Grill Me, Baby Read online

  Michaela made a mental note to discourage his heavy-handed use of olive oil. The additional calories were an unnecessary indulgence.

  Paolo gestured to the feast before them. “Buen provecho, let’s eat.”

  She wanted to purr with sheer bliss after the first taste of succulent pork, but she didn’t, it would feed his ego too much. “This is lovely.” Damn. It was more than lovely—the pork was tasty and juicy—just like its creator.

  During the rest of the meal, she encouraged Paolo to share his recipes, but he was casual about instructions and measurements. When they cooked together, she would insist on the exact recipe and not “a little of this and a pinch of that”.

  He served small white cups of strong espresso with first-rate crema and a rich mascarpone and dark chocolate-laced tiramisu.

  “Just a tiny piece for me,” she said weakly.

  For once, Paolo complied. One taste of the luscious, Sambuca-infused layers made her wish he had cut a bigger piece, but she had to be moderate or she wouldn’t be camera ready next week. Everyone said TV added at least ten pounds to your figure.

  Michaela took another sip of espresso and gazed around, savoring the combination of creamy tiramisu and strong coffee on her palate. There wasn’t one inch of clear counter space and the sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Empty dessert plate in hand, she headed toward the sink and turned on the faucet, only to have Paolo’s warm hand cover hers and shut off the water supply. She peered into his deep-set, inky eyes and a shiver teased the length of her spine. She needed space from him, especially when his long fingers lightly squeezed her hand and her body reacted pleasurably, against her will.

  He led her out of the kitchen. “Come into the living room for a little vin santo,” he said, sounding like a wolf luring the lamb. You are not his lambie, she reminded herself.

  Michaela removed her hand from his and perched on the edge of his couch. “Everything was great, but I would have cut each portion to a third of what you served me and eliminated most of the olive oil.”

  Paolo gave a derisive snort. “That’s not eating, that’s dieting! No wonder the women on Flamingo Island don’t look feminine, more like dried-up little breadsticks.”

  She stared at him with a flash of annoyance. “So now I’m a dried-up little breadstick?”

  “Not you, Maki. You are round in all the right places. For my taste, that is,” he added with a devilish grin.

  “We’re not here to discuss my figure or your taste.”

  “Hey, it was a compliment.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t appreciate your remarks about my clients. They work hard to be healthy and fit.”

  “It’s one man’s humble opinion,” he said with a not-so-humble smile. “Thanks to your bullying, most of the women on Flamingo Island look like they’re starving.”

  Blood rushed to her face. “I do not bully and they’re not starving!”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps…but they don’t look like real women should.”

  “That’s your macho opinion.” Too late, she heard his robust guffaws. “Oh, shut up. You’re impossible.” She headed toward her briefcase in the living room. Returning to sit beside him, she pulled out the menu list she had prepared this morning and handed it to him. “Here, please look this over.”

  “I don’t need to. We just sampled the menu for the show.” He tried to hand her back the list, but she refused to take it.

  “No, we have not.” She articulated each word to get through his dense head. “Don’t assume that I’ll blindly go along with anything you say.” She shoved her list back at him. “We are going to showcase both our cuisines and cooking styles—equally. I’ll cook the meal tomorrow. Then, we come to an agreement,” she said decisively.

  Paolo sat back and studied her with a grin. “Are you always this bossy?” Somehow, this seemed to amuse him. “And you say that you don’t bully.”

  She ignored his bait and took a business card out of her wallet. “Can you arrange to be at the spa restaurant tomorrow around six?”

  He paused for a moment and read the card. “Executive chef. How long have you worked at Sublime?”

  “Two years. Can you make it tomorrow at six?” she prodded.

  “Sure, why not?” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Gil will cover for me. The restaurant owners are bending over backward to accommodate me. They’re very excited at the publicity they’ll get from Miami Spice. What are you cooking tomorrow?”

  “Mahi mahi.” That was all she would tell him about her menu.

  The corners of his mouth curved upward. “Can’t wait to sink my teeth into the firm, white flesh.”

  There was no mistaking the glimmer in his black eyes, especially since he was looking at her white flesh. Oh, he was a devil, naturally charming and hot enough to melt her composure. Feeling a bit unhinged, Michaela rose from the sofa. She needed to get out of his apartment.

  Paolo shot to his feet and was beside her in a moment. “Why are you leaving so soon?”

  Before she could respond, his cell phone rang and he answered it.

  “Hello?” His genial expression turned serious and his body stiffened with alertness as he listened to the caller. Before Michaela’s eyes, Paolo’s face blanched under his tan. “Hold on a sec.” He covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to Michaela. “I have to take this in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.”

  Michaela sat back down and waited, wondering what was so urgent that Paolo had to rush out of the room. Just as he shut the bedroom door, the front door opened again. This time a dark-haired older woman strutted inside, resembling a plump partridge stuffed into a coral Lululemon athletic warm up suit.

  “Paolo, honey, I need you to feed me, pronto!” she wailed plaintively. “I’ve just come back from the spa and I’m starving. My trainer forced me to eat another boring salad with no carbs again!” She stopped abruptly when she noticed it was Michaela, not Paolo, in the living room. “Where’s Paolo?” she demanded.

  “He’s in the other room on a phone call.” Michaela was not thrilled at hearing one of her spa salads described as boring—the ultimate insult to a chef. “What was wrong with the salad you ate?”

  “Ugh, too much healthy stuff mandated by the spa’s Food Nazi, Michaela Willoughby.” She grimaced and made a dismissive gesture, her diamond tennis bracelet twinkling on her tanned wrist. “I’d rather eat pasta any day!”

  “Why didn’t you try one of the spa’s pasta creations? They’re delicious,” Michaela said, horrified that anyone would refer to her as the Food Nazi.

  “Says who?” Bernice challenged.

  “Me. They’re nutritious and low cal too,” Michaela said.

  “I’d rather eat Paolo’s cooking, calories or not.” The woman’s heavily made up green eyes scrutinized Michaela with a haughty, up and down motion. “May I ask what you are doing in Paolo’s apartment?”

  This loud, pushy woman was just about the rudest person Michaela had met in a long time. “That is none of your concern.”

  The matron pressed together her coral glossed lips and drew back, offended by Michaela’s retort. Her double chin quivered with high indignation. “Just who are you?”

  “I’m who you just referred to as the Food Nazi,” Michaela said smugly. The crass woman would regret having trash-talked Michaela’s cooking to her face. “Who are you?”

  The woman was not the least bit put off. Her attitude implied Michaela was the intruder and not vice versa. “Bernice Blumenthal,” she announced imperially, as if she were the queen of England and expected Michaela to curtsy.

  Great. Michaela groaned inwardly. Bernice Blumenthal—the producer’s wife!

  Bernice’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one competing with Paolo for Miami Spice?”

  Michaela’s heart sank as the realization hit her full force. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped for a miracle to e
rase the last few minutes. But when she reopened them, Bernice was glaring at her with unconcealed dislike.

  Michaela was doomed!

  The bedroom door suddenly swung open and Paolo emerged looking grim. He absently accepted the two noisy kisses Bernice bestowed on his cheeks, but he didn’t react with his usual sexy charisma.

  Bernice fluttered her fake lashes. “Paolo, darling, I came to discuss my little soiree and the menu you’ll be preparing for our dear Palmentieri.”

  Bernice was a close friend of Palmentieri’s? The young Italian tenor was already on his way to becoming the next Pavarotti.

  “I’m conducting a business meeting at the moment, Bernice.” He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was suddenly gruff. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather chat about this tomorrow at Bella Luna.”

  Michaela couldn’t believe Paolo was dismissing the producer’s wife. Had he lost his mind in the other room? Her spirits perked up when she realized that he’d just leveled the playing field. Maybe she wasn’t doomed after all.

  “But what about tonight?” Bernice’s lips turned downward into a petulant pout. She fiddled with a strand of hair that artfully escaped the confines of her teased and lacquered hairdo. “I came all the way over here to finalize things.”

  “Please understand, tomorrow is better, my dear.” Michaela heard the softening in Paolo’s tone. He was speaking to the middle-aged woman as if she were a child. “I’ll make your favorite pasta and a decadent dessert and give you my full attention. What do you say?”

  Paolo’s cajoling tone seemed to work, because Bernice gave him a benevolent smile. “Oh, all right. I’ll be there tomorrow at eleven thirty before the lunch crowd arrives. Ciao, Paolo.” Her bejeweled hands squeezed his biceps as she got up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheeks.

  Forget it—Michaela was still toast. Who could pass up homemade pasta and a decadent dessert in the form of a hunky chef? Bernice was acting excessively chummy with Paolo. What was their real connection?

  “Perfecto.” Paolo’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, nor was it as warm as usual. His dimples barely made an appearance before returning to grooves beside his stiff mouth.

  Bernice gave Michaela a malevolent stare. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Blumenthal,” Michaela said quietly.

  When Bernice left, Paolo turned to Michaela with a grave expression. “I’m afraid we have to end the evening now. I have some personal matters to attend to.”

  “Oh…okay.” Michaela felt awkward and wondered why Paolo was dismissing her the same way he had Bernice. “So…we’ll meet tomorrow evening at the spa and I’ll cook?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded strained, as if he was holding something back.

  She lingered for a moment, taken aback by his hardened demeanor and the taut lines of his suddenly stern mouth. Michaela hardly recognized him. Gone was the carefree Paolo of earlier, replaced by a man on edge.

  “Is everything okay? You look upset,” she said cautiously.

  “A big problem has come up, but I can’t get into it now.”

  Michaela nodded. “I understand. I’ll gather my stuff.” She got her purse and briefcase and headed toward the door. The air was charged and not in a good way.

  “Well…good-bye, then.” Michaela turned the handle and let herself out.

  “Ciao.” Paolo stood at the open door as Michaela waited for the elevator.

  She was surprised when he didn’t offer to go down with her. Something was definitely wrong.

  The elevator doors opened and a beautiful blonde girl burst forward holding a small suitcase clutched against her very pregnant belly. Huffing and puffing, she pushed another suitcase with her foot.

  “Paolo!” The girl dropped her bag and ran into his open arms. He enveloped her in a tight hug and stroked her long hair, murmuring something in Spanish. The blonde’s crimson, flushed face scrunched up pitifully. “I’m worried about the baby. I can’t raise him alone! I need you.” Her plea made Paolo flinch.

  Michaela got in the elevator and watched them, riveted to the drama.

  “Everything will be fine.” His face bleak, Paolo patted the girl’s back. “Don’t worry.”

  “I should have stayed away, but I don’t want to be a single mother!” she sobbed.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Paolo said firmly.

  The elevator doors shut just as Michaela’s jaw dropped to the floor. This young, pregnant girl was Paolo’s “big problem”? My God, he was just as bad as Jeff was.

  The cad!

  Chapter Four

  Michaela stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders, working out the kinks and tension of the long day spent in the spa kitchen. She had worked steadily on the lunch preparations and hadn’t stopped to take a break in order to prepare for tonight’s cooking session. She was glad her staff had already left for the day, giving her a breather before Paolo arrived. She took a sip of passion fruit iced tea and tried to relax in the quiet solitude of the spa kitchen, but she couldn’t let go of what she’d witnessed at Paolo’s apartment last night.

  She hadn’t slept a wink, tossing and turning with recurrent dreams of Paolo’s very pregnant baby mama sobbing on his doorstep. Given his good looks and sexy Latin charm, Michaela could understand his player reputation, but when an innocent baby was the outcome of his fooling around, it was unacceptable. Last night’s sad scenario had left a bad taste in her mouth. No wonder he had been in such a rush to get rid of her and Bernice.

  Good thing she’d found out what Paolo was like before she’d allowed him to draw her in. Truth was, she had enjoyed his cooking immensely and their banter had been invigorating. Against her better judgment, Michaela had begun to take pleasure in his engaging company—that is, until his pregnant lover arrived.

  The snake charmer.

  Michaela heard footsteps and for a second, thought it might be Paolo. She put down her clipboard and turned to find Lisa, her massage therapist friend, approaching her with the graceful stride of a born athlete.

  “Hey, how did it go with Paolo yesterday?” Lisa asked.

  Michaela gave her a pained look and shook her head. “Not good. Let’s just say Paolo has shown his true colors.”

  Lisa’s brow creased. “What do you mean? Wanna take a break and chat?”

  “I wish I could, but I’m waiting for Paolo. Let’s catch up tomorrow. Are you working late today?”

  “Yeah. Bernice Blumenthal changed her usual four o’clock Swedish massage to six thirty. Millie has a night class and can’t take her, so I have to stay.” Lisa flexed her hands and stretched her toned arms in front of her. “I could use a massage myself.”

  The mere mention of that crass woman made Michaela cringe inside. Being referred to as the Food Nazi by Bernice and her snarky comments about the spa’s food still irked her.

  “Is she your regular customer?” Michaela asked.

  “Yep, she’s a real chatterbox. It’s hard to keep her quiet long enough for the massage to take effect, but she fills me in on all the juicy gossip.”

  “What about Mr. Blumenthal? Is he your client too?”

  “The TV producer?” Lisa nodded. “He comes in once a week, but early in the morning. He is the total opposite of his wife—high-powered and very type A. Barely says anything while I work the stiffness out.”

  “Arthritis?”

  “That and the stress from living with Bernice.”

  Michaela grimaced. “I hear you. I got a taste of her last night at Paolo’s apartment.”

  Lisa looked baffled. “Wait a minute, both of you were at Paolo’s—together?”

  “No, she showed up at the end of the evening and wasn’t thrilled to find me there.”

  “No surprise there. You’re young and beautiful and tough competition for Paolo’s attention.”

  Michaela made a wry
face. “I’m not seeking his attention. I just want him to be professional so we can impress the heck out of the producers.” She glanced at her watch. “He should be arriving any minute. I’m going to prepare the meal I’d like to feature on Miami Spice.”

  Lisa’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, what are you making?”

  “Grilled mahi with nectarine salsa, baby asparagus with blood orange vinaigrette, roasted shallot and grape tomato kebabs…”

  Lisa grabbed her midsection. “Stop, my stomach’s growling already.” She grinned. “I wish I could stay and watch you and Paolo in action.”

  “I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

  “Can’t wait. I’m sure it’ll be more fun than having to hear Bernice’s complaints about lumpy cellulite. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll gossip instead.”

  “I’ll save you some left-overs.”

  “Thanks! You just made my day. See ya,” she said and left smiling.

  Lisa’s enthusiasm for her cooking gave Michaela a boost in morale. Who cared what Bernice thought, or Paolo for that matter? She had her fans too.

  Michaela glanced at a framed article in the Miami Herald on the wall above the phone. The exacting food critic, Ms. Apple Famesworth, had given her the highest “apple rating” in her review.

  “Michaela’s cuisine is bold and seductive and a little deceiving. Who would have guessed that the luscious key lime pie I ended my satisfying meal with was actually low cal? I couldn’t resist and indulged in a second helping. I give Michaela’s cuisine at Sublime, The Island Spa restaurant, five out of five apples, for originality, taste and presentation. This is a definite winner on my list of ‘Must Dine, Can’t Miss Restaurants’ in South Florida…”

  Michaela glanced at her watch again. Ten minutes after six and no Paolo in sight. What was keeping him—another crisis?

  For the second time, she picked up her clipboard and double-checked that all cooking utensils and ingredients were in order. She looked about with satisfaction. All the pots and pans were polished to a gleaming shine, cutting knives sharpened, and stainless steel counter tops scoured to a sparkling clean.