One Taste

by Cari Quinn

  She poured steaming water over her teetering mound of hot cocoa. “Not your usual type, huh?”

  And why, oh why had she said that?

  “My usual type?”

  Too late now. “Yeah, about five-ten and a hundred pounds, sixty of it hips, butt, and boobs.” She sipped her cocoa, letting the searing liquid distract her from imagining Vincent with those faceless women. “Any mere mortal probably can’t measure up.”

  He closed the cabinet and shifted toward her without lowering his arm, cornering her against the counter. God, one look at the predatory expression in his eyes made her skin tingle. “Hell, Kiki, what did that ex of yours do? You make Saffron look as trusting as Pollyanna, and she’s got issues out the ass.”

  She set down her mug, very carefully. “Nico isn’t up for discussion.”

  “Nico.” Vincent angled his chin so his wireframe glasses slid down his nose. “Even sounds like a prick.”

  “He was just a man.” She went back to the table and sat down, shaking off the sudden chill that stole through her. Wasn’t hard to identify, either. The mention of Nico always made her feel as if someone had just dug up her grave. Actually, that was too tame. As if someone had unearthed her reanimated corpse. “Sure you don’t want to change Saffron’s name?” she asked, staring at his document’s winking cursor.

  In the nearly four hours she’d been there, they’d actually made some progress, if she could count translating his stream-of-consciousness dictation as writing. So far, they’d racked up ten pages. She’d added her own touches throughout, unable to help herself. Surprisingly, he hadn’t seemed to mind. Maybe she didn’t have a lot of writing experience, but she was an avid reader. Losing herself in a character was fun, especially when—

  “What’re you doing?” she asked, jerking away when he tucked the sweatshirt from the back of her chair around her shoulders.

  “Warming you up.” But it was his eyes that were warm when they settled on her face. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to control my impulses toward you.”

  Feeling idiotic, she gripped his sweatshirt under her chin. She wanted to burrow into the soft cotton, but she resisted. Wearing something of his felt too intimate. Bad enough that the smell of his aftershave made her hormones pulse into overdrive.

  “Sure you don’t want to put it on?” His gaze drifted over her face. “Though I think you’d swim in it, at least your teeth wouldn’t be chattering.”

  She took a bolstering sip of cocoa. “I’m fine.” Before she could stop herself, her gaze skipped down his muscled arm, revealed by the torn-off sleeve of his shirt. His golden skin popped against the white, reminding her of how amazing his broad chest had looked before he’d buttoned up.

  Her fingers curled around the handle of her mug as she remembered his rippled stomach muscles and the alluring hollows beneath his ribcage. She wanted to kiss each rib, to dip her tongue into the slash of his navel before heading lower.

  God, lower.

  “Kiki?” He was staring at her, his expression as heated as the waves of desire her thoughts had sparked.

  Work. They had to work. And how long did she think she could wave that flag between them?

  “Yeah.” She took another drink, letting the chocolate explode on her tongue. It was a poor substitute for the taste of his mouth, but it would have to do. “Aren’t you cold? It can’t be more than fifty in here.”

  “Fifty-eight,” he corrected, dragging his chair closer to hers so they could both see his laptop screen. “But if I get cold, I’ll let you know.”

  “You can’t sit on my lap.”

  He laughed, and the sound thrilled her to her ice block toes. “You can always sit on mine.” He tapped the screen and cast her a sideways glance. “Since you’re so determined I change Saffron’s name, you must have some other suggestions.”

  “You shot them all down.”

  “You give up that easily?”

  Who was she to turn away an olive branch? “Victoria? Annie? Jessica—”

  “Julia. Final offer.”

  An uncomfortable warmth spread along her breastbone, and it wasn’t from the cocoa she gulped down fast enough to tear a hole in her esophagus. “Julia’s my middle name.”

  Vincent grinned and batted the stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Say hello to Julia.”

  “Anything’s better than Saffron,” she managed, doing a find and replace.

  “I like Julia, so I’m okay with it. Kiki Julia Wyatt. That’s different.”

  “My real name’s Katherine.”

  “Katherine.” He rolled it around his tongue. “How’d you become Kiki?”

  “It was a school nickname. Nico told me it sounded like a whore, so I adopted it exclusively after we broke up. I’m contrary that way.”

  If Vincent was attractive when he was in professor mode, he was positively lethal when his face took on that territorial Italian, tough-guy grimace. She doubted he even knew he did it.

  “Prick,” he said again, under his breath.

  She gave him a brittle smile. Prick fit, actually. “So where were we?”

  Thankfully, he didn’t press the issue. “Before the name argument? Arguing over when Nathan should show up. I said having him appear in Chapter Two built the tension; you insisted she should see him in the lobby of French Kiss ’n Tell the day after the first takeover attempt.”

  “In romances, the hero and heroine should meet as close to the first page as possible.”

  His smile turned into a smirk. “Aren’t we the expert?”

  “I’ve read my share of romances over the years.” She flipped his pencil through her fingers while she studied the screen. “Then again, it might work if she sees him at the end of Chapter One.” She dropped the pencil, and it rolled across the table as she attacked the keys. “Like this.”

  He didn’t say a word as she typed like a woman possessed. A couple minutes later, she turned the laptop toward him. “What do you think? End the chapter on a cliffhanger. Their eyes meet across a crowded lobby….”

  Silently, he read what she’d written. His brisk nod told her he liked where she was going. “You asked why he was going after her company,” he said after a moment.

  “Yeah, and you said because he could. He eats up smaller, fledgling companies for the fun of it. For him, it’s about the chase more than the capture.”

  “Not this time. This time, it’s all about the capture.” Vincent grinned, slow and sure. “Julia left him at the altar years ago. And now Nathan’s going to pay her back by ripping away what matters most to her. Try that for motivation, baby.”

  Chapter Six

  It was a damned good twist. Inspired, really. But Kiki only stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a forked tongue.

  “Well?”

  “Leaving someone at the altar is a cliché, Vincent.”

  That’s all she was giving him? “But don’t you think that’s great motivation for Nathan going after Julia’s company? Revenge being a dish best served cold and all that.”

  “Ixnay the altar bit, and it’s decent.”

  “Decent.” Vincent reclined in his chair, studying the compressed set of her mouth as she continued to type. “Got any better ideas, Nora?”

  “No. Like I said, it’s a good one. Just needs some adjustments.” And so saying, she began to detail her suggestions.

  For the next two hours, they lobbed possibilities back and forth. Eventually, she pulled the stick out of her ass and loosened up enough to actually smile once in a while.

  She had a great smile, and on the rare occasions he heard it, a raucous laugh. The kind that made you grin whether you much felt like grinning or not. There wasn’t one ounce of lady in that smoky laugh, and he savored it the way a drunk might his last drink, not knowing when he’d get another hit.

  When his grandfather’s cuckoo clock struck midnight, and Kiki jumped high enough to almost whack her head on the ceiling, he tugged her to her feet. “Work’s done for the night.”

/>   “But we haven’t figured out how to start the next chapter,” she protested as he nudged her toward the living room.

  “We got one done. That’s damned good for our inaugural night. If we do a chapter a day for the next eighteen days, we’ll have a book. Or a reasonable facsimile of one.” He gestured to the couch. “Now we let stuff percolate.”

  She worried her lower lip between her teeth, her gaze ping-ponging between the couch and the door. After their relatively successful evening, her obvious bout of nerves struck him as more endearing than irritating.

  “Not going to scurry home, are you?”

  A hint of a smile teased the corners of her mouth as she sat down. “No.”

  “Good. Besides, it’s snowing like a bitch outside.” He shook his head as she sprang up to see for herself. God forbid she believe him. “Satisfied?” he asked after she let out a low whistle.

  “Six inches must’ve fallen since the last time I checked. If I don’t start shoveling out now, I’ll never get out of here.”

  “So spend the night.” It wasn’t until her head swung around that he clued in to what he’d suggested. He cleared his throat, nearly as surprised as she was. “I’ll take the couch.”

  “I have my own bed.”

  “Good to know.” Rather than debating the point, he turned to rifle through his movie collection. “How about a movie? Something violent or something funny?” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “More porn, perhaps?”

  “Nice try, but no.” Seemingly relieved that he hadn’t instantly started trying to separate her from her clothes, she sat down on the couch. “Watching stuff blow up is always entertaining.”

  “Remind me not to piss you off.” After loading a movie into the DVD player, he joined her on the sofa and adjusted what was left of his shirt sleeve. The fabric had been rubbing the bandage all night.

  “You okay?”

  “Been better. I’d take this off, but I know that’d freak you out,” he said as the credits rolled. “So I’ll just suffer in silence.”

  Her lips twitched. “You’re never silent for long.” For a moment, they watched the previews. “You can take it off. I don’t mind.”

  He glanced at the sweats he’d put on in an attempt to make her feel more comfortable. “My pants, too?”

  Her laughter twined around him, low and soft, a jarring counterpoint to the shouting coming from the TV. “You didn’t get shot below the waist.”

  “Thank God for small favors.” Fumbling, he unbuttoned the shirt and started to take it off, but Kiki stopped him with a hand on his chest, right above his speeding heart. “What?” Even to his own ears, his voice didn’t sound steady. “Change your mind?”

  “Let me.” She kneeled beside him and spread the panels of fabric wide, her fingertips lightly brushing his abs. He let out a hiss as her nail flicked his nipple and incited a wicked throb in his cock. “Sorry,” she murmured, clearly assuming he’d hissed because she’d touched his bandage.

  He stretched out his legs on the coffee table to distract himself from the urge to pull her onto his lap. “I’ll live.”

  She helped him get the shirt off, then drew back, her eyes picking up the shifting lights from the TV. The sole lamp he’d turned on was far enough away that the hollows of her cheeks were cast in shadows. “Better?”

  Was he imagining her breathing had changed? Did it seem so choppy to him because he wanted it to? Because he wanted her to ache like he was aching, so damn badly that his sore shoulder couldn’t even compete? “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Oh, the third Die Hard.” She released what sounded like a happy sigh and plopped onto her butt before extending her legs beside his. “I love this one.”

  “If you’ve seen it before, we can watch something else.”

  “Nah. Bruce is my man.”

  In thirty seconds flat, he developed a fierce dislike of Bruce Willis. “Another muscle-bound type.”

  “Another?”

  “Brent, remember?”

  When she didn’t respond, he made himself focus on the movie. At least twice tonight, she’d mentioned that his buff upstairs tenant, Brent Andrews, was her and Lynsay’s trainer at Maxx Fitness. Not only were the three of them pals, Brent had helped Kiki increase her stamina and build her endurance, and wasn’t it nice he just happened to live upstairs?

  Yeah, just peachy.

  After listening to Kiki prattle on about Brent, Vincent had debated evicting him on the spot, despite their long friendship and side business rehabbing houses. He wasn’t used to feeling jealous. And he damn well didn’t like it.

  Halfway through the movie, he rose to take a couple more pills and get a refill on his chocolate milk. He checked the view out the window on his way back, noting her car was buried under a heap of snow that virtually ensured she’d be spending the night, whether she wanted to or not.

  Kiki had taken his seat after he’d risen and was now digging her long dark nails into the armrest. Amused, he grabbed the seat she’d vacated and offered her a drink of his milk. She accepted the tumbler without removing her gaze from the screen.

  “You weren’t lying about liking this movie.”

  “No.” She sipped and passed the glass back. “Every time I see it, it’s like the first time.”

  “How many times have you seen it?”

  “Four. Twice in the theater. I wasn’t old enough to see R-rated movies when it came out, so I had to sneak in. My sisters were so jealous.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Three. I’m the oldest. You?”

  “Lonely only. Don’t know what I’d do what that many siblings. Or that much family, period.”

  “Not your thing, huh?”

  “No. I’m not big on family functions. Luckily, most of mine lives in Sicily, so it’s not a problem.” When he caught her thoughtful glance, he added, “Here I thought young girls snuck looks at Playgirl, not broke into action movies.”

  “Did that, too.” She grinned. “Now shh.”

  Watching her enjoy the movie was more fun than actually watching the movie itself, since he’d seen the flick numerous times. Not long later, his eyelids drooped, a sure sign his pills were kicking in. “Kiki.” He lowered his head to the back of the sofa. “Maybe I’d better—”

  “Shh.”

  He smiled, closing his eyes. He liked having her there. Normally, he didn’t encourage women to spend the night because sleepovers made the next morning tricky. But this was nice.

  Her scent—green apple shampoo and innocence—wafted over him. He drifted on it, and on the feeling of his muscles loosening, one by one.

  Moments later, he was asleep.

  “Inspired choice.” Kiki turned to smile at Vincent, only to hear him snoring softly. “Vincent,” she murmured, shaking him.

  He didn’t stir.

  Great. Now what?

  Somehow he didn’t seem like the type of guy who dozed during movies. Then she noticed the vial of pills next to his empty glass.

  Ah ha. He’d fought off his drowsiness when he’d taken his painkillers earlier, but with the dim lighting, she understood why he’d succumbed.

  The question was what she should do next.

  She turned off the TV, then drank in the sight of him in the lamp’s weak glow. His torso gleamed gold, highlighting the alluring vee of hair that crept down his belly and ended somewhere under the knot in his sweats. Then there was the chain around his neck. More gold. She’d have to ask him about it. He also didn’t seem like the type of guy who wore decorative jewelry, especially not a filagreed key.

  When her gaze started to wander, she swallowed, shifting uncomfortably at the tightening in her nipples.

  Time to go home, Kiki.

  But it would be rude to just take off, wouldn’t it? Leaving a man unconscious on a lumpy couch after she’d gotten him shot zinged right past rude to mean.

  She licked her lips, taking in the dark scruff of hair shadowing his jaw. Least she could do was see him safely
to bed.

  Kiki snorted under her breath. See him safely to bed, then peel off those sweats and feast her eyes on the wonderfulness that was Vincent Buonfiglio’s long, lean body. That would be the truly considerate thing to do.

  His sweatshirt was still tied around her neck, so she tossed it aside. “Bedtime, Vincent.” She tugged lightly on his good arm, urging him to his feet. “Up and at ’em, tiger.”

  He stopped snoring, but only pressed his cheek deeper into the cushions. Grimacing, she pulled harder on his hand. His legs fell open, and caught in the momentum, her thigh slid against his cock.

  Her eyes widened. Dammit, even asleep he was built for business. “Vincent! Wake up!”

  “Unnhh.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” She dragged him up as carefully as possible, huffing and puffing and generally straining every muscle group in her body. Good thing she’d started working out. When he finally showed enough life to put one foot ahead of another, she grinned. “‘Atta boy.”

  Taking a guess which of the two rooms at the end of the hall was his bedroom, she kicked open the partially closed door and pushed him forward. She barely managed to yank back the sheets before he flopped onto the bed.

  Six-feet-plus of half-conscious male sprawled in front of her, his glasses cockeyed, his hair mussed and his fantasy-worthy chest open to her unflinching perusal in the moonlit dark. So while she caught her breath, she perused. Who could blame her?

  After she was satisfied that he’d dropped back into sleep, she turned to go. Reluctantly.

  “Stay.”

  Now her heart galloped for a new reason altogether. She’d probably imagined the slurred, sleepy word. She shrugged it off, took another step.

  “Kiki. Stay.”

  She glanced back, wanting to stay more than she’d ever wanted anything. Awake, he tested her resolve. Mostly unconscious and totally at her mercy, he broke it in two.

  She bit her lower lip. What was the harm? It was almost morning, and leaving now probably wasn’t a good idea, anyway.