by Candis Terry
Yep.
That’s all he had to do.
And if he were a betting man he’d say the chances of that actually happening were 100–1 not in his favor.
When he entered the kitchen, Gabriella looked up from dicing onions on the cutting board. “Not quite as interesting an ensemble.” She pointed at him with the knife. “But probably more suitable. You know, just in case you decide to lend a hand. We wouldn’t want anything vital to get maimed.”
He chuckled, even though the notion of a knife slipping on his private parts made him cringe.
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately in this situation—her knockout dress was now covered with a black tailored chef’s coat. He couldn’t decide which was sexier—actually seeing the see-through dress, or imagining it beneath the coat. In any case, those spike-heeled boots added a very nice touch.
Not that his imagination needed any help.
As a reminder to keep his mind on business, he crossed his arms as he looked over her shoulder. “Nice knife skills, Ms. Montani.”
“I was taught by the best. She never allowed for excuses or poor preparation.”
“Oh?” Finally, a personal tidbit. “Where were you trained? The ICE or the CIA?”
“Actually, I learned everything I know at a place in Italy.”
“Really.” He hadn’t expected that response. “The ICI?”
“No. It was a very small establishment. More . . . personalized, hands-on training.”
“That’s the best kind,” he said, wondering why she didn’t give him the name of the place.
“I agree.” With the knife edge, she swept the onion across the cutting board.
While they had no problem having a conversation, this wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her reluctance to be forthcoming with information.
And that aroused his curiosity.
Leaning a hip against the counter brought him a little closer to where she stood. She smelled like flowers. Not roses or lilacs. The kind one used in cooking. Calendula, citrus, and allium. For him, the fragrance was far more sensual than any store-bought perfume.
“So what are the selections you’ve chosen for your audition?” he asked.
“Before I tell you the menu, I’d like you to select either the merlot or pinot noir from the basket. Or, if you have it available, a sangiovese. And if you wouldn’t mind, pour us both a glass. I subscribe to the Julia Child philosophy of enjoying cooking with wine and sometimes even putting it in the food.”
He chuckled. “I always loved her quote ‘In cooking you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.’”
“So you were a fan?”
“Wasn’t everyone?”
“I think she was a groundbreaker,” she said. “But I don’t think everyone adored her.”
“Hard to live up to all those expectations,” he said. “Your wine choices still don’t give me much of a clue of what’s to come tonight.”
She turned toward him and he was immediately drawn into the depths of her rich, dark eyes. “You don’t like surprises?”
“Depends.”
Her mouth slowly curved into a smile. “I promise not to disappoint.”
He didn’t see how she could.
He might have sworn to keep his hands to himself, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and see if those ruby lips tasted as good as they looked.
“You said you were a purist when it comes to food. I’m going to guess you might feel the same about wine,” he said, going to his own wine selections instead of her basket. “So let’s go with a pinot noir.”
“That will work well with the meal.”
“Good to know. Because anyone who works in my restaurant will need to be familiar with and recommend our family wines. Of course I’ll carry other brands, but my goal is to bring attention to our own.” He removed a bottle of vintage pinot noir from the wine rack and looked at the label affectionately. It was the single year his father had tremendous success with the difficult-to-grow grape.
“I’ve tasted your wines,” she said. “I’d have no trouble recommending them.”
“Then we’re off to a good start. Let’s try this bottle of Velvet Rhapsody.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It is. My father worked hard to perfect it. The structure is delicate. The tannins are soft. And the aromatics are . . .” He pulled the cork, poured a small amount into a glass, and handed it to her.
She swirled, sniffed, and smiled. “Cherry.” She sniffed again. “With notes of damp earth and”—she sniffed again—“leather.”
“You know your wine.” She gained extra points for the added knowledge.
“My nonni says it’s a sin for an Italian not to know good wine from bad. Especially if he or she makes a living behind a stove.”
“Nonni? Your grandmother?”
She nodded.
“She sounds like a very smart woman.”
“Oh, she is.” A look of deep affection brightened her face. “Which is why she’s the first person I seek for advice on everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.” The hint of a smile played on her lips. “And she’d approve of you.”
He wasn’t sure in what way she meant. Whether it was in reference to his culinary skills or . . . something a lot more basic.
Not that it mattered. Tonight was all business.
Even if it killed him.
He tilted the bottle of wine in her direction. “Taste.”
As her slender manicured fingers lifted the glass, Parker was mesmerized by the way her plump, cushiony lip pressed against the edge of the crystal. He couldn’t help wondering what those lips might feel like pressed against his own.
Or other parts of his body.
Or . . . business.
Back to business.
“Very fresh,” she said. Then her tongue swept out and caught the drop of burgundy liquid that clung to her bottom lip.
No doubt about it.
This business audition might very well kill him.
Or at least cause him to run for an ice cold shower.
“I guess if I’m going to feed you before midnight, I should get focused.” She set the wine glass down on the counter. “If you’d like to pull up a stool, you can watch. You know, to make sure I know what I’m doing.”
The way his body reacted to every little move she made told him she knew exactly what she was doing.
Keeping in mind she was auditioning for a place in his restaurant as a chef and not for a place in his bed, he pulled out a barstool and settled in.
Her fingers were fast and careful with the knife as she chopped pancetta, chives, garlic, and gruyère. He had to admit he was impressed with her skills. Now it came down to taste.
While he sat back and enjoyed his wine, he noticed that she’d started to hum.
“What’s that tune?” he asked.
“‘Che gelida manina’ from La Bohème.” She glanced up at him from beneath her thick dark lashes. “Do you listen to opera?”
“Not really.”
“Aficionados say you’re either raised on it or you develop a taste for it. Most non-enthusiasts are most familiar with the aria ‘Quando m’en vo’’ from La Bohème. When I’d visit my grandmother, she thought I should have an appreciation for the classics. My tastes never seemed to follow the crowd.”
“My favorite classics lean more toward . . .” He picked up the remote and turned on the sound system. Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” played at the perfect volume.
“Ah. Sexy songs.” She nodded, turning the heat up on the pot of water on the stove.
“Sexy?” Don’t even go there, jackass. Tonight is all about business.
“Oh, come on.” She flashed him a playful grin. “‘Sexual Healing,’ ‘Let’s Get It On.’ What’s sexier than that?”
She was.
He gave himself a mental poke. Business. Business. Business.
She sprinkled som
e olive oil in a pan. “You know what song turns me on the most?”
Business. Business. Business.
“Tell me.” Shit.
“‘Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover.’”
Now she was talking his language.
“Sophie B. Hawkins,” he said.
She gave him a sideways glance as she pushed the vegetables from the cutting board into the pan. “So you know the song?”
“Yep.” He knew the feeling too.
She cut off a piece of gruyère cheese, leaned into the counter, and held it up like a bribe. “Tell me your favorite sexy song and I’ll let you have a bite.”
Jesus. Seriously?
Business. Business. Business.
Nope. Didn’t work. Beneath his jeans, his dick was thinking of a completely different kind of business.
“And do not say ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me.’” She winked.
“You said sexy, not stripper.”
“Right.”
Although he could definitely fantasize her working a pole.
“‘I’ll Make Love to You.’”
Her dark eyes glittered. “Is that a song or a promise?”
Both. “Boyz II Men.”
“Too obvious.” She wiggled the cheese chunk like come and get it, and right now he was totally game. “Pick another one.”
“‘Need You Tonight.’”
“Oooh.” When she closed her eyes and hummed, he damn near came. “INXS. Good choice. Looks like we have a lot in common.”
He wondered how many more things they could add to that list. He was definitely willing to find out.
“So do I get my reward?” He eyed the cheese caught between her thumb and finger.
She smiled. “You do.”
Instead of handing him the bite, she fed it to him. Then she licked her fingertips.
At that moment there wasn’t a business mantra on the planet that could save him from needing to grab his hard cock to quell the ache.
“If you’d like to have a seat at the table, I’ll bring you the appetizer,” she said, sweet as a summer peach.
Hell. He couldn’t even move.
Because right now, every on-fire muscle, cell, and ounce of testosterone in his body said she was the appetizer and he was a starving man.
Gabi took a breath.
It was no secret that women in general were turned on by their senses and their imaginations. Right now, when her mind should be focused on preparing the meal, she had porn—starring Parker Kincade—playing in her head. Which was why she’d asked if he preferred to sit at the table. She needed a little distance between them before she climbed up on his lap and made a fantasy into a reality.
“If I sit at the table I can’t watch you work,” Parker said in that deep voice that rushed over her skin like a warm breeze.
“True.” She went around to his side of the counter, took him by the arm, and led him to the dining table near the wall of windows that overlooked the Columbia River and the breathtaking peak of Mount Hood. “But I’d like you to sit back, relax, and let your taste buds do the rest. You’ve already seen me in action.”
“Are you sure about that?” His long, dark lashes were sinfully thick as he studied her face. “I have a feeling there’s a lot more to you than the way you wield a paring knife.”
“Oh, believe me, there is.”
The heat turned up a notch as they studied each other, and Gabi was ready to yank off her chef’s coat to show him exactly how much more. But the job had to come first.
She went back to the counter, refilled his wine glass, and carried it to him. He maintained eye contact the whole time. As she set the glass down, he gently caught her hand. A wicked tremble skated through her heart and straight into her panties as he turned her hand over and lightly drew the tip of his index finger across the center of her palm. She pressed her lips together to keep from moaning.
“No scars. No blisters. Looks like you’re very careful in the kitchen,” he murmured in a deep, sexy voice that mingled with the sounds of Marvin Gaye singing “Mercy Mercy Me” in the background. “What about in the dining room?”
“That may be an entirely different story.” She eased her hand away before she lost what remaining control she had.
Back at the stove, she prepared the shrimp in a small pan. “So tell me more about what it was like being on Chopped.”
“Nerve-wracking.” He chuckled. “Harried. Inspiring. Frustrating. Unbelievable.”
“I imagine it would be very exciting.”
“Do you have aspirations to be a TV chef, Gabriella?”
Her head snapped around and she checked to see if there was anything more behind his question than simple curiosity. What she saw in his eyes allowed her heart to stop racing.
He didn’t know.
Thank God.
“None whatsoever,” she said. “Anything I have to prove is only to myself.”
“You sound a lot like me. I only went on the show to challenge myself.”
“One more thing we have in common.” She smiled. “That’s a good thing, right?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I meant, if we’re going to be working together,” she hurried to explain. “Although I admit that while I do like to be in control most of the time, I am willing to be submissive on occasion.”
What the hell was she saying?
And why did everything that came out of her mouth sound like a sexual innuendo?
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She closed her eyes briefly to regain her composure before she plated the appetizer. When she felt it was visually appealing, she carried it to him and set it down on the table.
“Shrimp bruschetta with Limoncello and extra-virgin olive oil. Goditi.”
When he looked at her with a questioning tilt to his head, she translated. “Enjoy.”
Parker eagerly pulled the appetizer in front of him and eyed the display she’d created. Visually, it was a gorgeous plate, but he suspected not the most extravagant she could create.
“I decided not to show off,” she explained. “It would be easy to come in here and make something that would take hours to create and would completely blow your mind. But since I don’t know what type of menu you have planned for your restaurant, I wanted to give you samples of what I’d boasted about when I came to see you at the barn. Food in its truest nature. Flavors to awaken your senses and give you a mouthwatering experience.”
His mouth was watering all right. And not just because of the food.
“You do have a way with words.”
“I have a way with other things too.”
He didn’t doubt that for a second.
She waved her hand toward the plate. “Taste.”
He lifted a slice of bruschetta for inspection, then sank his teeth into it. Flavor burst through his mouth and he hummed his approval. “Crisp. Fresh. Light. Delicious.”
She smiled like he’d given her a gift.
“This style of appetizer pairs nicely with any type of meat or pasta dish,” she said. “Also, compared to a ceviche, shrimp wellington, or even something like an asparagus rolantina, it’s a much lower cost to make. Which adds more to your profit. I know a large part of a restaurant’s success is not only to consistently give the patrons the best food and atmosphere, but to keep the operating costs at a minimum.”
“So you’ve studied bookkeeping too?” He was impressed. Most restaurants went out of business in the first year because they weren’t managed properly.
“Some. Although I’m probably not as good as I should be. Still, it makes sense to pay less for supplies so you can ask for a more than fair price for the meals.”
“I’m sure whatever skills you lack,” he said, “you make up for elsewhere.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
She tossed him a smoldering smile over her shoulder as she walked back into the kitchen.
By the time she’d served him escarole with sunchokes, shr
edded caciotta, and lemon vinaigrette for the salad, a sweet onion carbonara for the entrée, and pan-roasted asparagus with a crispy fried egg as the side dish, he was sold on her cooking skills. She completely dropped the mike with dessert—a smooth and creamy mascarpone sorbetto with rosemary honey. After only one bite, he thought he might be in love.
“Have you tasted this?” He held up a spoonful of the dessert.
“Is it bad?” Concern pulled her sleek dark brows together.
“Gabriella? There is nothing wrong with the dishes you prepared tonight. I’d be honored to serve any of them in my restaurant. But this . . .” He held up the spoon that nearly overflowed with the light and fluffy treat and shook his head. “Taste it.”
She clutched her hands together as she came toward him. Her spiked heels tapped on the wood floor, and her sheer dress swished sensuously against her legs.
All evening the conversation and wine had flowed as easily as the food. In just a few hours he’d become so responsive to her that any gesture, expression, or movement she made felt like the snap of a rubber band.
She’d definitely awakened more than his taste buds.
When she stood beside his chair, she looked at the spoonful he held up for her to taste. Then she looked at him with a raised brow. “You want me to lick your spoon?”
Among other things.
He nodded.
Then he stood and offered a taste of the dessert to her. Her warm, soft fingers curled around his hand and she guided the spoon to her mouth. She parted those pretty red lips and they closed over the perfectly prepared sorbetto. Her lashes fluttered as she moaned her pleasure and the last cell in his aroused body tossed its hands up in surrender.
When he started to withdraw the spoon, she clasped his hand and brought the utensil back to her mouth. Then slowly she licked off the smidge that remained.
Parker went up in flames.
Her dark lashes lowered in a slow blink as she looked up at him. “Did I pass?”
Chapter 5
If the look in Parker’s deep blue eyes was any indication, she’d not only passed the audition with flying colors, she’d fired up something a whole lot tastier.
“You know you passed.” He held her gaze as he set the spoon on the table and moved his hand to her waist. “But I’m an honest guy, and I have a ways to go before I make any decisions on who I hire. So I can’t stand here right now and tell you you’ve got the job.”
