Take Me Tender

by Christie Ridgway

  To wring his neck, if her expression was anything to go by. But she gave him a tight little smile, not a slice of teeth showing. “I want to talk to you about the private chef position. Remember, you called me yesterday? I’m Nikki.”

  “Oh.” He let his gaze run down Leggy with Braids. Nikki. Nikki of the cute freckles, the slim body, that pretty, earth-and-sunlight-colored hair. “Sorry, you won’t do.”

  Without a whiff of remorse, he shut the door again.

  Again, it bounced off a rubber toe.

  Jay sighed. This was what was wrong with them. Women. They were tenacious and stubborn in the most troublesome ways. You tried to let them down easy, but they would never take the hint. Why couldn’t they appreciate fun and games? Why couldn’t they accept when the fun and games were over? But no, they’d always come back—

  “Mr. Buchanan,” her low-pitched voice was forced to find its way through the narrow crack in the door, yet still he could hear it over the rumble of the traffic on the highway and the surf’s crash-and-shush at his back. The goose made another march down his spine. “You called me. Remember?”

  Right. There was that. With a sigh, he pulled back on the knob to gaze on her again, girly as all get-out. “Look,” he said, “it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I’ve sworn off women.”

  His last chef had worked out great. Sandy was businesslike, quiet, and a lesbian to boot. When she’d recommended her friend Nikki, Jay had assumed—which reminded him of one of his grandfather’s favorite old saws, “Assume makes an ass out of u and me”—that she’d be of the same sexual persuasion.

  But after studying the woman on his doorstep…well, to put it bluntly, this leggy darling was no dyke.

  “Mr. Buchanan—”

  He held up his hand, once again wishing like hell he’d had a cup of coffee waiting for him when he rose, which was just another reason to regret this pretty chef person wasn’t an ardent fan of The L Word. “I’ve got enough trouble right now, okay? Believe me, I’ve sworn off women.”

  Those eyebrows slammed over her nose again. “Then we’re even, because I don’t like men.”

  Jay stared in surprise. Could it be? Could his lack of caffeine have impaired his usually impeccable, spot-on radar? “You…” He shook his head, because now he noticed something even more remarkable about her. Pretty chef person, Leggy with Braids, Nikki-who-said-she didn’t-like-men had the most amazing eyes. One was blue, and one was green. Like a mermaid, like a witch, like a…?

  Could it really be? He frowned. “You don’t like men?”

  She took a breath.

  He leaned forward so as not to miss her answer.

  Another female’s voice found him first. From the vicinity of his back door floated a light, sugary voice that he was painfully familiar with. “Jay? Jay, darling. I can’t go another minute without seeing you.”

  Tension tightened a strangling hand around his neck. He closed his eyes, opened them, and was distracted for a second from the sticky problem coming up behind him by Nikki’s pretty, pretty face and those witchy, witchy eyes.

  Hmm. Was she or wasn’t she?

  “Jay?”

  Uh-oh. The sticky problem was getting closer.

  “Jay, honey, where are you?”

  Nikki’s bi-colored eyes were big and full of questions.

  Jay had one of his own, of course. Did she really dislike men or didn’t she? But there wasn’t time to speculate, not with the minty breath of his worst double-X chromosome mistake bearing down on him.

  And then, bam, it hit him. Call it an impulse, call it a brilliant idea, call it both. He kicked aside the unsettling warning that not all his impulses or even his brilliant ideas had panned out to be oh-so-successful.

  Like Mom said, Jay was a hoper.

  And now he hoped to kill two birds with one stone. A single, simple move—and oh, how he liked things simple—could clear up one little question as well as one big problem.

  As high heels clacked on the tile behind him, he grabbed Nikki-who-might-not-like-men, yanked her across the threshold, then pulled her close for a kiss.

  Two

  Life is a series of commas, not periods.

  —MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY, ACTOR

  Jerk, was Nikki’s first thought.

  Jerk away, was her second.

  Her third thought fizzled as Jay Buchanan’s hands tightened on her upper arms and his mouth softened against hers. He smelled good, the scent of sun-dried cotton sheets was wafting off the warm skin of his bare chest. He tasted faintly of toothpaste.

  Not that he poked his tongue into her mouth. No, he seemed content with a thorough lips-to-lips kind of kiss, one that belonged in the last row of a movie theater or in the spotlight on the prom dance floor. It was the kind of kiss she’d fantasized about at fifteen and had—biggest blunder of her life—gone looking for in all the wrong places with all the wrong boys.

  Then it was over, and he was half smiling at her, bemusement—or was it amusement?—in his gray-blue eyes. He shook his head, causing straight, dark blond hair to fall over his brow. “Hellooo.” The one word carried with it surprise, laughter, and a nearly lethal dose of charisma.

  Sandy’s words rushed back. “I’ve seen him charming water from the devil at the same time he was slipping the panties off an angel.”

  Nikki slammed her mouth into her fiercest frown. Lord knew she was no angel, but he had to be the devil. A blue-eyed, blond-haired devil. Kissing wasn’t any way to conduct an employment interview. And what was with that soft “Hello”? That was all he had to say for himself? She should raise her knee and return a greeting directly to his family jewels.

  And she would, she promised herself, if his job wasn’t so perfect for her and how she found herself at the moment—broke, broken, and just a little bit desperate.

  His smile grew wider, as if he read her mind and was appreciating his narrow escape.

  Which made her want to knee him all over again. But the restaurant business was notoriously male-centric and she’d held her professional own with men who’d chosen all sorts of ways to test her.

  So the kiss didn’t matter. What mattered was getting the job so she could pay this month’s bills. Straightening her spine, she stared him down and remembered her father’s advice. Don’t let anyone think you’re weak.

  His expression changed. A trace of concern cooled the laughter dancing in his eyes. “Hey, now…”

  “Jay?”

  They both started, but he recovered first, and in a smooth move turned toward the female voice even as he slid his hand around Nikki’s waist. Without his wide shoulders blocking the way, she saw another woman standing a few feet off, poised as if she didn’t know whether to run or cry.

  The easy expression spreading over Jay’s face was belied by the steely tension in the arm circling Nikki’s back. “Shanna. What’s up, sweetheart?”

  His “sweetheart” pasted on an awkward-looking smile. She was older than Nikki, thirty-something, but had the kind of Hollywood curves—large breasts and sleek thighs—that shouted plastic surgery and private Pilates sessions. Her manicured nails flicked the ends of her bleached platinum and iron-straightened hair as her glossy lips curved in another embarrassed smile.

  “I’m, uh, okay,” she said, her gaze flicking to Nikki. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

  Oh. Embarrassment explained. This beautiful woman thought she’d interrupted an intimate moment.

  Nikki started to edge away from Jay. “No—”

  “Problem,” he finished for her, his lean fingers pulling her close again even as they gave a warning dig to her waist. “We were just saying good-bye.”

  Nikki swung her head toward him. “Good-bye?” No. No way. She’d come for an interview. She’d stayed up late and ignored her screeching knee to bake Mr. Uninvited Kiss some cookies. Her best cookies, just like he’d asked. So he wasn’t going to scare her off, kiss or no kiss. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The other woman shuf
fled one step back, swallowing hard. “I-I didn’t realize you’d had an overnight guest, Jay.”

  Nikki shook her head. She was no overnight guest. “I—”

  Mr. Kiss stepped over her words again. “Please, let me perform the introductions. This is Shanna Ryan. And Shanna, this bewitching woman is, um, N…uh, N…” His shoulder gave hers a subtle nudge.

  Oh, geez. Apparently his memory wasn’t as good as his make-out technique. “Nikki.” With a polite smile, she nodded at the other woman. “I’m Nikki Carmichael.”

  “I’m happy to meet you,” Shanna murmured, looking anything but happy.

  “Shanna’s my neighbor,” Jay added. “She’s been my neighbor for…God, who knows how long? Since we were kids.”

  “Yes. His neighbor,” the other woman repeated. She cut her gaze to Nikki again. “And you’re his…?”

  “Chef,” Nikki piped up, before Buchanan could say any different.

  Shanna brightened. “Oh—”

  “Private chef,” Jay interjected. He cuddled Nikki closer and his mouth brushed the top of her head. “You know. My chef with benefits.”

  Nikki turned to stare at him again. Oh, good God. Now she got it. Finally.

  The kissing, the arm that still had her tucked against his warm, great-smelling chest, the now-decidedly bereft look on Shanna’s face. Jay was using Nikki to announce himself as—temporarily at least—unavailable.

  Though she doubted a man like him would ever want to declare himself “taken,” at this moment it was quite clear he was giving his neighbor, Shanna, the big back-off, and using Nikki to do it. It completely explained his come-on at the front door. His kissing her had been for his convenience, not for any authentic interest in finding out what it might be like.

  She decided not to think about why the idea made her even more pissed off.

  Instead, she considered what she was going to do about the situation, even as she sketched a wave at the disappointed Shanna, who was retreating while mumbling an excuse about something in the oven.

  As if a woman who looked like that baked, let alone ate.

  Jay switched his hold from Nikki’s waist to one hand, and pulled her in the wake of his disappearing neighbor. They ended up in a living room filled with sunlight, thanks to expansive windows and the ocean-facing wall that was floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors leading to a narrow deck, forty-feet of sandy beach, and then the dark blue ocean.

  Dazzled by the incredible view, Nikki barely took in that he was watching Shanna as she disappeared around the corner of his house. When she was gone from sight, he dropped Nikki’s hand and rounded on her, his arms folding over his tanned chest. She took in the fact that he was muscled in all the right places and lean and tight everywhere else.

  Sandy was right. With those golden, beach body looks, he was born under a lucky star.

  At the moment he didn’t look like he felt lucky, though. “What do you have to say for yourself now?” he demanded.

  She blinked. The laughing guy who’d kissed her was gone. His expression held only unmistakable annoyance.

  “What?”

  “Don’t go blaming me,” he said. “Yeah, I slept with her. Once. And yeah, it was a big mistake because she can’t seem to let go and I hate that I’m hurting a woman I’ve known my entire life.”

  His hand lifted and he aimed a forefinger straight at her nose. “But this is all on you. It’s your own damn fault that you’ve just signed up to be my lover.”

  While people might equate day-to-day cooking with women, cuisine was the provenance of men. Creative, cantankerous, oftentimes crazy men.

  Nikki had learned long ago how to cope with their uneven tempers and their off-putting idiosyncrasies. She ignored what she could and distracted the crazy men when she couldn’t. Now she went for the second strategy.

  “Well,” she said, turning on the sun-drenched hardwood floor to run her gaze around the room. The wall on her right was white-painted brick that enclosed a well-used fireplace. Other walls that weren’t taken up with glass had been paneled with wood finished in a warm oak color. It only made her small dark condo seem more dreary by comparison. “This house is incredible.”

  His pointing finger dropped. “You like it?”

  She hid her smile. Good. He was already off the lover thing, thank God, and she’d work him around to what she was really after—the private chef position. “I love it.”

  Not that she didn’t mean the compliment. The uncomplicated style of the large room didn’t take anything away from the out-of-this-world view. On the other side of a short counter to her left, she glimpsed the narrow kitchen with an adjacent small breakfast table positioned near more glass. Over her shoulder, she could see the atrium they’d passed on the way to the living area. A banana tree was growing inside and more sunlight fell onto a plain-styled dining room set. Tucked in the farthest corner were two reading chairs surrounded by white-painted shelves of books.

  The whole place had a straightforward, unpretentious ambience, reminding her of a man comfortable in his own skin. But a mature man, because there was a definite 1950s vibe to the paneling and the built-in cabinets in that sunny dining area.

  “I thought your magazine was going to make over your place into the ultimate bachelor’s It Pad. You know, the supreme destination for all of L.A.’s It Girls.”

  He shook his head. “I nixed that idea. My grandparents built the house in 1955 before they called this stretch of sand Millionaire’s Beach, which was before they had to change that to Billionaire’s Beach. It’s bad enough that the dealmakers are buying up as many as three or even four adjacent homes. They scrape them and then build compounds totally out of character with what Malibu once was. I’ve decided to keep what I have just as it is.”

  His eyes glinted with a renewed sparkle and an eyebrow rose. “So…you read NYFM?”

  NYFM, short for Not Your Father’s Magazine—the symbolic “father” in this case rumored to be the one and only Hugh Hefner—was a magazine not quite as skincentric as Playboy yet not as New York–styled as GQ. After Sandy had mentioned possible employment, Nikki had flipped through a few copies. Though it featured pictorials of half-naked women, there was also information on cars, work, and relationships, as well as well-regarded, in-depth writing on global issues.

  She shrugged. “I like the articles.”

  “Admit it. You buy it to check out the girls.” He was grinning.

  God, he was attractive, she had to admit it. That wide, white smile and tumble of golden hair topping his high-cheekboned face, the strong column of his neck, his bare chest. He was still shoeless and half-naked and she remembered his delicious smell. Somewhere nearby was a bed of those tumbled sheets that might still hold the heat of his bare skin.

  Her skin prickled with goose bumps and in her head an internal movie screen blazed to life, flashing the image of a woman’s body stretched out on the wide mattress, waiting for a man. Though it didn’t happen often, it was her typical fantasy vehicle—her imagination conjuring up a scenario between two strangers.

  Except, unprecedented and a little alarming, in this mental film the starring roles weren’t played by strangers. It was her own eyes she saw opening as Jay Buchanan entered the room, their blue and green turning slumberous as he loosened the fastening at his waist and dropped those low-slung shorts—

  You buy it to check out the girls.

  The words echoed in her head, and the sexual chills racing over her skin stopped mid-dash.

  A flush burned her cheeks. Obviously he thought…

  “I do not buy it to check out the girls.” She’d said she didn’t like men—when she’d only meant that at that particular moment she hadn’t liked him for trying to get rid of her—and he’d taken it completely wrong.

  He didn’t stop grinning as he stepped closer. Too close. She held her breath so she wouldn’t start thinking of beds again. Of her on his bed and his naked body against hers.

  One of his lean fingers chuck
ed her under the chin. “Hey, it doesn’t matter to me. I like girls, too.”

  She opened her mouth to set him straight—and then closed it. What had he said when he’d tried to shut the door on her? “I thought you’d sworn off women.”

  He grimaced, then shot a look in the direction in which his neighbor Shanna had disappeared. “What a damn mess.” His gaze switched back to Nikki again, his eyes narrowing. “Which reminds me that you—”

  “Can really do a great job as your chef.” As she went for distraction again, she made a hasty shuffle backward and had to ignore the answering twinge in her knee. “Do you mind if I check out the kitchen?”

  He trailed behind her. “Could you make a pot of coffee?”

  The pitiful note in his voice only gave her more hope. “Absolutely.”

  The cooking space had been recently remodeled. State-of-the-art appliances were built into cabinetry with open shelves and included a warming drawer, a sink with instant boiling water, and a refrigerator large enough to defrost two turkeys—or hold three cases of beer, which was the situation now. She set down the pail of cookies, then frowned as she peeked in the freezer and found a bag of coffee beans.

  “These shouldn’t be in here. And don’t you have any actual groceries?”

  “I think there’s some leftover steak around. Check in the lettuce crisper.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Nikki answered, moving away from the fridge to locate the bean grinder. “Your favorite food group arrives on your plate still bleeding.”

  “Yep. And if grilled by me, charred black on the outside.”

  While she finished preparing the coffee, she got him talking about what his expectations for the chef position were. His teenage cousin was staying with him until September, so he wanted decent meals for her. There was an anniversary party he was throwing for his parents at the end of the month. And though he was taking August off, on Monday mornings the NYFM editorial staff would meet at his house for breakfast.