining room; stereo, TV, VCR, recliner in the den." He led her into the den and indicated a tan leather sectional. "Make yourself at home. That's the most comfortable sofa on earth. I'm just going to get the steaks going. I'll be right back." Before heading into the kitchen, he flicked on the stereo. The smooth sounds of Eric Clapton played softly through the speakers.

Melanie took advantage of his absence to look around. The den was spacious, with one wall a series of sliding doors that led onto a roomy deck. Soft track lighting highlighted the gleaming hardwood floors, and a plush sea-foam green and cream Oriental rug lay in front of the marble fireplace.

She wandered past a huge whitewashed oak entertainment center chock full of complicated-looking stereo equipment and a TV. Built-in bookshelves flanked the fireplace, and Melanie perused his selection of books. Lots of accounting texts. The latest Grisham novel alongside a pictorial history of New Orleans. Several volumes concerning cars and motorcycles and, most surprising, a book of poetry.

She counted over a dozen framed photos of his family placed on the shelves. One photo in particular caught her attention. She picked it up and studied a teenage Chris standing next to a very handsome man who looked exactly like him. They grinned identical smiles into the camera.

"That's my dad," he said, entering the room. He set two drinks down on the glass coffee table. "It's my favorite picture. My mom took it just a week before he died."

Melanie turned to him, and her heart flipped over. He was gazing at the photo with such a sad look on his handsome face, she felt like crying. Not knowing what else to say she whispered, "I'm sorry."

His face cleared and a half smile touched his lips. "Yeah. Me, too. He was a great guy."

After setting the photo back on the shelf, he led her to the sofa. Once they were seated he handed her a drink.

She sniffed it and her eyes fogged up. "Yikes. What is this?"

"It's the best vodka martini you'll ever have."

Raising her brows, she repeated, "Martini?"

"I seem to recall you saying you wanted to have one before you died."

"This may come as a shock to you, but I'm not planning to kick the bucket anytime soon."

"No time like the present," he said, clinking the edge of his skinny, triangular-shaped glass to hers. "Try it."

Melanie took a tentative sip. The alcohol was icy cold and powerfully potent.

"Well?" he asked, watching her closely.

"I like it. Kinda tastes like freezing-cold lighter fluid."

He laughed. "You can no longer say you've never tried a martini." He leaned back and stretched out his Levis-clad legs. "I thought we'd start on the other stuff tomorrow."

"What other stuff?"

"Canoeing. Tennis. Cooking lessons. Baking." He shot her an exaggerated leer. "Skinny-dipping."

"Whoa," she said, alarmed by the chain reaction of chaos his words started in her stomach. Skinny-dipping meant Chris naked, and she'd already vowed not to say those two words in the same sentence. The mere thought of him naked made her toss back a hefty swig of her drink. "Those are lifetime goals. If I knock them all off in one weekend, what will I have to live for?"

He leaned forward and dropped a warm, teasing, heart-accelerating kiss on her lips. "I'm sure we can come up with something," he said against her mouth.

Before Melanie could jolt her vocal chords into replying, he stood and said, "The steaks need to be turned. Would you like to set the table?"

"Sure." She followed him into the kitchen, and raised her brows. This was definitely not the month-old-linguine-encrusted room she'd envisioned. Sparkling white cabinets contrasted with dark blue granite countertops. The white ceramic tile floor gleamed with a spotless shine. A large window overlooked the deck, where steam escaped from a gas grill.

"Very nice," Melanie remarked, turning around in a circle. "Very manly, not filled with girlie gew-gaws. And clean, too." She nodded her approval. "I like it."

"Thanks. Dishes are in the top-left cabinet. I'll get the steaks."

Ten minutes later Melanie sat across from him in the small breakfast room at a round, glass-topped table. When she eyed her steak with trepidation, he laughed. "You're not about to be poisoned," he promised. "Steak is the only thing I know how to cook, and after lots of practice, I'm good at it."

Thus assured, Melanie sampled a bite, then smiled. "This is very good."

"Coming from a gourmet cook, I'm flattered, but the note of surprise in your voice is a bit deflating."

"I'm not surprised. Well, maybe a little," she conceded. "I guess I had a stereotypical view of bachelors-can't cook, live in green fungus-filled squalor, spray Lysol on dirty clothes rather than do the laundry." She waved her fork around. "I must admit, I'm impressed."

"Wait 'til you taste dessert."

Melanie looked at him, at the twinkling gleam in his eyes, and almost choked on her salad. She wasn't sure what dessert was, but based on that devilish look in his eyes, she had a feeling it was going to scare her to death. And that she would love it. She gulped down the rest of her drink and held out her glass for another.

After dinner they sat on the deck, sharing a cushiony blue-and-white striped patio loveseat. Melanie leaned her head back and sipped her third martini. By the time she was halfway finished with it she realized that those suckers tasted pretty damn good-in fact, they were the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

Of course, they were kinda strong, a fact that came to her attention when Chris asked her a question. She turned her head to look at him and noticed her vision arrived several seconds later.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You okay?"

She fought a powerful urge to giggle. "Certainly."

Leaning over, he peered at her in the darkness. "Uh-oh. That third martini was probably not a good idea."

"Nonsense. I can hold my liquor as well as you."

"I've only had one."

She glared at him. "One?"

"I'm driving," he said in a mild tone.

"You know, that's one of the things I like about you," she said, slapping her palm against his thigh. "You're very responsible."

He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. "I'm glad to hear there are things about me you like, 'cause there's a whole lot I like about you."

The warm, inviting look in his eyes made her tingle all over. "Really?" she asked. "Like what?"

"Everything. Your smile, your laugh, your sense of humor. You're smart, beautiful, kind, funny, and you make the best cookies I've ever eaten." He traced his tongue down the center of her palm and she almost slithered bonelessly off the chair in response.

"Not to mention," he continued in a husky voice, "that you're incredibly sexy."

Wow, wow, holy cow. Melanie finished off her icy drink with a long, deep glug, hoping to cool the fire his words had lit. One more compliment like that and she was going to go up in a puff of smoke.

He squeezed her hand. "You said there were things you liked about me?"

She huffed out a breath. "Ohhhhhhh yeaaahhh. There's a whole big bunch of stuff I like about you."

He brushed his mouth across her palm. "I'm listening."

Melanie stared at him, her head swimming. Jeez, it was hot. Didn't he have air-conditioning? Oh, they were outside.

"I uh, like your smile," she said. "The way you treat your family. The way you treat Nana." He flicked out his tongue against her wrist and a legion of goose bumps chilled her flesh. "The way you treat me," she finished with a sigh.

He drew her index finger into the warm silk of his mouth and Melanie almost swooned. "I, umm, I like that, too." She rested her head on the cushion. "Whew! Is it hot out here, or is it just me?"

He took her empty glass and set it on the deck, then leaned forward until his lips touched her ear. "It's definitely not just you," he whispered. "Let's go inside."

Standing, he held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

A giggle erupted from her. "Holy smokes. Who's moving the floor?"

Chris wrapped a strong arm around her waist and led her through the sliding glass doors. Just as they entered the kitchen, Melanie stumbled. She clung to his shoulders and said, "Whoopsie-doo! Hey, I left something outside."

"What's that?"

"My knees." Holding on to him, she shook one leg, then the other. "My knees are gone." She touched her face. "My eyebrows, too."

"Oh, boy. That third martini was definitely a mistake."

"Nonsense. I feel swell. In a numb, tingly sort of way. I'm not sure about the numb, but the tingly is definitely all your fault."

Feeling wonderfully free and uninhibited, and unable to remember why she shouldn't, Melanie stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck. "Yum. You smell good." She pressed herself against him, running a series of tiny kisses up his jaw. "Would you, by any chance, be dessert?"

A choking sound came from his throat. "Melanie…"

She gently bit his earlobe. "Hmmmm?"

"Let's get you in the car. I think I'd better take you home."

Home? No, she didn't want to go home. She wanted to stay right here. Where they could get comfortable and he could put out the fire he'd started inside her.

But if he wanted to go to her place, that was okay. Nana would be out all night with Bernie.

Too languid to argue, Melanie gathered her purse and let Chris lead her to the Mercedes. She spent the fifteen-minute drive to her house in a hazy daydream, imagining making love to Chris.

She wanted him. There was no point in denying it any longer. It had been so long since she'd wanted a man… since a man had wanted her. She'd fought this attraction, but she was ready to admit defeat.

Without warning, an idea popped into her mind with such clarity, she imagined a lightbulb bursting to life above her head. Since she didn't want a relationship, she'd just use him for sex!

Her heart could stay in another room altogether. What a perfect plan! Why hadn't she thought of that in the first place? He wasn't interested in a long-term relationship, so as long as she remembered the rules-no strings, no commitments, no emotional attachments-she wouldn't risk a broken heart. They'd just enjoy hot, feverish sex. Am I a genius or what?

When he pulled up in front of her house, he said, "C'mon, princess. We're home." He walked her to the porch, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist. By the time they stood in front of the door, Melanie's heart was pounding. If he didn't kiss her in the next ten seconds, she was going to jump him.

"Do you have your key?" he asked in an amused tone.

"Key? Of course I have my key." She stared at him, waiting for him to kiss her. A good minute went by. Nothing.

A smile quirked his lips. "Do you need help finding it?"

"Finding what?"

"Your key."

"Shertainly not." Melanie dug around in her purse and came up with the key. "Ta-da!"

Chris took it and opened the door. The moment they stepped into the darkened foyer, Melanie turned, pushed the door closed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Are you going to kiss me, or what?"

A strangled sound passed his lips. "I'm going home. Now. While I still can."

Melanie slowly pulled his Polo shirt from his jeans. "I don't want you to leave," she whispered. "I want to touch you. I want your hands on me." She pushed her hands under his shirt and ran her palms up his smooth back. "I want to make love with you."

Groaning, he tunneled his fingers through her hair and looked into her eyes. "Melanie. Jeez. You're killing me." He dropped his head until their foreheads touched. "This is so ironic. You've finally said the words I've wanted to hear, and you probably won't remember saying them in the morning."

Melanie leaned back and glared at him. "Are you insinuating that I'm tipsy?"

"Does the expression 'three sheets to the wind' mean anything to you?"

"I am not three sheets to the wind."

"You're right. You're four sheets to the wind. Completely snookered."

Insulted, she drew herself up. "I've never been snookered in my life." A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. "Snockered, maybe. Snookered never."

"Oh, yeah? How are your knees?"

She concentrated for a moment. "Missing in action."

"Eyebrows?"

"Gone." She hiccuped. "But not forgotten."

He sighed and cupped her face between his hands. "Listen to me, Melanie. When we make love, I want you to remember every single second. I want you completely aware every time I touch you. Everywhere I touch you. As much as I'm literally aching to stay here and take you up on your offer, I can't. Tonight is not the night."

Melanie stared at him-both of him-and frowned. "In other words, you're leaving."

"Yeah. But I'll be back."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. Wait, better make it eleven. You're going to need the extra hour's sleep."

"What are we doing tomorrow?"

He kissed the tip of her nose and opened the door. "Canoeing. Better rest up. And you might want to take a couple of aspirin."

"Canoeing? Aspirin? What do you mean?"

"Canoeing because it's on the things-to-do-before-you-die list, and aspirin for your headache. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow." He left, closing the door behind him.

Melanie started for the stairs, lurching a bit. Damn it, how was a person supposed to walk when the floor kept shifting? She huffed out a breath and held on to the banister.

Canoeing? She didn't want to go canoeing. Didn't know the first thing about it. And what was that about aspirin? What headache?

By the time she'd staggered into her bedroom and undressed, her temples were pounding like the hammers of hell.

Oh. That headache.