Too Darn Hot Page 5

“Unless you have two or three more guys waiting in your car—yeah, I’m talking about Mark.”

  She folded her arms over her chest and stared him down. “News flash, Eric. I’m not married to Mark.”

  He smirked. “So anything goes, is that it?” He started buttoning his shirt.

  Lina was speechless with outrage. Intellectually she knew the world was full of men who thought nothing of cheating on their wives, but this display of hypocrisy was not to be believed.

  He raised a hand, forestalling further discussion. Dismissing her. “Come for the cooking class if you want. But I warn you, Lina. At the first hint of shrewishness, you’re out on your butt. Don’t underestimate me. I will take great delight in personally making good on that threat.”

  And when the time comes, Mr. Reid, I will take great delight in personally informing you whose butt you just threatened.

  “Just to set the record straight,” she said, “Mark is not my date. Not in a, you know, girl-guy way.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s a friend. A married friend.”

  “You’d let that stop you?”

  “Yes. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  “Me?” He followed her gaze to his wedding band. When his eyes met hers once more, she detected something new there—a glimmer of comprehension. He ran a hand over his jaw. “I just assumed Joy told you about Ruth. It never occurred to me you didn’t know.”

  “Know what?” But something in his expression told her.

  “I’m a widower. My wife died eighteen months ago.”

  “Oh, Eric...I’m sorry. I’m...I just assumed.” Recalling her brusque response when he’d tried to ask her out that first night, she cringed inwardly.

  He was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “It would seem our assumptions got the best of us. What do you say we start over?”

  She couldn’t ignore the enticing implication, or the frank interest he radiated.

  More than anything, she wanted to respond to that interest. She wanted to say to hell with restraint and professional ethics, and lose herself to the seductive promise in those mocha-java eyes.

  She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to burn him off. She pushed her hair behind her ear.

  A little smile started at his mouth and lit his eyes. That man’s smile ought to be illegal. She knew he interpreted her silence as a green light. Meanwhile the little traffic cop inside her, the part of her that at any other time would have blown the whistle and put a halt to this doomed flirtation, had suddenly been struck mute.

  She took a deep breath and stuck out her hand. “Friends?”

  He wrapped his large hand around hers. “Friends.”

  Chapter Five

  Eric sensed her presence even as he kept his eyes on the photocopied recipes he was collating and stapling. Somehow he knew the instant Lina walked into the kitchen of the Cookhouse, where he was preparing for that evening’s class.

  “Hi, Eric.” At Joy’s buoyant greeting, he looked up. She was pulling a bottle of burgundy and two aprons from her enormous shoulder bag. She handed an apron to Lina.

  He nodded. “Hi, Joy. Lina.”

  Lina returned his greeting, with a quick little smile, before her eyes skipped away. Something about him made her skittish, and he had yet to figure it out. Still, skittishness was preferable to hot and cold running Lina.

  When he’d found out why she’d been running hot and cold, he’d felt like an idiot. She’d assumed, quite reasonably, that he was married. At least he’d gotten that straightened out.

  Daniel was readying utensils and cutting boards, and Adam was in the process of hauling eight pounds of chicken legs out of one of the enormous steel refrigerators lining a wall.

  “Are we the first ones?” Joy asked as she slipped a Paddington Bear bib apron over her head and tied it around her waist.

  “You are indeed.” He handed each of them a packet of recipes. When he let his fingers brush Lina’s, she flinched. He indicated the small half apron in her hand. “Quite a fashion statement.”

  She inspected the design on it—apparently for the first time. “This is all you could come up with, Joy? Smurfs?” She held the garment gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if she expected the whimsical blue figures with white hats to suddenly sprout fangs and snap off her fingers.

  “Hey, that thing’s a classic!” Joy protested.

  “Exactly when does junk cease to be junk and become a classic?”

  “I’ve had that apron forever,” Joy proudly announced. “It’s B.G.”

  At Eric’s inquisitive look, Lina translated. “Before Gary.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “The detested ex-husband.”

  Joy strolled around the center work island—composed of a butcher-block counter and two steel counters arranged in a U shape—checking out the ingredients Eric and the boys were setting out. Ten steel stools had been placed around the work island. “Lina, on the other hand, owns almost nothing that’s B.S.”

  Daniel and Adam snickered. Lina sighed, the soul of patience.

  “Is that true, Lina?” he asked. “No B.S.?”

  She said, “Anything that’s Before Steve would have to be...Good grief. Thirteen years old.”

  She drew the apron’s strings behind her waist, but before she could tie a bow, Eric commandeered the task. She tensed and jerked her hands away from his. She was wearing that same stirring scent he remembered from her first visit. He smiled, wondering if there was a perfume called Indignation.

  “How long have you been divorced?” he asked.

  She hesitated, clearly reluctant to open up to him. He wished he knew why.

  “Two years,” Joy supplied. “They met in college.”

  “Joy...” Lina’s sapphire eyes shot warning sparks.

  “Steve was her first—”

  “Joy! I don’t think Eric’s interested in my past, as scintillating as it is.”

  “Nonsense.” He grinned. “I love stories of despoiled innocence. So do the boys. Right, guys?” He winked at his sons. “Please continue, Joy.”

  “Whose despoiled innocence are we talking about?” a booming male voice demanded from the doorway.

  Joy said, “Hi, George. I was wondering if we’d see you tonight.”

  George Quinn was a jovial bear of a man, and one of the regulars at Eric’s cooking classes. After introductions had been made, George deposited a bottle of Mexican beer in a refrigerator and donned his own bib apron—an enormous green and white thing festooned with Leprechauns and an invitation to visit the Emerald Isle.

  Eric looked from George’s apron to Lina’s as he placed containers of spices on the butcher block. “Tonight anyone wearing pygmies gets to peel potatoes.”

  George slathered on a thick brogue and fondly patted his apron. “Potatoes! Well, the little people’ll not be mindin’ that one bit, begorra!”

  As Joy tied George’s apron for him, four more students entered. Lina introduced herself to Bill and Barb Harmon, a middle-aged black couple, and to Frank and Irene Duffy, whose matching freckles and orange hair made them look more like siblings than spouses.

  While the others flipped through the recipes and discussed them, Lina began a slow perusal of the kitchen. She paused at the bank of refrigerators, where some papers were mounted with magnets.

  She turned and smiled. “Who’s the Trekkie?” A poster of the Enterprise adorned the middle fridge.

  “Daniel.” Eric cocked his head toward the storage room, where the boy had gone in search of confectioner’s sugar.

  Without hesitation she crossed the kitchen and entered the storage room. Eric was near enough to hear snippets of conversation, and intrigued enough to feel no compunction about eavesdropping. She seemed to be speaking to his son as an equal, not patronizing him as most adults tended to do with kids. They were laughing. Eric strained to hear, and was able to make out references to James T. Kirk and Jean-Luc Picard. He smiled. Trek talk.

>   The two abruptly exited the storage room, nearly mowing him down. He answered the suspicious twinkle in Lina’s eye with a sheepish grin.

  “So you’re a Trekkie, too,” he ventured.

  “Have been my whole life. Daniel favors the New Generation, but I’m still hooked on the original three seasons. Call me an old fogy.”

  “Never.”

  She was dressed more casually than he’d ever seen her, in a light pink polo shirt and black jeans. The Smurfs cavorting below her waist added just the right touch of je ne sais quoi. He was glad they’d made up and he wouldn’t have to follow through on his threat to toss her out on her butt. It looked too darn good in those snug jeans. His gaze lowered to her feet, clad in black leather Keds.

  He placed a hand over his heart. “Quel dommage!”

  She grinned crookedly, obviously remembering his comment last Saturday about her sexy shoes. I think if I ever saw you in sneakers, I’d cry.

  “Am I in the right place?” a female voice called from the doorway.

  The speaker was a pretty young woman in her early to mid twenties, with long, honey blond hair and a perfect, petite figure. Her huge green eyes swept the room before lighting on Eric. She smiled.

  He extended his hand. “You are if you’re looking for the cooking class. I’m Eric Reid.”

  “Hi. Amy Dalton.” Her soft hand lightly squeezed his. “I guess you don’t remember, but we met a couple of weeks ago when I had dinner here.” She flipped her hair behind her shoulder and smiled again. He smiled back and watched her cheeks pinken.

  Hmmm...

  He handed Amy a pack of recipes and studied her, covertly, as he counted tomatoes. Six, seven, nice legs, eight...

  Lina and Joy found seats together, while Amy pounced on the stool nearest to Eric.

  “French bistro cuisine is really French home-style cooking,” Eric began. “The meal we’re making tonight is fairly heavy, more suited to fall or winter, perhaps, than late spring, but I think you’ll like it.”

  Lina was listening attentively, like a good little pupil. The Harmons and Duffys were already beginning to crack jokes, as usual.

  “Our appetizer is tapenade—page one in your recipes—which we’ll serve with toasted rounds of French bread. The main ingredient in this spread is oil-cured olives.” He tipped the bowl of glossy, wrinkled black olives to show the group. “One of you lucky people will get to pit these.”

  He noticed Lina’s dark eyebrows rise as she read the ingredients—in appreciation or distress, he couldn’t tell. He wondered if she liked capers and anchovies.

  He continued, “On the next page you’ll find soupe poireaux, pommes de terre, et lard fume.”

  Amy looked aghast. “Lard?”

  He translated. “Bacon. This is a thick, chunky soup with leeks, potatoes, and bacon.” He lifted a great hunk of slab bacon with the rind still on it, for all to see.

  He went on to explain how to carefully clean the sand out of the leeks. As he spoke, he lifted one and ran his fingers over the smooth green and white vegetable. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Lina watching intently. He remembered how he’d caught her staring at his hands that first night when he cut the pear....

  His train of thought vaporized.

  “What’s this?” Lina asked, lifting a celerylike vegetable from a huge bowl.

  “Fennel. Here, smell.” Wrapping his fingers around hers, he urged her to sniff the stalk. God help him, she could even make the act of smelling a vegetable look sensual.

  “Smells...like licorice.”

  “That’s right. We’re going to use it in our bouillabaisse de poulet.”

  “Sounds fancy,” Amy gushed.

  “Chicken stew,” he translated, and almost laughed at the way the young woman’s face fell. “Ah, but this is no ordinary chicken stew. The fennel and Pernod will lend a bit of anisette flavor. And the Pernod, tomatoes, and saffron will color the stew a nice yellowish-orange.

  “And for dessert—” with a sweep of his hand he indicated a dozen lemons on a cutting board “—lemon tart in sweet pastry.”

  Eric tried not to look at Lina as she shifted a little on the tottering stool, causing wondrous things to happen under that pink polo shirt. A persistent memory assailed him...

  ...of high, firm breasts rising and falling against his chest...of two taut nipples burning him through flimsy gold fabric...of a soft, full mouth yielding to his relentless invasion....

  “Eric?” Lina asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

  She crossed her legs and bounced in place, trying to get comfortable.

  Dear God.

  ...of an agile, slippery tongue dueling with his...of two flawlessly manicured hands reaching behind to grab his butt and pull him—

  “Will we get to do everything tonight?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?” His voice cracked.

  She took a deep breath. Don’t do that, he wanted to yell. He edged closer to the butcher block in front of him, wishing he were wearing an apron.

  “You know,” she said. “Will we get to participate in all the food preparation and cooking tonight?”

  He rolled up the sleeves of his white chef’s shirt and tried to steer his mind back to fennel and leeks and chicken stew. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  He glanced at the clock. Thirteen minutes down. Only two hours and forty-seven minutes to go.

  *

  He had made her peel potatoes. But it was worth it. Lina brought another spoonful of the rich, hot soup to her mouth.

  All the participants were now perched on those rickety steel stools, enjoying the fruit of their labors. Daniel and Adam leaned against the big double sink, soup bowls in hand. Eric was on the other side of the work island, dishing out stew onto plates and sprinkling paprika around the edges before handing them to Amy, his self-designated assistant.

  The pretty young woman had stuck to him like a barnacle the entire evening, and now stood at his side, serving the others. Lina’s eyes narrowed as she watched Amy toss back her long, blond hair and flash her dimples at the chef. Eric was chatting and joking with her, just eating up the adoration.

  They ate their lemon tart piping hot—not the best way to appreciate it, but they didn’t have time to let it cool. The ever-obliging Amy served the slices Eric cut. By this time she was practically rubbing herself against him, giggling and cooing and sharing little private jokes.

  And Eric! Looking so insufferably pleased with himself.

  If only Lina hadn’t been so uncomfortably conscious of him during the whole evening. She despised the way her breath had caught when Eric placed his large, warm hands on hers to show her how to slice the leeks...and when his deft fingers had joined hers to press pastry into the tart pan....

  Her heart had raced when she suddenly felt him at her back as she browned the chicken, his arms coming around her to shake the pan and adjust the flame. She’d resolutely stared down into the sizzling mass of chicken legs and tomatoes and onions and fennel...

  ...and absorbed his heat, and filled her lungs with the too fleeting scent of him.

  He’d stood behind her too long—and stepped away too soon.

  Lina looked back on the evening as a string of such disturbing little interactions. She felt like a coiled spring.

  After polishing off her dessert, she excused herself to visit the ladies’ room at the far end of the deserted gallery. As she made her way back to the kitchen, she passed the open door of Eric’s tiny, Spartan office and was surprised to see him standing over his desk, stapling papers.

  When she paused in the doorway, he said, “Amy wants an extra copy of the recipes for her mother.”

  She quelled a blistering response. That’s not all Amy wants. “Can’t say I blame her. Everything we made was terrific. I learned a lot tonight.”

  Those irrepressible crinkles fanned into the corners of his dark eyes. Lina’s fingertips itched to reach up and stroke them. She clasped her hands together.


  “I’m glad.” He appeared in no hurry to get back to the kitchen—and the adoring Amy. He sat on the edge of the beat-up steel desk and picked up a smooth green stone, about the size of an egg, that he used as a paperweight. She had to drag her gaze away from his long, sensual fingers as they rhythmically rolled and stroked the stone. “Can I assume you’ve reassessed your initial opinion of The Cookhouse?”

  She felt her face warm at the reminder of her outburst that first night. “You know I have. In fact, I’m returning Saturday. With my—with a friend of mine.”

  “Another married pal?”

  “This one happens to be female. I think Joy’s going to join us, too.”

  He tossed the stone up and caught it a couple of times, then rolled it between his palms, as if manipulating the smooth, heavy object could somehow facilitate his thought processes. Replacing it on the pile of papers, he pushed off from the desk and came toward her. She sucked in her breath, acutely aware of the tingle that raced down from her scalp to curl her toes.

  Eric didn’t touch her or kiss her or do any of the things she swore to herself she didn’t want him to do. He grabbed the doorframe and briefly leaned out into the gallery to ensure privacy. For the barest instant his large, hard body brushed hers, and the tingle rushed inward to the deepest, neediest parts of her. She swallowed hard and pressed back into the doorframe even as every instinct urged her to move forward, into his warmth.

  He asked, “Do you like baseball?”

  She knew she should lie. She didn’t. “Yes.”

  “My produce guy gave me two tickets to the Yankees game Sunday night, to make up for his part in that fiasco a couple of weeks ago.” He wagged his eyebrows, a gesture that was all Eric. “Box seats. Could I interest you?”

  Could he interest her? What she felt went way past interest.

  “I...I can’t.”

  He started to respond, and stopped. Something in his eyes told her her last opportunity had come and gone. After being struck down twice, he wasn’t going to ask her out again.

  A kind of panic set in. She blurted, “I’m busy Sunday, but...maybe some other time.”

  What was she doing?