Kiss The Cook

Chapter 13

"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 insisted, 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 glass bowl he held and spreading another dab of chocolate icing on Melanie's 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 Chris 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 said, spreading 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 his heart squeezed tight in his chest. There it was again-that warm rush of love sweeping over him. It washed through him, nearly stealing his breath and 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 him, 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, how do you tell a woman something like that? Just blurt it out? Damned if I know. He'd never told a woman he loved her-except his mother and sisters, and they didn't count.

Do you just tell her? Open your mouth and let the words flop out? Yeah. Let 'em flop out. Simple was best.

But he had 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. Then he'd tell her that he loved her, she'd tell him the same thing, and that would be that.

A sobering thought burst through his reverie. 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. I'm not going to marry someone who doesn't love me. Since I'm going to marry her, she just has to love me. Period. That's the bottom line. End of discussion.

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

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

Marriage. He was thinking about 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. The thought of spending the rest of his life with one woman gave him hives.

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 bowl of frosting from him and set it on the nightstand. "You've eaten enough of that. You're obviously suffering from sugar-induced dementia."

A slow smile eased over his face. 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 love you madly, please don't make me go home."

In fact, Chris had asked her to stay, but Melanie had 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, who am I kidding? She already had the love-sickies so bad she was ready for the intensive care unit.

And boy, have I done it this time. Falling head-over-heels, ass-over-backwards in love. And with a confirmed bachelor, no less. That was certainly brilliant.

She looked out the window and cursed her stupidity at letting her hormones get 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 hopped 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 radio, while she was suffering. He'd 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.

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, 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 loss for words," he said, a sheepish smile tilting one corner of his mouth.

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 weekend of my life," he said in that soft, husky voice that sent chills up her spine.

Melanie nodded. She wanted to agree with him, but she couldn't speak. 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 I won't get back until late Friday night." He squeezed her hands. "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 grin touched his lips. "We still have some skinny-dipping to do."

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

"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 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 promised-"

"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, quite 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 dark blue eyes-eyes that somehow managed to be teasing and serious at the same time-and knew she couldn't refuse. Not when her hormones and every bone in her traitorous body had joined forces with her heart and ganged up on her. She didn't stand a chance.

Adopting what she prayed was a casual smile, she said, "You'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."

"Tennis lesson. Cooking match," she whispered back. Whew. What a relief. He didn't affect her concentration at all.

Not one little bit.

On Monday afternoon, Chris sat on a Chicago-bound jet and tried to focus on the spreadsheet illuminated on his laptop screen. But his mind refused to cooperate.

All he could think about was his early morning conversation with Glenn Waxman about the vacant store across from Pampered Palate, and how that conversation would ultimately affect Melanie's loan.

Glenn hadn't known about the proposed restaurant. Chris squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a groan. Well, he knows now, thanks to me. In fact, Glenn had been very grateful for the information, explaining that if the review had gone to the bank missing such pertinent facts, the firm would have looked foolish.

Chris had pointed out that since he'd merely overheard the conversation, there was always the chance the info was incorrect. Glenn had promised to verify the facts before adding them to the review.

It won't matter. She'll still get the loan.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, a sick ball of dread cramped his stomach and refused to budge. Glenn had said the review should be finished by the end of the week, which meant Melanie would hear from the bank by the middle of next week.

Since she'd only worry, he decided there was no point in telling her what he'd done until Glenn had verified the information and she knew the bank's decision. We're only talking about a few days. By remaining quiet, I'll save her from getting an ulcer. After she heard from the bank, he'd tell her. If the loan was approved, he had nothing to worry to about.

If it wasn't, he'd simply explain why he'd done what he had.

And pray he didn't lose her in the process.

When the doorbell rang at nine A.M. Saturday morning, Melanie inhaled a calming breath and forced herself to walk slowly down the stairs. She knew Chris stood on the other side of the door, and she didn't want to appear overly anxious.

Not that she was overly anxious to see him. Not a bit. After all, she'd just seen him five days ago. She huffed out a breath. Had it only been five days? It had felt like five years. Five long, dreary years in solitary confinement.

Get a grip, Melanie. Hadn't he called twice from Chicago? Yeah, but both calls had been brief, and they had left her aching for him. For his touch, his arms around her, his kiss-

Tossing in the towel, she ran down the last few steps and threw open the door.

Before she could even say hello, his arms were around her, his lips crushing hers, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. Every cell in her body melted and sighed, welcome home.

Nipping tiny kisses along her jaw, he said, "Boy, I'm sure glad it wasn't Nana who opened the door."

A breathless laugh escaped Melanie. "A kiss like that and poor Nana would pass out. I'm feeling a bit faint myself."

The sexy grin she loved eased over his face and her pulse jumped. "Faint, huh?" He dropped a kiss onto her nose. "That sounds very promising, but you'd better buck up 'cause we're playing tennis in forty-five minutes."

"Forty-five minutes! I thought we had a breakfast date. I'm starving." I want to stay here and kiss you. All day.

"Change of plans. We can grab a bagel and coffee on the way to the courts." His gaze roamed over her cherry red shorts and matching tank top. "You look great, but you might want to change into your tennis gear." He glanced at his watch. "Not to rush you, but you have about three minutes. We're playing another partner in my firm, Dave Webber, and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, whose name escapes me. Dave's beaten me the last three times we've played and he's pretty insufferable about it. I really want to wump him today."

Disgruntled, Melanie led him into the house. He leaned against the door and she stomped up the stairs, muttering under her breath.

Darn man. Who did he think he was, kissing her like that then calmly announcing tennis plans as if he hadn't just rocked her world? And how the heck was she supposed to "wump" anybody at tennis if she didn't eat breakfast first? Why should she-

"Melanie?"

She turned and gazed down at him, standing at the bottom of the stairs, his expression serious, looking more beautiful than any man had a right to. "Yes?"

"I missed you."

Her annoyance evaporated instantly. She'd missed him, too. Constantly. Of course, it wasn't necessary that he know that. Mimicking his earlier words, she said, "That sounds promising, but I need to buck up. There's a tennis match to play, you know."

It took Melanie all of two minutes to agree with Chris that Dave Webber was indeed insufferable about his previous victories on the tennis court. Dave's girlfriend, Jenni, sported an innocent smile and a killer forehand. Not good indications for a wumping.

The first set began with Dave, Melanie, then Jenni all holding serve. Chris's first serve landed in the net, as did his second one, resulting in a double fault. He switched court sides, and promptly double faulted away another point.

Melanie switched courts again and looked back at him from her position near the net. "You okay?"

He frowned and nodded. And promptly double faulted again.

Melanie walked back to the baseline. "What's wrong?" she asked in an undertone. "Are you nervous? You served beautifully in the warm-up."

"I'm not nervous," he said in a distinctly annoyed voice.

She raised her brows at his tone. "Then what's with you? You said you wanted to beat this guy, and I don't blame you. He's totally obnoxious. May I remind you that the idea is to hit the ball over the net? That expression 'nothing but net' is for basketball, not tennis."

"I know that."

"Could have fooled me. If you're not nervous, then what's wrong?"

"Your ass."

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Your ass. That damn short tennis skirt. Those long legs staring me right in the face. You look incredible. I can't concentrate. Every time I try to serve, I see you up at the net, half bent over, and I lose it."

"As much as I appreciate the compliment about my, er, ass, we have a whole match to play here. If you can pull yourself together, we can hand this guy the thrashing he deserves."

"Okay." He eyed her legs. "Would you consider slipping on a pair of sweatpants?"

"Have you lost your mind? It's ninety degrees out here!"

"Are we playing tennis or chatting?" Dave called from the other side of the net.

Chris shot him a glare. "We're strategizing. Give us a minute." He turned back to Melanie. "All right. No sweatpants. But I need some kind of incentive."

Melanie narrowed her eyes. "Like what?"

A wolfish grin curved his lips. "What do I get if I win?"

"What do you want?"

"You. Just you."

She tightened her grip on her tennis racket to keep it from slithering from her boneless fingers. Forcibly banishing all thoughts of that from her mind, she said, "Based on your game so far, I don't have much to worry about. Okay, you're on."

Walking back to her position at the net, Melanie prepared for Chris's next serve. Seconds later the ball zoomed by her ear with gale-force strength for an ace. He went on to serve another ace, then another, and then one more to even the score at deuce. She and Chris won the next two points to take the game.

Tossing her a wink, he said, "See? I just needed a little incentive."

They battled it out for another two hours, but finally Melanie and Chris won in three sets. The instant after everyone shook hands, Chris scooped up the tennis gear in one hand, grabbed Melanie's arm with the other, shouted good-bye, and literally dragged her off the courts.

"Whoa!" Melanie protested, jogging to keep up with him. "Where's the fire?"

He stopped abruptly and kissed her with an intensity that blew the bottoms off her Nikes. With his body pressed hard against hers, he asked, "Feel the fire?"

Oh, yeah. She felt it, all right. All the way down to her smoldering toes. Mutely, she nodded.

"Then let's go. 'Cause as much as I love you in that skimpy skirt, I can't wait to get you out of it."

Again Melanie simply nodded. Who the heck was she to argue with logic like that?

The fifteen-minute ride to his condo was an exercise in agony for Chris. God, he couldn't wait to get his hands on her. Touch her soft skin, feel her pressed against him. He'd missed her so damn much, he'd wanted to fall on her the moment he'd seen her, but he knew he couldn't or they'd never make it to the tennis courts. Now the match was over, and she was all his. Thank God.

But for how long?

Glenn had told him that an eatery called Spaghetti Loco was indeed scheduled to open across the street from the Pampered Palate. That information had been included in the review, and Chris suspected it would sway the bank's decision concerning Melanie's loan. Would he lose her if the bank turned her down?

No. Damn it, he wouldn't allow that to happen.

Needing to touch her, he held her hand the entire way home, and the instant the condo door closed behind them, he pulled her to him, kissing her with a heated desperation unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His hungry lips trailed a hot path down her neck while his restless hands slid up her thighs, under her skirt.

"I don't think we're going to make it to the bedroom," he whispered against her mouth. He slipped his fingers into the waistband of her tennis panties and slid them down over her hips.

"I don't think we're going to make it out of the foyer," Melanie agreed in a breathless voice, her fingers busily working on his shorts.

"How do you feel about the floor?" he asked, pulling her top from her skirt.

"Works for me."

"This floor is damn hard," Melanie moaned fifteen minutes later. "I feel a killer cramp coming on."

Chris, lying flat on his back next to her on the hardwood, grimaced in clear agreement. "Next time let's at least try and make it to the sofa, okay?"

"Agreed. At the very least you need a rug in here. I just want to know which one of us is going to get up and call the paramedics for the other one."

A chuckle rumbled from him. "Hey, we kicked some serious butt on the tennis courts. Thanks for helping me put Dave in his place. I'm going to rename you Martina Navratilova."

"Thank you, Jimmy Connors." Melanie raised herself on one elbow and gazed down at him. He looked happy and tired, but unless she was mistaken, and it appeared obvious she wasn't, he was well on his way toward full-blown arousal again. A half-laugh, half-groan escaped her. Looking pointedly at his groin, she asked, "Good grief, is that what I think it is?"

Lifting his head off the floor, Chris looked down at himself. "I'm afraid so." Moaning, he rolled to his feet then helped her up. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, he said, "C'mon, Martina. Let's wander into the bedroom and you can finish paying off your debt of honor. Then, in keeping with our getting-wet-on-every-date tradition, we'll take a shower. After that you can teach me how to cook. How does that sound?"

Melanie's heart squeezed. How did that sound? "It sounds like heaven."

They didn't get around to their cooking lesson until late Sunday afternoon.

Dressed in shorts and her favorite Kiss the Cook T-shirt, Melanie forced herself to concentrate on the lesson, but it was darn hard to do when her pupil kept nuzzling her neck.

"Behave yourself," she scolded in her best schoolmarm voice. "What kind of student are you?"

"I'm just following directions," Chris said. He brushed his fingertips over her breasts. "It clearly says right here to kiss the cook."

"If you don't knock it off, I'll have to take this shirt off."

"Great! Boy, this cooking sure is fun!"

Melanie grabbed a wooden spoon and held it poised like a sword. "Don't make me get rough with you."

He waggled his brows. "This gets better and better."

Planting her hands on her hips, she said, "Back off. Cooking is serious business. No fooling around until we're done."

"Then let's hurry up and get done 'cause fooling around sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than cooking. Carry on, fearless chef."

"That's better." She nodded toward the ingredients she'd lined up on Chris's kitchen counter. "If you only know how to make one thing," she said in a businesslike tone, "then this is the thing you should know how to make."

Chris looked at the assembled items. "What are we making?"

"I call it 'The Only Sauce You'll Ever Need.' You can use it for dozens of things, it's very simple to prepare, and you don't have to use exact amounts of any of the ingredients."

"Sounds good to me. The only things I know how to make are steak, potatoes, and martinis."

"Not anymore. The first thing you do is coarsely chop about a dozen plum tomatoes." She demonstrated, using deft strokes of a sharp knife.

"That looks easy."

"Then we're in good shape because that's the hardest part." She continued her lesson, adding chopped onions, minced garlic, olive oil, chopped fresh basil, and salt and pepper to the bowl of tomatoes. "That's it," she said, stirring the ingredients with a wooden spoon.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. It's so easy, it's almost laughable."

Chris peered into the bowl. "What do you do with it?"

For an answer, Melanie opened a bag of Mexican-style tostado chips. Dunking one into the sauce, she held it up to his lips.

He bit and chewed. "Hey, that's great."

She nodded. "It makes a fabulous salsa. At the Pampered Palate we call it 'Italian Salsa' because of the basil. If you slice and toast Italian bread and pour this sauce over it, you'll have a delicious bruschetta appetizer. For a main course, heat the sauce, toss it into a bowl of pasta and sprinkle on Parmesan cheese and you're all set. It's also great on salads instead of dressing, and it turns an ordinary omelette into a masterpiece."

"I can see why you call it 'The Only Sauce You'll Ever Need.'"

She handed him a recipe card with the Pampered Palate's logo printed in the corner. "I guarantee you'll impress whoever you make this for." The instant the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Stupid, stupid! How long before he stood in his kitchen, preparing her recipe while nuzzling some other woman's neck?

She wanted him to say something like "I'll never make this for anyone but you." Instead, he dipped another chip and said, "I'll be the most impressive guy in town. Thanks, Mel."

Clenching her hands, she fought the spurt of hot jealousy shooting through her. Get a grip, Melanie! Affairs end. Sooner or later, she and Chris would part ways. He'd move on to the next woman, continuing his bachelor lifestyle, while she… while she what?

Focused on her business? Yes. But while she easily envisioned Chris entertaining a different supermodel type every night, she couldn't imagine herself with any other man.

And that's when she knew that in order to save herself from a shattered heart, she needed to end this affair.

Just end it. A clean break. The longer this went on, the more impossible picking up the pieces would become. She did not want to be in love, and by damn, she was going to get herself out of love. Right now. Even if the effort killed her.

And she suspected it would do just that.