Lisa sniffled and wiped her eyes. “This is silly, I must be PMSing, but I’m beginning to doubt I’ll ever find Mr. Right. I just don’t seem to fall for the good ones.”
“Me neither. Anyway, it’s not worth being with someone who doesn’t respect you, right? Remember what I went through with Jeff.”
“That was different. He asked you to marry him.”
Michaela snorted. “Only because he wanted me to be the ‘respectable’ cover for the press.”
“What do you mean? Are you telling me Jeff was gay?” she asked, shocked.
“Nooo, just the opposite. He was a sex addict—with everyone but me,” Michaela said, still smarting from the memory.
“Ew, you’re better off without him. You never told me about that part.”
It was true. Michaela hadn’t told anyone but her family. But seeing the shock on Lisa’s face, she knew it was time to qualify what she’d just said. “It was too raw for me to tell you about it when it was going on.”
“I understand. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s okay. I know I can trust you.” Michaela took a deep breath and exhaled as she gathered her thoughts. She hadn’t talked about Jeff in so long, it was strangely cathartic now. “Before we started dating, Jeff got a socialite teenager pregnant. He was thirty-two at the time. Ashley was only eighteen and he wouldn’t marry her. He made her get an abortion.”
Lisa’s eyes shot open. “Oh no.”
Michaela nodded, the memories making her feel sick inside all over again. “They managed to keep it out of the tabloids, but Jeff’s dad and his manager ordered him to clean up his act. That’s when he went after me—the nice girl,” she said, making quotation marks with her fingers. “I had no idea about his past, but he was so sexy and confident, different from any guy I’d ever dated. Jeff swept me off my feet and before I knew it we were engaged.” She paused and swallowed hard. “Until the day after our engagement party when I caught him having sex with Ashley.”
Lisa gasped. “No! Was she the one he got pregnant?”
Michaela nodded grimly. “One and the same.”
“What did you do?”
“I dumped his sorry ass. Unfortunately, I found out later that Jeff had been hooking up with other young girls too.” All the old anger and outrage rushed back, hitting her full force. A year ago, she’d gone from crying to raging over what she’d learned about him. Michaela strove to shake off her anger—no sense in reliving past heartache. “I’m stronger and hopefully wiser now. That’s why charismatic players like Paolo are poison to me—he could be as bad as Jeff.”
“Or maybe not. Paolo might be different.”
“I doubt it. Players are selfish and they usually end up breaking some poor girl’s heart. I don’t want to ever be that girl again.”
“I don’t either. I was just teasing.” Lisa looked wistful. “I want to get married and start a family.”
“Me too—some day.” Michaela chuckled and hugged Lisa. “Just look at us, moping about men. I hope we both find the right one some day. I know you will, at least. You’re pretty and fun—and you give a great massage.”
Lisa managed a wobbly smile. “Aw, you’re sweet. I needed that. I still want a full report on Paolo tomorrow.”
“Hmph, well he’s coming across as a bit of a chauvinist. The type who thinks the little woman should cater to him and be kept barefoot and pregnant.”
Lisa’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Most women love him. Paolo must have some good qualities.”
“He might, but I need to keep my guard up. There’s too much at stake. Remember, I’m self-pubbing my cookbook. If I get chosen for Miami Spice, my book sales will be off the charts and I won’t have to hear one more ‘I-told-you-so’ from my parents about all the rejections from the New York publishers.”
Lisa gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. “I’m rooting for you to win.” She was as loyal as they came. That’s why it was doubly rotten of Tommy to tell Lisa he didn’t feel the “passion” with her anymore. The jerk.
“Thanks. Paolo is very ambitious and overly confident. I’m setting some ground rules tonight.”
“Good for you! If anyone can handle him, it’s you.”
Michaela felt a surge of sly anticipation as she smiled back. “I plan on deflating the Latin lover’s puffed up ego.” She made a stabbing motion with her pointer finger. “I’m going to flatten the air out of that Argentinean soufflé.”
Lisa eyes popped open. “Wow,” she breathed.
“I am not kidding. I will slice and dice him until I’ve made mincemeat out of his oversized conceit. By the time I’m finished with Paolo, he’ll be reduced to petits pois size.”
Lisa took a step backward and giggled nervously. “Your eyes look a little scary, Michaela. What are you planning to do to him?”
“I’m still deciding. But one thing’s for sure. I’m going to be the new host of Miami Spice!”
Chapter Three
At five minutes to six, Michaela stood outside Paolo’s door and rang the doorbell. Was that him singing inside? Intrigued, she leaned in to listen and almost fell forward when the door was flung open. Looking ruggedly handsome and freshly shaven, Paolo grasped her shoulders and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek.
“¡Querida!” he boomed. “You’re early.”
“I’m on time,” she corrected, caught off guard by the intoxicating whiff of his subtle citrus cologne mingled with the mouth-watering scents wafting from the kitchen. Oh God. She was famished—not just for food, but also evidenced by her racing pulse, for male company. Unfortunately, her work schedule left little time for dating.
Who was she kidding? This was no date and there was nothing ordinary about the hot Argentine. Michaela raised her hand to her cheek where his lips had been only seconds earlier. Most social kisses were air kisses. Not Paolo’s…he made sure his lips touched skin. Whoa, calm down, she told herself firmly. He’s your opponent.
Paolo took her wrist in his big hand and glanced at her watch. “I’m running a little late.”
“Do you want me to come back later?” She snatched her wrist out of his warm grasp.
“No, of course not. Come in, come in.” He cocked his head and sized up her starched turquoise chef’s tunic. “Did you come over straight from work?”
“Yes, I didn’t have time to go home and change.”
Michaela sized him up too, taking in the white cotton shirt rolled up on his brawny forearms and casually tucked into a pair of snug jeans. Glancing down at his feet, she noted he was barefoot. A little too comfy for a business meeting. His black, deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched her checking him out.
“I can lend you a blouse if you want to change into something less stiff.” He waved his hand at her eloquently.
She arched a brow. “Oh? You keep women’s clothes here?”
His dimples deepened. “My mistake, querida. I translated wrong. I should have said shirt. One of my shirts.”
Michaela’s fingers fiddled with the top button of her tunic chef’s apron. “No, thanks. I’m comfortable.” She squared her shoulders and pulled a paper out of her briefcase. This was a business meeting, nothing more. “Why don’t we get down to business? Here’s the menu that I…”
“Put that away.” Paolo frowned at the paper she held out. “We’ll look at it later.”
“Fine.” Michaela stuffed the paper back into her briefcase, shut it with a snap and set it on the floor. Clearly, Paolo wasn’t going to talk business until he was good and ready. The macho Argentine in him probably wanted things done his way and the Italian in him preferred to do it on a full stomach.
Michaela took a quick inventory of his small living room. She had expected to find a bachelor pad complete with a big, flat-screen TV, black leather couches and the latest issues of Maxim ma
gazines lying on his coffee table, featuring hot girls in bikinis.
Instead, his apartment was kind of cozy in muted tones of ochre, accented by two brandy colored leather couches, a man-size espresso-colored recliner, and a large coffee table. The butter-colored walls were jammed with autographed photos of a grinning Paolo posing with A-list celebrities. In all the pictures, Paolo’s tanned arm was amiably slung over each celebrity’s shoulders. Michaela’s jaw dropped. Had that many superstars eaten at Ristorante Bella Luna? The Latin lover sure knew how to schmooze.
“I’ve made a lot of friends here,” he said with a casual nod at the photos.
“Friends?”
He flashed a confident grin. “Of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated, walking toward the couch competing for space beside an upright piano. She noticed the array of thriving herbs in terracotta pots on the shelf under the window. So Paolo had a green thumb and he played the piano. Interesting…
“Nice place,” she murmured.
“Thanks. It’s not big, but it suits my needs. Come to the kitchen. I’m making crostini.”
Michaela followed the tempting aromas into his surprisingly large kitchen.
“Please sit down. Salud.” He handed her a glass of chilled pinot grigio and clinked it with his. Gesturing toward the cobalt-blue tiled kitchen counter, he pulled out a barstool for her. The counter was set with square straw place mats and sleek white dishes, a clean, simple setting for his meal. Ripe figs rested in a white bowl at the end of the counter.
Paolo followed her gaze and gestured to the bowl. “Figs are my favorite fruit.” He bared perfect white teeth in a lopsided grin. “I love to pull apart the delicate skin and devour the plump flesh inside.”
His vivid description made Michaela’s toes curl and she sputtered her sip of wine. Their gazes locked and the smolder in his dark eyes made her sizzle like the hot skillet where he was grilling slices of Tuscan bread. After drizzling them with olive oil, he lovingly rubbed each slice with a split clove of raw garlic and topped it with a thin smear of cannellini paste, followed by chopped, ripe tomatoes. Her gaze was captivated by Paolo’s large, brown hands when he took a sprig of basil from a potted plant on the windowsill, plucked the leaves, and roughly tore them up.
“Your herbs look so healthy. What’s your secret for growing basil?” she asked.
“I take the leaves and pinch, pinch, pinch.” He winked. “But always on the bottom.”
“I’m sure you’re a pro at pinching bottoms,” she murmured dryly.
He grinned shamelessly. “I like to think so.” Paolo finished sprinkling the basil over the crostini and handed one to Michaela.
Before she could respond, the front door flung open and three giggling girls in bikini tops and sarongs sauntered into his apartment.
“Hey, Paolo, got enough for us?” a Pamela Anderson wannabe asked.
“Yeah, smells delish,” added her identical twin. “We couldn’t resist popping in.”
“Paolo, amor, the aroma in the hallway would tempt a saint. What are you making?” a sexy, tanned brunette asked as she sashayed toward him.
“I would invite you to stay and eat, but I’m in the middle of a business dinner.” He indicated Michaela. “This is Chef Michaela. We’re competing for the new cooking show I told you about.” He passed around a platter. “Here, have some crostini.”
“Hi.” Michaela tried to sound friendly, but she wasn’t thrilled about the interruption or the familiarity of the sexy babes.
The three of them sized up Michaela’s buttoned-up chef tunic and barely acknowledged her with a polite nod. Evidently, she posed no threat.
“Maki, these are my neighbors. The twins are Sasha and Suki. And this is their roommate, Elena,” he said, nodding toward the brunette. “Elena owns Cheeky Chic, a Brazilian bikini shop in South Beach. Elena’s like me, we both have Italian mothers.”
Michaela smiled politely and watched the girls eat the crostini and lavish compliments on Paolo. He, in turn, was basking in their flirting and enjoying himself immensely.
“Paolo, can we tempt you for a little swim?” Elena sidled up to him. “We were on our way to the pool.”
“Not today, Elena.” Paolo’s smile broadened and those rakish dimples appeared, seeming to wink at her. “I really am in the middle of a business meeting. Maybe tomorrow night.”
Michaela told herself not to be bothered. She didn’t know why the idea of Paolo carousing in a pool with three bikini-clad bombshells annoyed her, but it did. She was glad when they finally left.
Determined to seem unfazed, Michaela asked, “What part of Italy is your mother from?”
“Mamá was born in Buenos Aires, but her mother was from Firenze. When my grandmother’s family moved to Buenos Aires, she met my grandfather, who was from the States.”
“No wonder your English is so good.”
“Thanks. Have you been to Italy?”
“I spent a year in Paris, studying at Le Cordon Bleu. That summer, I toured Europe, but spent most of my time in Spain and Italy. Tuscany was my favorite region.” Michaela took a final, crunchy bite of crostini and sipped more wine.
“Mine too,” he said, beaming. Paolo grabbed a dishtowel and tucked it in the front of his jeans, apron-style. He turned to the stove. “We’re almost ready to eat.”
Michaela watched him sauté fresh haricots verts in a liberal amount of garlic and green olive oil. She checked out the grill section of the six-burner, Jenn Air stove. “You’re not grilling tonight?”
“Nah, only the crostini. I prefer to grill meat outdoors or at the restaurant.”
She got up from the barstool and peeked through the glass oven door. “Roast pork tenderloin and potato-fennel gratin.” She inhaled the savory aroma. “You must have added cream and flavored the gratin with vermouth. Am I right?”
His eyes gleamed with admiration. “You have an amazing sense of smell.”
Michaela smiled. “My taste buds are even better.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” Paolo’s glance rested on her mouth briefly and then returned to gaze into her eyes. “Move aside, mujer, I need to work.”
His warm breath tickled her sensitive ear. That and his firm hand on her waist sent a hot thrill coursing through her. He was a lethal combination—an exotic chef with sexy hands making killer food. To her surprise, he suddenly launched into a Spanish ballad as he turned back toward the oven. She had to hand it to him—Paolo was pure entertainment, but he oozed too much Latin charm and hot sexuality for his own good—or hers.
When he bent over to open the oven door, Michaela couldn’t help but notice that his jeans did justice to a tight, muscular butt. Her face flamed with embarrassment when he turned from his bent-over position and caught her ogling the seat of his pants.
Paolo flashed a knowing grin. “Is it too warm in here? You look flushed, Maki.”
“It’s the wine.” Michaela looked away from the devilish twinkle in those dark eyes as she opened the top two buttons of her tunic. Paolo’s gaze dropped to the hollow at her throat and her pulse tripped up. An image of him kissing her and unbuttoning the rest of her tunic came out of nowhere. He smiled slowly, the sensual invitation in his eyes sparking sweet heat that spread from her face and neck to a place deep in her belly. Flustered, she looked away and rapidly fanned herself. “Can’t wait to taste the tenderloin,” she said lamely.
“It’s my mother’s recipe. Mamá’s family in Firenze grills a whole pork loin on their outdoor spit every Sunday afternoon. They stud it with lots of garlic and rosemary, and then baste it with red wine. The best part is the crackling rind.” He pressed his fingertips together and smacked them with a kiss. “¡Delicioso!”
“Yes, well, it might be delicious.” She tore her gaze away from his sultry mouth and swallowed hard. “But it’s too rich to indulge in on a weekly basi
s.”
“That’s silly.” Paolo’s appreciative gaze slid over her figure. “With your shape, you shouldn’t be worrying about rich food, little spaghetti. Women are supposed to have curves.” He moved his hands in an exaggerated hourglass shape.
You certainly know all about female curves, she thought, recalling his near-naked neighbors as she headed toward the overflowing sink. What a disaster—so different from her habit of washing, drying and putting things away as she used them to avoid a messy overload at the end.
“I’m going to clear things up a bit,” she said.
Paolo shook his head of shaggy, black hair. “Don’t. I’ll do that later.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, the heat of his skin sending a tingle straight to her toes as he led her back to the barstool. “Sit down. We’re ready to eat.”
There it was again, that dazzling, white-toothed smile against dark olive skin, the type of smile any sensible person would do well to ignore, Michaela thought, looking away.
“Please refill our wine glasses while I serve the gnocchi,” he said.
Michaela obliged and then sat back and enjoyed having Paolo serve her. She speared a tiny dumpling and tasted it. Rich and creamy, the gnocchi tasted delicious bathed in tomato basil sauce, but it had whole ricotta and egg. She could tell on the first bite. It was possible to achieve a lighter, airy gnocchi without the yolk or ricotta. She would have made it with potato instead of flour and used one egg white.
“Very nice,” she said politely, liking the hint of nutmeg in the gnocchi.
“Gracias.”
The glazed pork tenderloin emerged from the oven with a perfectly crusted outside and tender and herb-studded inside. Paolo served two thick slices beside a serving of the golden gratin and fragrant haricots verts.
When he drizzled extra virgin olive oil over the gratin, Michaela switched her plate with his. “No oil for me.”
“Nonsense, I insist.” Ignoring her resistance, he drizzled the olive oil over the haricots verts as well!
Grill Me, Baby Page 3
