by Nicola Marsh
He stabbed at the “answer” button with his thumb and raised the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. How’s your room?”
“You could see for yourself if you popped in.”
“Is that a line?”
“I don’t know. Is it? Do you feel the compulsion to rush over to room 306 and see me right now? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Sorry, no compulsion.”
“Too bad.” He lowered his voice. “I’m still sore from hefting all those heavy platters in Auckland, and if you want me at the top of my beefcake game for your shoot tomorrow, you could give me that massage.”
She laughed, a joyous sound that shot straight to his heart. Head. Gut. Wherever. “Nice try, but I’ll pass.”
“Your loss, sweetheart. Just think, you could be here right now, having me splayed on the bed at your mercy, all that bare skin to explore, running your hands over my pectorals, my biceps, my latissimus dorsi—”
“I hope that’s not a fancy anatomical term for anything below the waist.”
He guffawed, enjoying their sparring way too much. “You sure I haven’t tempted you?”
She hesitated a moment, before replying. “Maybe a little, but I really have to prep for tomorrow. I’m meeting with the head chef in thirty minutes to run through the dishes, then I’ll need a few hours to go through my planning.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Just bring the beefcake at eight sharp in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Manny?”
“Yeah?”
“If I ever lose my mind and decide to give you a massage, I’ll be starting at your very impressive gluteus maximus.”
21
Harper couldn’t stop grinning as she made her way down the elaborate staircase leading to the hotel foyer. She’d never been good at comebacks, always thinking of a witty retort about ten minutes later than she should. But her parting comment to Manny before hanging up made her feel like punching the air. She just wished she could’ve seen his expression.
Of course, thinking about putting her hands anywhere near his glutes wasn’t conducive to focusing on work, and she needed to get her head in the game to meet with the head chef shortly. She hadn’t had much feedback after the job in Auckland. Not that she’d expected to hear from Wayne Storr himself, but it would’ve been nice to get some kind of response from his minions, who would’ve e-mailed him the layout and shots for final approval after the job was done.
On the upside, she hadn’t received anything negative either, so she took that as a good sign. Thanks to Manny coming to her rescue, she’d done the job to the best of her abilities and had been happy with the result. The fact he’d offered to accompany her down here to help too . . . still blew her mind. Guys needed to get the Manny memo that chocolates and flowers weren’t the way to a woman’s heart; give her a gallant guy who wasn’t afraid to take orders from a stressed-out woman any day.
As she traipsed down the final few steps into the foyer, she couldn’t help but wish she landed these kinds of jobs all the time. There was something inherently luxe about the Storr Hotels, an understated elegance that welcomed and enraptured at the same time.
Whereas the new hotel in Auckland had a cosmopolitan vibe with a funky edge, this one channeled Hamptons chic. Cool and sophisticated met rustic beach casual. From the ash floorboards to the white-painted front desk, the pale blue sofas to the textured gray cushions, everything evoked a sense of serenity. She loved it.
Technically, the hotel wasn’t open yet. It’d had a “soft” opening last week, meaning a few special guests had been invited to check it out. Not having many people around added to the exclusivity, and for a second she wished she wasn’t here to work but had checked in with a hot guy for pure fun.
Ironically, she had the hot guy, and he was up for the fun, yet she was prevaricating. Silly, really, as this job should only take two days like the one in Auckland, but Wayne Storr had said she could have the room for longer. Extremely generous and a rare perk of the job. But Manny probably had to rush back to the hospital and wouldn’t be up for a few days’ R&R.
You won’t know until you ask . . .
Telling her inner voice to shut the hell up, she headed for the bar, where the head chef had said they’d meet. Tucked into an octagonal alcove off the foyer, the bar boasted spectacular views of the lake through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The ivory leather–covered bar was like nothing she’d ever seen before, with matching armchairs surrounding glass-topped coffee tables scattered throughout the space. The entire place channeled a posh Hamptons’ sunroom, the perfect cozy vibe for settling down with a few drinks.
Like the foyer, the place was empty, except for a guy in the far corner. As she made her way toward him, her heels clacked against the floorboards. He must’ve heard her, because he stood, turned, and her heart stopped.
Jock McKell. World-renowned chef. In the flesh.
From the times she’d seen him on TV, she’d drooled over him as much as his exquisite food. He wasn’t tall, barely six feet, but his wiry body had strength, like he could wrestle gators. With a mop of unruly blond hair spiking in all directions, murky hazel eyes, and a road map of wrinkles, he shouldn’t have been attractive, yet women the world over fancied him. She was one of them, and as she tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, she really hoped she wouldn’t make an ass of herself.
“You must be the delightful Harper Ryland I’ve heard so much about,” he said, the faint Scottish accent as appealing as the rest of him. “Jock McKell.”
He thrust out his hand, and she was glad to see hers didn’t shake as she extended it. “Yes, I’m Harper, nice to meet you.”
They shook hands, and she couldn’t be sure if his grip lingered longer than necessary.
“Please, have a seat and we can discuss the dishes you’re going to style for me.” He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, like he was about to impart some great secret. “I can’t wait to see what you can do.”
He made it sound like she’d be undressing him, and with his eyes boring into her, a sliver of unease pierced her awe at meeting an icon of the foodie world. She admired this guy in the same way she “admired” Chris Hemsworth, Ryan Gosling, and Bradley Cooper; from afar, her unrequited lust stemming from their unattainable movie-star quality as much as their looks. And while she may have a wee crush on Jock like most of the female population, she wasn’t interested in becoming yet another woman in a long line of probable conquests.
Then there was Manny.
Would she consider responding to Jock if he wasn’t around, if she didn’t already have a thing for the dashing doctor?
She’d never know, because she liked Manny. Liked him enough to treat him with the respect he deserved, and that meant shutting down Jock if he had any ideas beyond her styling skills.
“I’m looking forward to working with you.”
If he noticed her emphasis on “working,” he didn’t show it, his stare locked on hers increasingly disconcerting.
“I have the list of dishes to style. Are we sticking with that?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back and draped his arms across the back of his chair, cocking one ankle and resting it on his opposite knee, in a classic I’m the king of the world pose. “But tell me about you.”
Uh . . . no. Hell no. The thing was, when Manny looked at her like this, teasing with a hint of impropriety, she liked it. His flirting made her feel girly and appreciated, whereas Jock came across as arrogant and sleazy. He’d known her for less than a minute and he was coming on to her. While Harper knew she looked presentable, she wasn’t a great beauty and didn’t inspire grand passions in men, so Jock’s behavior signified he did this with every woman in his sphere.
It made her dislike him, like finding
out her idol preferred takeout over his sublime creations.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do, so let’s just focus on the dishes,” she said, her firm tone earning a raised eyebrow.
“No time for play?” His gaze dropped to her cleavage and lingered, before he dragged it back to meet hers, his mouth smirking.
Ugh. So he had been coming on to her. “No.”
“Too bad. Aussie chicks are hot.”
Chicks? Double ugh. But she couldn’t screw up this job, so she mustered her best polite smile. “Are we starting with the mushroom risotto topped with roasted garlic shrimp?”
“You’re no fun,” he muttered, throwing up his hands in theatrical surrender. “Yeah, we’ll start with that, followed by the beef ragù over creamy polenta, the John Dory with black truffles, the shellfish ravioli topped with pepper tuile, and finish with the chocolate arch and citrus cream.”
Harper’s mouth watered at the thought of tasting some of Jock’s finest dishes after the shoot, and she hoped rebuffing him wouldn’t deprive her of the chance.
“Sounds good. Shall we start at eight in the morning?”
“Make it seven,” he snapped, eyeing her with ill-concealed impatience, like he couldn’t fathom how she could turn him down.
So much for him being cool with her.
“Seven is fine.”
He sat forward suddenly and reached across to grasp her knee before she knew what was happening. “Or we could stay up all night?”
Stunned by his audacity when she’d made it more than clear she wasn’t interested, she stared at his hand before sliding back in her chair, effectively dislodging it. She could flip him the finger, tell him to eff off, call him names. But this job meant too much and she’d come too far to screw it up now.
“You’re one of my idols, Jock. Your food is incredible, and I’m still pinching myself you’re here in person and I get to work with you, but I have too much respect for your talent to mess with our professional relationship.”
She’d aimed for the right mix of deference and ego stroking, leaving out the dash of kiss-my-ass she wanted to garnish with. Thankfully, he bought it, the disapproval in his eyes replaced by respect.
“See you at seven,” he said, giving a brusque nod and standing.
Relieved, she said, “See you then,” waiting until he strode out of the bar before slumping back into her chair.
A relief short-lived when a shadow fell across her and she looked up to find Manny glowering at her, his expression thunderous.
22
Manny didn’t consider himself a jealous guy. He’d have to care a lot about a woman to allow the green-eyed monster to sink its claws into him, and he never let things get that far.
So the fact he wanted to pummel the jerk who’d had his hand on Harper’s knee spoke volumes.
He cared about Harper.
More than he’d cared about any woman in a long time, if ever.
“Who was that?”
“One of the most famous chefs in the world.” She pointed to the chair the prick had vacated. “Take a seat and stop towering over me. You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”
“You have to work with him?”
He sat, making it sound like she’d be giving the chef a private lap dance, and predictably, she bristled.
“I don’t need you to go all caveman on me. I took care of him.”
“He came on to you?”
“Yeah.” She huffed out a sigh, her mouth downturned in disappointment. “He’s one of my idols, and I can’t believe I actually got to meet him. And in other circumstances I might’ve been flattered he made a pass at me, but this isn’t a good time.”
An interesting admission that made him want to punch the air. She could be referring to her work, but by the way she was looking at him, he knew it was more.
She’d rebuffed a famous chef, a guy she idolized, for him.
He’d definitely made the right decision in coming to Lake Taupo with her. But it wouldn’t hurt to clarify.
“Because this job is too important to you?”
“That too.”
She eyeballed him, daring him to make the connection, and it took less than a second.
He grinned. “You like me.”
“Yeah, go figure?”
“And you chose me over some hotshot chef.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
She poked out her tongue and he laughed. “You made the right choice, because he may be able to cook fancy-schmancy bite-size portions that’ll probably leave you hungry, but can he make a good dahl?”
“I’ve yet to taste your fabled dahl.”
“But you will, and I promise you, you’ll be blown away.”
A coy smile curved her lips, reminding him of how badly he wanted to kiss her again. “We’re still talking about lentils, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, though the thought of her lush mouth being anywhere near him made him hard in an instant.
“What are you doing down here anyway?”
“I knocked on your door, and when you weren’t there I came looking for you.”
A knowing glint lit her eyes. “Why did you knock on my door?”
Because he couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see her.
Because he wanted to have her in his arms and see how far they could take this attraction sizzling between them.
Because he was a patient man usually, but she made him a little crazy.
But he couldn’t say any of that, so he settled for, “I felt like a nightcap, thought you might like one too.”
“Nightcap . . . right . . .” she drawled, making a mockery of his excuse, her smirk alerting him to the fact she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“I’ve got a whole range of those little booze bottles ready and waiting in my room.”
She widened her eyes in faux innocence and pointed at the bar over his shoulder. “But we’ve got a smorgasbord of big booze bottles waiting for us. Why would we need to drink in your room?”
Damn, he loved her sparring.
“You want me to spell it out?”
Defiant, she eyeballed him. “Yeah.”
They’d flirted long enough. Time to up the ante.
Manny stood, moved next to her chair, and crouched down so he could murmur in her ear.
“I want you. Naked. Panting. Hot. Writhing for wanting me as bad as I want you. Splayed on my bed so I can go down on you. Before we fuck all night.”
She pulled back from him, her mouth a shocked O.
“Too much?”
She took a moment to respond, but the wicked smile curving her lips told him he’d like what she had to say.
“Not enough. All talk and no action.” She stood and held out her hand. “Time to show me.”
23
Harper pulsed with heat from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, the throb between her legs surprising her as much as Manny’s bluntness.
Until now he’d been flirtatious but not overtly blunt, and hearing him say what he’d like to do with her . . . big turn-on. Huge.
She clung to his hand as they took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. They hadn’t wanted to wait for the lift. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to, the speed with which they ran down the corridor toward his room enough of an indication how much they wanted this.
His key card didn’t work the first time, and he muttered a curse before trying it again. When the green light above the handle lit up, he all but wrenched it open. His ankle clunked against the door and he cursed again, but then they were inside and the door had barely closed before he had her up against it. His mouth ravaging hers. His hands everywhere.
Harper combusted. There was no other word to describe how she came alight, pushing against him, her hands plucking at his clothes, despera
te to clamber all over him.
His tongue tangled with hers, masterful and challenging, and she groaned with the sheer pleasure of his kiss. He palmed her ass, half lifting her off the ground, and she snaked a leg around his hip. The position suited her just fine, the friction of his erection escalating her from turned-on to oh-my-god in a second.
A delicious vibration between their bodies almost sent her over the edge before she realized what it was. Her cell. She’d turned it to silent before her meeting with the head chef, and while she intended on ignoring it Manny wrenched his mouth from hers and eased back.
“Do you need to get that?”
“No,” she said, but the sudden chill between their bodies allowed her common sense to override her blinding lust. The call could be about the shoot tomorrow. Hell, it could be Wayne Storr, and she couldn’t let it go through to voicemail.
He stepped back, giving her more room, and she sighed. “Why do you have to be so damn sensible?” she muttered, as she slid the cell from her pocket and checked the screen.
Her dad.
She was tempted not to answer it, but even if she didn’t, seeing his smiling face on the screen was enough of a damper on her sexcapades with Manny.
She screwed up her nose. “I have to get this. It’s my dad.”
“Go ahead.” His rueful smile made her want to hug him for giving her this space. “I’ll go take a cold shower.”
She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips before answering the phone.
“Hey, Dad, how are you?”
“Fine, love. You?”
“I’m in New Zealand for work. Did you get my text I sent before I left?”
“Uh . . . yes, I think so.”
Her dad sounded more absentminded than usual, and for the first time since she’d landed in New Zealand she felt guilty for not checking in on him before she left. She didn’t want to encourage his clinginess because it inevitably led to questions about her mom she couldn’t or didn’t want to answer. But her dad should be better by now, past this pining. It had been fourteen months since his marriage fell apart, and he had to move on.
