by Anna DePalo
At the end of the hall, they reached a bright but dated kitchen. The aromas stimulated his taste buds. If she’d been set on seducing him, she couldn’t have planned it better.
“I didn’t know you were going to show up,” she said, as if addressing his private thoughts. “I was mixing the ingredients for cupcakes.”
He was going down...but he adopted a solemn expression. “I understand. You’re cooking for others.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “Well, I did make an extra pan of the eggplant parmigiana to keep around. Would you like some? I just removed it from the oven.”
“I’d love some,” he said with heartfelt fervor.
Eggplant parmigiana was one of his favorite dishes, but ever since he’d moved out of his parents’ house, he didn’t often get a home-cooked meal. His specialty was grilling, not frying vegetables and creating elaborate baked dishes. His pasta came prepared from the gourmet market these days.
As Marisa retrieved a spatula, he spied an ancient-looking KitchenAid mixer on her countertop, right next to the fixings for cupcakes.
“Your mixer looks like it’s seen better days.”
“You mean Kathy?”
“You named your mixer.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral.
She adjusted a baking pan on the range with an oven mitt and then glanced at him over her shoulder. “It belonged to my grandmother. It’s an heirloom, so it gets a name. In fact, Nonna let me name it when I was six. Kathy KitchenAid.”
He watched her cut a piece of the eggplant parmigiana for him. Then he hooked his jacket over the back of a chair and took a seat at the well-worn kitchen table. Moments later Marisa set a steaming plate before him and handed him a fork.
The mozzarella was still oozing, and the breaded eggplant peeked out in thin layers—like a delicate mille fiori pastry.
He swallowed.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
He doubted she had beer on hand. “Water would be fine, thanks.”
As Marisa walked to the fridge, he dug in with his fork and took his first bite. Her eggplant parmigiana went down smooth, hot and savory. Fantastic.
Apparently, Marisa could cook in the same way that Wayne Gretzky could play hockey.
Cole was four bites in and well on his way to demolishing her baked confection when she returned with a glass of water.
“Not sparkling water,” she said apologetically, setting down a tumbler, “but filtered from the tap.”
He filched a napkin from the stack on the table, wiped his mouth and then took a swallow.
He was here to seduce her, but she was enthralling him with her culinary skills. Her dish was sublime, and he’d do anything for a repeat of that kiss in the bar. “Marisa, you make an eggplant parmigiana that can reduce grown men to a drool and whimper.”
She lowered her shoulders, and her mouth curved. “Don’t the Serenghettis have a family recipe?”
“This may be even better, but don’t tell my mother.”
“I’m sure it’s been decades since your mother tried to bring men to their knees. But I’m also certain she wouldn’t mind if it was her eggplant parmigiana that did the trick.”
“Yeah, she takes pride in her cooking.” The truth was that while Camilla Serenghetti used food to lure her sons home, she was a force to be reckoned with in other ways, as well.
Marisa touched her hair. “I’ll let you finish your food. I’ll, um, be back in a few minutes.”
“Sure.” Moments later he heard a door click.
Cole finished the food before him, savoring every bite. When he was done, he got up and deposited his plate and glass in the sink—because if there was one thing Camilla Serenghetti had drilled into her sons, it was how to be polite and pick up after yourself.
Then he looked around and surveyed Marisa’s place. It was unsporting of him, but he was willing to use any advantage to get to know more of her. Besides, he was curious about how she lived.
Walking out of the kitchen, he retraced his steps in the hallway. Marisa’s bedroom door was closed. Beyond it, he entered the large living room. One corner held a desk, a bookcase and a screen that could be used to shield the nook from the rest of the room. A rolled-arm sofa upholstered in a cream-and-light-green stripe served as a counterpoint to the dominant flower motif. There were also several small tables that looked as if they could be hand-me-down family pieces—sturdy but with decades under their scarred chestnut tops.
From a builder’s perspective, Marisa had done a good job sprucing up her prewar apartment without undertaking a major renovation. It was neat, cozy and feminine.
He walked over to a built-in bookshelf dotted with framed photos and found himself staring at a picture of Marisa the way she had looked in her high school days. She was laughing as she leaned against the railing of a pier. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she appeared more relaxed and carefree than she’d been while roaming the halls at Pershing. With a sudden clenching of the gut, Cole wondered whether the photo had been snapped before or after the debacle of their senior year...
He glanced down at the books lining a shelf below eye level. Crouching, he tilted his head to read the titles. Pleasing Your Man, Losing the Last 5 Lbs., The Infidelity Recovery Plan, and last but not least, Bad Boys and the Women Who Shouldn’t Need Them.
It didn’t take a genius to make sense of the titles, especially since the final one seemed to be addressed to him personally.
Cole straightened. He’d never have guessed everything going on behind the facade of the normally reserved and occasionally fiery Marisa Danieli. He also couldn’t believe his high school Lolita—edible as a sugared doughnut—saw herself as insufficiently sexy. Had ordering the Cobb salad at their dinner been about being thinner and more attractive? What about her exercise routine?
And what kind of jerk had she been engaged to? For sure, she’d had her ego bruised by Sal Piazza’s horn-dog behavior. But if she thought Sal had strayed because she wasn’t sexy enough, she was marching her feathered mules down the wrong school corridor. If Marisa could glimpse his fantasies lately, Cole was sure she’d overheat rather than doubt her sex appeal. He could happily lose his mind exploring her lush curves.
Hearing a sound behind him, he straightened and turned in time to see Marisa walk into the room, hair down and brushing her shoulders. “You’ve got an interesting collection of books.”
Marisa’s gaze moved from him to the bookcase, and she looked embarrassed.
“Sal wants to imitate the athletes that he represents,” he said without preamble. “Sure he’d like to get his clients what they wish for, but he also wants to be them. That’s why he wanted to bag Vicki. It wasn’t about you.”
“So don’t take it personally?” she quipped.
“Those who can, do, and those who can’t become sports agents instead,” he responded without answering her directly.
“Like that saying about those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach?” she parried. “Teaching is one of the hardest—”
“—jobs in the world,” he finished for her. “I know. I was one of those problem students who got himself suspended, remember?”
After a moment, she sighed. “Those who can’t become sports agents, and those who can’t become teachers. So I guess Sal and I were perfectly matched.”
He sauntered toward her, shaking his head. “I’m going to have to detox you.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” She sidestepped him. “You come in and eat my food and read my books, and I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t!”
“You’re a great cook,” he said, trying a more subtle maneuver. “I got a sample today, and a couple of your students at the rink last week mentioned it. The kids also said you’ve brought your homemade dishes to school functions in the past.”
She looked surprised and then embarrassed. “And now you have a burning desire for eggplant parmigiana?”
&n
bsp; He let the word desire hang there between them.
“Everything I know I learned from my mother,” she added after a moment.
“Great. My mother has a cooking show on a local cable channel. She’s always looking for guests.”
Marisa held up her hands. “I don’t like where this is heading.”
He flashed his teeth. “Oh yes, you do.” He was becoming a pro at the tit-for-tat game that they had going on between them. “If I’m going to do the rooster strut at Pershing’s big party, then you can cluck your way through a televised cooking show. Fair is fair.”
“We already struck our bargain,” she countered. “You want to renegotiate now? You’re already getting the construction job for the gym, no questions asked.”
“I’m prepared to offer something in return for your appearance under bright studio lights,” he said nobly.
“And that would be?”
“I’ll expand my offer from informal coaching to running that hockey clinic that you want.”
She looked astonished. As if he could never tempt her to appear on TV—but he had.
He was willing to coach the kids without receiving anything in return, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He’d created another opportunity to interact with Marisa, and she was going to find it hard to say no. He was brilliant.
“It’s a big investment of time. I’d need a good recipe, and then I’d have to prep for the show. The hair and makeup alone will take two or three hours...”
His lips inched upward. “You’re starting to sound like I did about the hockey clinic.”
“My mother is the real cook in the family,” she protested.
“Great. We’ll get her involved, too. It’ll take the pressure off you.”
“No!” She shook her head. “How did we get here? I haven’t even agreed to be a part of this crazy plan.”
“We’ll do a giveaway.” He warmed to his subject. “A set of Stanhope Department Store’s own stainless-steel cookware that retails for hundreds of dollars. You said your mother was the new housewares buyer, right? It’ll be great promo. Move over, Oprah.”
He was beyond brilliant.
“I’m busy right now. Parent-teacher conferences. The fund-raiser. The end of the school year... And I’m painting my kitchen cabinets before the weather gets hot because I don’t have central air in this condo.”
He glanced around them. “Yeah, you’ve got a retro vibe going.”
“I like to call it modern vintage.”
He wasn’t familiar with the style but he was appreciating Marisa’s ’50s-style apron, and he had another great idea. “I’ll help with the painting.”
“You don’t need to help. We’re not dating.”
He shrugged. “This isn’t dating. This is an exchange of favors.”
“Is that what you called your involvement with Vicki?” she parried. “An exchange of favors?”
He gave a semblance of a smile. “Oh, sweet pea, you’re asking for it. Detox, it is.”
“And you’re going to provide the cure?” she scoffed. “It’s pretty clear you’re a womanizer.”
“I enjoy women, yes. Therapy may be needed later, but right now I’m hung up on teachers with attitude.”
“I know a great therapist,” she said, her voice all sugar.
“And I’ve got a better idea for how to deal with our hang-ups.”
She parted her lips, but before she could answer him, he pulled her into his arms and captured her mouth.
* * *
Marisa stilled, and then she kissed Cole back. She slid her arms around his neck, and her fingers threaded into his hair. He tasted of her baking, but underneath was the unmistakable scent of pure male.
One second she’d been fighting her attraction to him, and the next she’d been overwhelmed by it.
He held her firmly as his tongue stroked around hers. She pressed into him, her breasts yielding, and she felt the hard bulge of his arousal. Her mind clouded, waves of sensation washing over her.
Cole ended the kiss, and she moaned. But he trailed his lips down the side of her throat and then moved back up to suck on her earlobe. His breath next to her ear sent shivers chasing through her. Her breasts, and the most sensitive spot between her legs, felt heavy with need.
She tugged Cole back for another searing kiss. She felt the arm of the sofa behind her and realized that with one small tip, they could fall onto it.
He lifted his mouth from hers. “Tell me to leave now. Otherwise, this is going to end up where I want.”
“And where would that be?”
He looked down at her clothes. “I’ll be the guy who satisfies your inner domestic goddess.”
Wow. His words served to arouse her further.
He gave a slow-burn smile and nodded at her ruffly apron. “I couldn’t have dreamed of a sexier get-up if I tried.”
“It’s meant for cooking,” she protested.
“Among other things.” His hands settled on her waist, and he rocked against her as he bent and nuzzled her neck. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”
She couldn’t. She tried to force the words, but they wouldn’t come.
“You’re beautiful and sexy and alluring. I want to be inside you, pleasing us both until you’re calling out my name again and again...”
Oh. My. Sweet. Heaven. His words set her on fire. With Sal, sex had always been perfunctory. He’d never given her words...
Cole cupped her buttocks and lifted her, pressing her against him.
She cradled his face and kissed him again.
“Bed,” he said thickly, “though the sofa would work, too.”
“Mmm,” she mumbled.
He must have taken her response for a yes because the next thing she knew, she perched on the back edge of the sofa.
Cole covered one of her breasts with his hand. He shaped and molded the sensitized mound and its taut peak. Then he trailed moist kisses down her throat and along her collarbone.
Releasing her breast, he tugged at the hem of her tee. She helped him, and then they both worked to slide the top over her head.
Cole’s gaze settled on her chest, and she tried not to squirm. She’d always been self-conscious about her size.
“You’re even more beautiful than I remembered,” he breathed.
Then he bent his head and drew one tight bud into his mouth, bra and all, sucking her as if enraptured.
Oh. Oh. Oh. She didn’t think she was going to last. She needed Cole now. She ached for him, already halfway to release even though he’d only put his mouth on her.
When he lifted his head, he blew against her breast, and if possible, her nipple grew tighter against its thin and wet covering. Marisa nearly came out of her skin.
Cole unclasped her bra and pulled it off her. He ducked his head and took her breast deep into his mouth, laving her with his tongue and then swirling it around her nipple.
Marisa pulled his head close. Sal had never given her body this level of attentiveness while Cole acted as if he had all the time in the world. Fifteen years ago she’d held Cole to her breast like this. But now he was all man—strong, capable and sure of himself. The scar across his cheek was pulled taught, and the stubble on his face was a gentle abrasion against her skin.
She gripped his head as he transferred his attention to her other breast. Her head fell back, and her eyes fluttered closed. With the world shut out, only Cole and his touch existed, with an even greater intensity than before.
Cole lifted his head, and his breath hissed out. “What do you want, Marisa?”
She opened her eyes to meet his. “You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“You. I want you.”
A look of satisfaction crossed his face. “Some things don’t change, sweet pea. I can’t keep my hands off you, either.”
In response, she guided his hands back to her breasts, where they could both feel her racing heart.
“Marisa, Marisa,” he mutt
ered.
He was all appreciation, and it was like a salve to her soul. She’d never felt like a goddess before, domestic or otherwise.
He gave her a gentle nudge, and she slid off the back edge of the sofa and onto the seat cushions, her legs dangling off one arm. Her mules hit the carpet with one muffled thud after another.
Cole pushed up her apron and then pulled off her biker shorts with one fluid movement. He stroked up her thigh, his calluses a shivery roughness against her skin—reminding her that he had a physical job as well as an office one.
“Ah, Marisa.” Pushing aside her underwear, he pressed his thumb against her most sensitive spot while his finger probed and then slipped inside her.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
“What does it seem like I’m doing?” he murmured, his thumb sweeping and pressing in a rhythm that made her tighten unbearably. “I’m going to make you breathless, sweet pea.”
“Make me?”
It was the last thing she said before she gave herself up to sensation. Within moments she convulsed around him, her hips bucking. It was an orgasm born of a forbidden longing that had been brewing for fifteen years.
When she subsided, she realized Cole had satisfied her, but not himself. Her gaze connected with his, and she took in the intense expression stamped there.
“Yes,” he said huskily. “It’s going to be even better than before.”
Better than before.
Marisa heard a knock at the front door, but in her sexual haze, it took her a moment to react. Then she froze.
Cole stilled, as well, apparently having heard the same thing.
There was the distinct sound of a key being slipped into the front door and the lock turning.
Marisa’s eyes widened and fixed on Cole’s.
In the next instant she was scrambling off the sofa—swinging her legs down and around and bolting to her feet.
Cole tossed her the biker shorts, but she had no time to do anything but stuff them under a pillow as she brushed down her apron.
“Marisa?” Serafina called. “Hello?”
Her cousin appeared in the entrance to the living room, and Marisa thought the whole situation could take the prize for Most Awkward Situation in One’s Own Home.
