Sweet as Sugar, Hot as Spice

by Kimberly Raye

  Her gaze went to the ladies’ room. Maybe there would be a window she could crawl through . . .

  The thought faded as a waiter rushed from a nearby swinging door. A kitchen! Where there was a kitchen, there had to be a back door for food deliveries. An exit. A way out that wouldn’t draw the attention of the pack of photographers floating throughout the ballroom, much less any member of her family.

  After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she pushed through the door and nearly collided with a waiter carrying a tray of hot meatballs.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled at the man’s back as he hurried past her into the ballroom. “Could you point me toward the nearest exit?” she asked aloud, hoping someone would answer.

  “Straight ahead to the left.” The voice sounded directly in back of her. She whirled as a photographer came up behind her, his assistant in tow. So much for avoiding the press.

  But the pair didn’t look the least bit interested in her, despite the fact that her telltale yellow dress indicated she was a wedding party somebody. A quick glance at the press pass dangling around the photographer’s neck told her why he didn’t so much as blink when he walked past her.

  Sports Illustrated.

  He wanted pictures of Clint and the NASCAR men, not the freaked-out maid of honor. So why was he lurking in the kitchen?

  “I’ve searched from one end of the kitchen to the other. We must have missed him,” the man told another photographer who wore a black-and-white-checkered race flag tie, camera in hand.

  “Let’s check the patio.” The Sports Illustrated guy nodded and followed Mr. Race Flag Tie. Both men disappeared through the swinging doors, back into the ballroom.

  Eve blew out the deep breath she’d been holding and turned to make her way through the massive square-shaped kitchen. Burners and ovens lined the outer perimeter. The inner area was a maze of preparation tables. People clustered here and there, busily arranging everything from trays of speared shrimp to platters of caviar to cold vegetables and various gourmet cheese spreads. She passed the groom’s cake, which had been ushered back into the kitchen after the traditional cake-cutting pictures. A woman in a white chef’s hat fed slices onto individual crystal cake plates.

  The smell of chocolate teased her nostrils as she walked past. Ordinarily, Eve didn’t do chocolate. She’d learned a long time ago that it killed her complexion, and so she’d sworn off the stuff in favor of the occasional caffeine-free alternative like Sugar Babies or candy corn. But after a few drinks, she wasn’t thinking clearly and so the chocolate seemed to be calling her name.

  She blew out a deep breath, resisted the urge to grab a slice, and headed for the end of the aisle. She needed her apartment and her sweatpants and her thick cotton socks and—

  The thought stalled as she walked past a giant freezer and an image beyond the frost-covered square of glass caught her eye.

  She stopped and stared through the small window.

  Okay, she was either a real lightweight and considerably more drunk than she felt, or there was a man sitting in the freezer.

  She blinked, but he didn’t disappear.

  Gripping the handle, she lifted and pulled. The door gasped and creaked open.

  Sure enough, a man was sitting on the edge of a giant cardboard box marked Frozen Crab Cakes. He held a plate of half-eaten chocolate cake in one hand and a fork in the other. A black tuxedo accented his broad shoulders. His crisp white shirt hugged the strong column of his throat and provided a stark contrast against his deeply tanned skin. Whiskey-blond hair, the top streaked from too much time spent in the sun, brushed his collar and framed his strong face. At the sound of the door opening, he lifted his head.

  Familiar blue eyes collided with hers, and his expression went from angry dismay to pure delight in one fast, furious heartbeat. His full lips curved into a grin. A dimple cut into his freshly shaven cheek. His gaze sparkled, so bright and vivid and enticing, like the Caribbean on a hot summer day.

  Despite the freezing temperature, a wave of heat washed through Eve. Her breath caught and her tummy hollowed out, and for a split second, she felt a dreaded tummy tremor.

  But then he opened his mouth, his deep southern drawl sweet and dripping with charm, and the moment faded in a wave of irritation.

  “Hey there, sunshine.”

  Chapter 3

  Linc Adams didn’t think his day could get much worse.

  A friggin’ crazy turn of events since things had started out with such promise, it being his first day as the reigning Daytona 500 champion. First thing that morning, he’d seen on CNN that he’d been named the hottest NASCAR prospect for the upcoming season on Bill Biloxi’s Sunday Post-Race Extreme Sports show. Then he’d opened his e-mail to find he’d been voted NASCAR’s hottest hunk and the driver Most Likely to Jump and Dump—a new term for a noncommital man who liked to be with a different woman every night—by the members of Race Girls, Inc., NASCAR’s Internet-based legion of female fans.

  Yep, he’d started off riding a major high. And why not? His hard work was finally paying off. Not only was he being recognized for his driving ability, but he was making it as plain as a sunshiny Georgia day to the fine, upstanding voters of Adams, Georgia, that he was the black sheep of the rich, powerful Adams clan.

  The bad boy who loved being free and single as much as he loved a case of ice-cold Coors Light, a loud party, and a warm, willing, wicked woman.

  The rebellious son who would make about as good a mayor as he would the deacon of the Adams First Baptist Church.

  But at noon—just before Linc had left for the airport to fly to L.A.—he’d received the phone call from his father informing him that he was ahead in the mayoral race by thirty-three percentage points.

  Rather than seeing him as a totally immature, love-’em-and-leave-’em asshole, the voters of Adams were dismissing his reputation with a shrug and a boys-will-be-boys attitude. He was going through a phase. Sowing his wild oats. Having one last yee-hawww! before settling down and taking his rightful place as leader of the town, like his father and his grandfather before him, and his great-grandfather before that. He was an Adams, after all. Born to be a politician. There’d been an Adams in office for as long as the town had been in existence. It was the way of things, and it seemed that no amount of bad behavior could convince folks otherwise.

  But all Linc wanted was to win a Nextel Cup Championship. Not the fancy clothes or the country-club friends or the political legacy pressed on him since he’d turned four years old and attended his first political fund-raising dinner.

  He wanted to live his own dream rather than everyone else’s.

  He’d entered the sport later than most drivers—after attempting to be the good son by graduating with a law degree and taking over the family practice. It had been a hard battle to prove himself in the six years since. But he’d been hungry enough to push himself up the ranks into the top ten. As of yesterday’s season-opening win at Daytona, he was the favored driver to win this year’s Cup.

  He was this close to achieving his own dream for the first time in his life.

  The thought of trading it in to walk into city hall day after day made him sick to his stomach.

  Thirty-three points.

  How much worse could it get?

  It couldn’t, or so he’d thought. Until he was caught red-handed in the freezer by Eve Farrel.

  She wasn’t wearing the short black leather miniskirt or tight T-shirt she’d worn on their disastrous blind date after the Sears Point race in Sonoma, but she still looked every bit as sexy and exotic. She had long, dark hair, a curvaceous body, and a sultry air that reminded him of Angelina Jolie. Dark eye makeup emphasized her vivid green eyes and gave her that intense come-and-do-me look that had dominated his fantasies since he’d first met her. Dark red lipstick plumped her already full lips. Everything about her screamed sex, which suited him to a T.

  When he had his race face on, that is. But he wasn’t gunning
for publicity at the moment. He was hiding from it.

  Linc pasted on his most charming grin and did his damnedest to hide the cake plate behind his back. The last thing, the very last thing he needed was to blow his cover in front of Eve Farrel. It was hard enough playing the bad boy in front of the nosy press, but Eve had a gaze that seemed to push aside all the nonsense and cut straight to the chase. A gaze that unnerved the hell out of him.

  “Sunshine,” he said, unleashing his best southern drawl. “Anyone ever tell you that yellow is definitely your color?”

  “My name isn’t sunshine and yellow is nobody’s color, especially mine.”

  Linc narrowed his gaze and made a show of studying her. “I don’t know. It really makes the rest of you stand out.”

  “I see you’re as obnoxious as ever.”

  “I meant that as a compliment.”

  “And I just won Miss Congeniality.” Eve shook her head. “You’re sitting in the freezer, you know.”

  “I needed a little fresh air.”

  “It’s not fresh. It’s cold.”

  “I needed a little cold air. It’s damned hot out there.”

  Actually, it was pretty damned hot in here.

  The thought struck Eve just as Linc smiled again, and heat fired in her cheeks. Blushing? She was actually blushing?

  The thought was almost as depressing as the fact that she was now the one and only Great Farrel Hope. She was seriously delusional. Otherwise, why in the world would she be standing in the freezer talking to a man who stirred her anger and made her want to commit a felony?

  That, or kiss him.

  Hello? You do not want to kiss Linc Adams. Choking him is fine. Kissing is a definite no-no.

  “You’re eating cake,” Eve said as she noticed a brown speck at the corner of his mouth.

  Linc held his hands behind his back and tried to look innocent. “You’re crazy.”

  “Yeah, and you’re eating cake.” She studied him. “ You are, aren’t you?”

  He looked as if he wanted to deny it, but instead he finally shrugged. His right arm came around, revealing the crystal plate and a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake.

  “Give it up,” she said, trying to stare around him.

  When he finally stood, she saw a large glass of what looked like milk sitting on the box. She arched an eyebrow. “A White Russian?”

  “You know it.”

  Something about the way he said the words roused her suspicion. She stepped toward him, grabbed the glass before he could snatch it out of her reach, and lifted it to her lips. “You’re drinking milk?”

  Linc smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Hey, it does a body good.”

  “Since when have you been interested in doing your body good? You party all night and get totally wasted when you’re not on the track.”

  “Damn straight.”

  But here he was sitting in the freezer, chasing chocolate cake with a cold glass of milk.

  Understanding dawned. “You’re hiding,” Eve told him. “You’re hiding in here so that no one will see you drinking milk and eating chocolate cake.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m trying to have a moment of peace and quiet, and you’ve shot that to hell and back.”

  “You are hiding. Those reporters I saw in the kitchen . . . They were looking for you.”

  “Did they see you come in here?” Linc set his cake plate on the box and walked to the small window. He peeked out only to duck back. “Dammit, you’re going to lead them right to me.”

  “No one saw me come in.”

  He turned and gave Eve a get real look. “Sure they didn’t.” He eyed the layers of tulle. “It’s not like you’re wearing a bright yellow dress with a skirt big enough to house a family of five or anything like that.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?”

  He grinned and the tummy tremor started again. “Actually, everyone.”

  He was standing so close that Eve could smell the sweet scent of chocolate cake on his breath. “Well”—she swallowed and did her best to look totally unaffected—“they lied.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how pleasant you are?”

  “No. Now what’s the big deal with the cake and the milk? I could see if you were eating quiche or foie gras, or something equally unmacho, but it’s just cake.”

  “It’s chocolate cake, and it’s whole milk. As in wholesome.” His mouth drew into a thin line and he shook his head, as if he’d already said more than he wanted to.

  “And Linc Adams can’t be wholesome, is that it? He doesn’t drink milk, and he especially doesn’t do it with a big slice of cake?”

  Linc didn’t seem as if he wanted to talk, but then he finally shrugged. “I’ve got an image to maintain.” He walked back over to the box and retrieved his plate.

  “So chase the cake with a six-pack.”

  He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “A man can’t eat cake with beer. Do you know how bad that would taste?”

  “I don’t do beer. Just tequila.” And speaking of tequila . . . In that next instant, a wave of dizziness swept her, and Eve reached a hand out to a nearby wall to steady herself. Not that she was drunk, but she was definitely tipsy. Otherwise, she would have turned and left Linc without so much as a backward glance.

  At the moment, however, she couldn’t not look at him as he forked some cake and took a bite. The speck of fudge frosting still sat at the corner of his mouth as he chewed.

  Eve had the sudden urge to cross the few feet between them and taste the sweet crumbs. Her mouth watered, and she tightened her fingers against the fierce hunger.

  This is insane, she reminded herself. As in totally whacked. As in you can’t stand this guy, remember?

  True. Unfortunately, her hormones had a very short memory and they couldn’t seem to get past the warmth in Linc’s smile and the twinkle in his eyes and the fact that she’d been totally celibate for over seven months—since her last date with a semicute cameraman who worked for This Little Piggy, Inc., a video company that catered to feet fetishists. While Eve hadn’t been even the tiniest bit turned on by his sterling-silver monogrammed toe ring, she’d fallen for his soft, dark hair and wounded expression. He’d been the classic struggling artist, and his eye for camera angles had truly impressed her.

  Unfortunately, the only impressive thing about him had been his talent with a Nikon. He’d turned out to be too selfish in the sack, which meant that it had been seven months since Eve had had sex and over three years since she’d had any really good sex. Three long years . . . since she’d given up wild and wicked bad boys—the type she always attracted—to focus on her career.

  You don’t need sex, she had told herself countless times. You need space and concentration and focus.

  She drew in a deep breath and tried to weather the sudden tilt in the floor. Actually, what she really needed at the moment was a place to sit down.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I feel good. A little too good, I think.”

  Linc grinned and patted the seat next to him. “Take a load off.”

  Eve hesitated.

  “I won’t bite,” he added. “Unless you ask me real nice.”

  “You’re so full of yourself,” she muttered as she sank down next to him. “Don’t you get tired of being so obnoxious?”

  “Don’t you get tired of being so unpleasant?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “On occasion, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Shit,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Can you believe I’m up in the polls by thirty-three points?”

  “What polls?”

  “I’m running for mayor of Adams, Georgia. That’s my hometown.”

  “That’s great. Mystifying, but great.”

  “It’s not great. It’s a pain in the ass. I don’t want to be mayor. I can’t be mayor. I barely get a day off now. I can’t drive for the championship and be the mayor.”


  “So why are you running?”

  “Because I want my best friend to be mayor. He’s running opposite me.”

  “I’m not getting this.”

  “You’re not supposed to get it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”

  Amen. Eve didn’t need to hear his problems when she had so many of her own. At the same time, she heard herself say, “Sometimes it helps to talk things through. Then they don’t seem so huge or tragic.” So much for staying indifferent.

  He seemed to consider her words. “It’s like this. I’m running for mayor, but I don’t want to be mayor. I want Craig Sanders to be mayor. He’s my best friend and the best man for the job, which was why I agreed to enter the race as his opposition. If I didn’t, my father would have picked someone else. Hell, he did pick someone, and that someone—with the Adams name and money behind him—would have won. But Craig should win, and so I agreed to run. My dad wouldn’t not endorse his own son, not when politics are a tradition in our family.”

  “So you act like a jackass on purpose.”

  “I don’t act like a jackass. I’m just laid back and easygoing and more interested in fun than politics. I’m the worst possible choice for mayor, but damned if anyone sees it. They like me.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “I can’t win this damned election.”

  “So act worse. Be a monstrous jackass. Do something scandalous to sully the good Adams name and shock your family.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “If I knew, I would try it myself. You’ve only got a bunch of registered voters on your case. I’ve got a determined mother.” She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the warmth of Linc’s body as they sat side by side. “I’ve got a project to work on. I can’t work with my mother on my back, which means I have to figure out a way to get her to leave me alone. And all because my sisters are married.”

  Eve wasn’t sure if it was the drinks or the warmth of Linc’s hard body that sparked the next thought. Maybe it was a little of both. Regardless, an idea rooted and Eve found herself smiling.