by Jami Alden
Narrowing his eyes in a look that promised future retribution, he opened his mouth. Reggie slid the fork between his lips, mesmerized by the sight of their full firmness closing over the tines. A sudden image flashed behind her eyes, a vivid memory of his full, firm lips closing over her nipple, his tongue darting out to flick the delicate skin of her breast.
Maybe feeding him was not such a good idea.
She started to speak, then cleared her throat at its sudden dryness. She tried again. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Gabe’s expression was inscrutable as he wordlessly took the plate from her grasp and quickly polished off the gnocchi. “Happy?”
“Yes, I’d hate to have that argument in front of my parents tonight.”
Gabe looked up from his empty plate, his eyebrows raised.
“We’re having dinner with them in an hour. And I’d eat up if I were you. I didn’t inherit my cooking talent from my mom.”
After a quick stop at the hotel to clean up, they drove out to Newton, the affluent suburb outside of Boston where Reggie had grown up. Gabe parked the rental car in front of a two-story Cape Cod. In the dark, all he could tell was that the house was painted a light color with darker shutters on the windows. A rambling porch empty of furniture spanned the front of the house and a wide expanse of lawn sloped down toward the street.
He reached for the door handle, but Reggie’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the forearm. “Wait,” she said, flipping down the lighted visor mirror. She pulled out a powder compact and a tube of something and proceeded to pat and rub at a spot on her right cheekbone. “Do I look okay?” she turned to face him. “All the makeup I’ve been wearing is making me break out.”
Gabe leaned in for a closer look. Granted, the dim light of the rented Ford Escort didn’t show every detail, but from what he could see, she looked perfect. Her dark eyes looked huge against her pale skin, her rounded cheeks glowed with color, and her sexy plump mouth looked perfectly suckable, shiny pink with a gloss that gave off a faint, fruity aroma. As for the skin she seemed so worried about, it was as smooth and fine grained as a child’s. “You have the nicest skin I’ve ever seen on a woman,” he said, immediately wishing he could bite back the reply.
Her eyes widened in surprise, and her lips parted in that infectious smile of hers. “Really?” she asked in surprised delight.
He swallowed convulsively, an electric pulse rocking his system as he remembered vividly how silky smooth her skin was…everywhere. “Yep. From what I can tell, you hardly need makeup.”
She looked back in the mirror. “Trust me, my mother will notice every flaw.”
Finally, she shoved the makeup back in her purse. Once they got to the door, Reggie gave it a quick rap and squared her shoulders as though girding herself for battle.
The door flew open and a tall, jovial-looking man with Reggie’s big brown eyes and a masculine version of her upturned nose greeted them.
“Daddy,” she squealed, throwing her arms around him. Her father hugged her hard, lifting her up off her feet.
“Reggie, I’ve been so worried. We saw that thing on the news about you and you haven’t returned our calls.”
“Dad, it’s fine, really. In fact, this is Gabe.” She turned to introduce him. “Gabe is a security consultant I’ve hired to travel with me.”
Gabe held out his hand and introduced himself.
“John Caldwell.” He stepped back and motioned them into the foyer. “A bodyguard? Is it as dangerous as that?”
“As yet, no,” Gabe said, “but you never—”
“It’s just a safety precaution, Daddy.” Reggie waved dismissively. “Mostly the network bigwigs wanting to protect their investment. Don’t worry about it.”
John led them into the living room, motioning them to sit on the couch in front of a platter of vegetables and dip.
“Where’s Mom?” Reggie asked.
“Kitchen.” John indicated the direction with his thumb.
Gabe wasn’t sure, but he thought father and daughter shared a grimace.
“What’s this about the news?” Gabe asked, reaching for a celery stick and dipping it in the dip. Reggie gave him a funny look and shook her head. Gabe ignored her, waiting for John’s answer.
“It was on Good Morning America this morning. ‘Celebrity chef has a ravenous fan.’”
Reggie sat back with a sigh. “Tyler didn’t waste any time. Gabe, you might not want to—”
Too late. He’d already taken the first bite of the celery and dip. After the first chew he realized it was not so much the taste, but rather the texture, that was truly abominable. Where he had expected something creamy and savory, his mouth was instead filled with a grainy, lumpy mixture that reminded him of ranch-flavored gelatin.
Reggie’s hand covered her mouth, but he could see the telltale shaking of her shoulders as she laughed.
John watched him in sympathy. “My wife doesn’t share Reggie’s cooking skills.”
His voice broke off abruptly at the swift tap tap of heels striking the highly polished hardwood floors.
Reggie’s mother was about Reggie’s height, with the same thick dark hair, but that was where the resemblance ended. Where Reggie’s body was sweetly curved, her mother was bone thin, giving a glimpse of what Natalie might look like in her late fifties.
And damn, Natalie better have a donut soon, because the future wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t that she was unattractive. But her face had a tight, drawn look to it, her skin stretched so taut her cheekbones looked like they might slice through at any moment. Her dark eyes had none of Reggie’s luster, sunken in her skull, eyebrows pulled up into an unnaturally surprised curve by plastic surgery.
Reggie stood and greeted her mother, hugging her with none of the warm affection she’d shown her father. No wonder, since Reggie risked busting her mother’s ribs if she squeezed too hard.
She released Reggie and turned to Gabe. He took her proffered hand gently, aware of the birdlike fragility of every bone. “Virginia Caldwell,” she said in an upper-crust Bostonian accent.
“Gabe Bankovic.”
She raised her eyebrow. “How very…ethnic.”
Gabe released her hand and gave her a tight smile. “It’s Croatian.”
“Mom, Gabe is a security consultant who’s traveling with me.”
Virginia shuddered dramatically under her cashmere cardigan. “Oh, yes, that nastiness. Your father and I saw it on the news this morning. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us, Regina.”
Reggie seemed to shrink under her mother’s censorious gaze. She nibbled listlessly at a naked carrot. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
Virginia shook her head and held the bowl of vile dip up to Reggie. “Reggie, you must try the dip.” Reggie reluctantly dipped her carrot into the gelatinous white goo, extracting about a milliliter. She crunched down on her carrot, admirably concealing her disgust.
Virginia turned to Gabe with a sly smile. “I keep telling her, you don’t have to cook with all that fat to make it taste good. That dip is made with tofu and fat-free mayonnaise, and I bet you couldn’t taste the difference.”
“Ah, tofu. That would explain the texture.”
Virginia went on to extol the virtues of tofu as a substitute for everything from hot dogs to whipped cream. Reggie had sucked down her third glass of cabernet by the time Virginia led them to the dinner table.
Dinner wasn’t any better than the appetizer. “Here, Gabe, let me give you the biggest piece.” Virginia placed a miniscule piece of sad-looking white fish adorned with a tired smattering of herbs. Then she heaped on a pile of green beans that, he realized when he tasted them, were flavored only with lemon juice.
He thought back wistfully to the rich, cheese-laden gnocchi Reggie had fed him earlier.
Reggie poked listlessly at her fish, taking tiny bites between sessions of arranging and rearranging her food. Gabe made a mental note to hook her up with a Power Bar lat
er. Or if they were lucky, they’d pass a Taco Bell on the way back to the hotel.
“I hope you don’t mind our simple fare,” Virginia continued. “As you can see,” she cast a sidelong gaze at her husband, “my husband’s side of the family is prone to heaviness. Poor Reggie didn’t inherit my slender genes.”
Genes??!! Anyone would look like a starvation victim on this diet.
He was surprised when Reggie didn’t come back at her mother with a snappy remark, or tease her about her own lack of cooking skills. Instead, Reggie seemed oddly diminished as she sat at the table, answering all of her parents’ questions without her usual vivacity.
Her father seemed to understand and tried to keep the conversation light and insubstantial, focusing on Reggie’s new show and asking about her new cookbook.
“You’re going to regret it if you keep cooking that way, using all that butter and oil,” Virginia sighed.
“Mother, studies have shown that olive oil is very good for your heart, and almost everything I make is healthy.”
Virginia piously chewed on her unadorned fish, then smiled ruefully. “After the example I set for you girls, I can’t believe you’ve ended up doing work that’s so menial. Gabe, do you know that I went to Harvard Law school when the girls were babies? I nearly killed myself, first to get my degree, then to make partner, and what do I end up with? One daughter who gives up a successful accounting career to be a cook, of all things, and another who humiliates me by hawking feminine hygiene products.” Virginia’s laugh trilled shrilly through the dining room.
Gabe froze, fork halfway to his mouth as he glanced uncomfortably at Reggie and her father. John’s cheeks were red, and his lips were pursed as though he’d learned after many long, hard years of marriage not to bother arguing with his wife.
Reggie’s face was purple as she stabbed murderously at her green beans. “Menial? Mom, who are we, the Kennedys? What, a best-selling book and two TV shows aren’t enough for you?”
Virginia chewed silently for a moment, then murmured, “We’ll see how long this success lasts. Considering you’re not even a professional chef, there’s only so far you can go.”
Reggie threw down her fork, sputtering as she got sucked into what was obviously a long-running argument between mother and daughter. “Only so far? Mom, how would you even know? Look at Martha Stewart—”
Virginia cut her off, “Yes, let’s look at Martha, with her stint in federal prison.”
Gabe winced. Reggie refilled her wineglass.
Reggie leaned her head back against the headrest, watching the flicker of streetlights play off Gabe’s cheekbones and jaw. A faint shadow of beard darkened his jaw, giving his features a rough cast. She could easily imagine him in the desert somewhere, hefting a big gun as he warded off enemy fire.
She closed her eyes, but that made her head spin. She really should have stopped before that last glass of wine. Maybe if she sucked down a bottle of water before she went to bed, tomorrow wouldn’t be too much of a nightmare. She rolled her head back in Gabe’s direction. “Thanks for driving.”
White teeth flashed in the darkness of the car. “The way you were pounding the wine, I don’t think I had much choice.”
Reggie grimaced, then repeated the gesture, noting with interest how rubbery her lips felt. “Sorry,” she said again. “It’s my mom. She makes me crazy.”
“I can see why.”
“I just wish, for once, she’d acknowledge what I’ve accomplished. All she sees is that her daughter has lowered herself to cooking fattening food for other people.”
He momentarily took his eyes off the road and regarded her thoughtfully. Even in her inebriated state, she felt his gaze as though he were trailing his fingers down her body.
“I guess you didn’t get your love of cooking from her.”
“No way. Tonight’s dinner was a perfect example of what my mom served on a regular basis. I learned to love food because of Maria Detaglia.” She smiled as she remembered going over to Maria’s house after school, how amazing smells permeated the air. “Maria was my best friend in grade school.”
“Her mom cooked?”
“Her mom, her dad, her grandma, aunts, uncles, everyone. Maria’s dad, Joe, is this big, burly Italian guy, and her mom is this tiny little woman he met on his tour in Vietnam. I don’t know if you know this, but the Vietnamese have an amazing culinary tradition. By the time we were eight, Maria and I were helping her mom make Bo Luc Lac and helping her dad make Bragiole on the weekends. Eating at her house was like seeing in color after living in black and white.” She fiddled with the radio, punching several buttons until she found an alternative station she liked. “I wanted to go to culinary school right out of high school, but my mom wouldn’t hear of it. And now she gives me a hard time about my lack of professional schooling.” She shook her head. “There is no pleasing that woman,” she said almost to herself. “What about your mom? Is she a good cook?”
“She’s a great cook—she and my sisters. Probably the reason I don’t cook myself, they were always chasing me away. And my grandma—she came over from Croatia when I was twelve and lived with us until she died—she used to make Prsurate; it’s kind of like a Croatian donut.”
“You should learn to cook. I remember the first meal I cooked for myself when I went away for college. Rosemary lemon chicken with mashed potatoes.” She looked over at him, smiling softly in the darkness. “Maybe I’ll teach you to cook. Kind of like a bonus plan.”
“Maybe.”
“Trust me. Cooking a meal is a guaranteed ticket into a woman’s pants.”
He glanced over, his eyebrow raised sardonically. “I seem to do okay on my own.”
Reggie knew the heat in her cheeks was not just from the wine. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
They were silent for the rest of the ride. Reggie stared out the window, and Gabe smiled when he heard her soft snore. He didn’t know what had brought on his uncharacteristic inquisitiveness. But even though he’d vowed to keep his distance, the more time he spent with Reggie Caldwell, the more he wanted to know about her.
Meeting her mother explained a lot, especially Reggie’s drive, her seeming desperation to keep her TV hosting gig at all costs. That she loved what she did was obvious, but professional recognition was obviously vital as well. Anything to get her mother’s elusive approval.
He could relate. Ever since he’d had to retire from the Special Forces, when a bullet shattered his left femur, he’d felt the need to prove himself, to show he could make a difference even if he was no longer able to serve active duty. Unwilling to settle for a desk job, he’d moved into the private sector, eager to put his skills to use at his friend’s security company.
It had been great while it lasted. Instead of putting himself in danger ridding the world of terrorists, he spent his days installing and testing high-tech security systems and making sure his clients stayed out of harm’s way. Some days he’d missed the intensity of being out on a mission. But most of the time, he enjoyed making a lot more money with a hell of a lot less risk.
And he’d lost it all over another client with big eyes and a seemingly sweet manner. He jerked upright at the swift reminder that he couldn’t let himself fall for Reggie, no matter how attractive he found her.
Unfortunately, his body, exhausted from travel and work, wasn’t inclined to listen, instead wallowing in memories of how the woman asleep in the passenger seat had felt naked against him, arching her breasts into his chest as she rode him like a rodeo queen that night in Maui.
Tugging at his fly, he shifted in his seat so his hard-on wasn’t quite so restricted. The way things were going, by the end of six weeks, he was going to have a case of blue balls for the medical books.
Reggie woke up as they pulled up to the valet. When they got to their suite, Gabe set up the foldout couch while Reggie went for the shower. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of water running, imagining what she would do if he went in there, took off
his clothes, and grabbed the soap from her hands. He could almost feel her pale, smooth breasts with their dark rose nipples, slippery with soap as he cupped and massaged them in his hands. He’d pull her against him, back to front, so he could run his palms all over her tits, down her belly to that dark, luscious triangle of her sex where he’d find her plump and juicy like a ripe peach.
She’d grind her delicious ass against his rock-hard cock, teasing him and urging him on as he slid his fingers up and down her slit, dipping and teasing until she was begging him to make her come. Then he’d slide into her unforgettably tight pussy, shove so deep inside her she’d feel him at the back of her throat…
“Gabe? Are you okay?”
Reggie stood about five feet away, dressed in a pair of leopard-print pajama bottoms and a stretchy red shirt with two cats that read, FUNNY CATS IN HATS. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her damp hair tumbled around her shoulders. He wanted to suck a bruise onto the pale flesh of her neck. “I’m fine.”
“You had a funny look on your face. Bathroom’s all yours. I’ll see you in the morning.” She closed the door to her bedroom with a soft “good night.”
Gabe unbuttoned his shirt and grabbed some extra pillows from the closet. As he walked back to the bed, something on the floor caught the corner of his eye. Tossing the pillows on his bed, he walked over to pick it up.
Reggie’s bra. He fingered the silky ice blue fabric. Against all better judgment, he lifted it to his face and inhaled. The scent of warm cinnamon buns and creamy naked skin almost brought him to his knees.
To think, she was just one door away. The woman whose succulent body and sassy mouth he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind. Worse, by the way she looked at him when she thought he didn’t know, he knew she’d take him up on it.
Reggie shifted restlessly on the bed. Despite the wine at dinner, she was too wired to sleep. She’d hoped the hot shower would help her wind down. But as she’d rubbed her own soapy hands over her wet skin, she’d found herself wishing Gabe would ignore his professional code of ethics and walk through that door and join her. Flustered, she’d finished with a quick, cold rinse and made a beeline for the bedroom before she did something stupid. Like try to jump him.
