Too Darn Hot (3 page)

Lina’s shoes clicked on the terra-cotta tiles as she approached him, and reflexively his gaze skimmed down the length of her shapely legs to her feet. Sexy bronze pumps with high heels and pointy, low-cut toes. Eric almost smiled. He’d always been a sucker for toe cleavage.

He forced his eyes from the distracting sight and began slicing another red pear on a butcher block. “I’m afraid I can’t give you the two-cent tour, Lina. Perhaps another time.”

He punctuated this statement with a look that was less accommodating:
This is my domain. You’re not welcome here.

Lina seemed to get the message loud and clear. She stopped uncertainly a few feet from him and nervously pushed her hair behind an ear with flawless manicured nails. Her hair was short, thick, and glossy. Stylishly cut. Dark brown, like sable. And probably just as soft.

“I didn’t come in for a tour. I know you’re, um...busy tonight.”

Busy. Yeah, you could say that. You could also say overwhelmed, demoralized, and, thanks to you, lady, downright humiliated.

Tonight’s series of calamities couldn’t have come at a worse time. The Cookhouse was hanging on by a thread as it was. He’d struggled for nearly a year to turn a lifetime of dreams into something solid and tangible, something of which he could be proud.

He’d promised himself he’d give it till the end of the summer before throwing in the towel. By hook or by crook, he’d scrape by this summer. And then...

He didn’t want to think about what would happen then.

The razor-sharp knife in Eric’s proficient hands reduced the pear to a pile of uniform wedges in a matter of seconds. He looked up to find Lina staring at the results.

She quickly raised her eyes—then averted them. She pushed her hair behind her ear. A pink flush blossomed in her cheeks.

That was when it hit him. She hadn’t been admiring his expertise, she’d been staring at his hands.

And whatever she’d been thinking had her beautifully flustered. Interesting.

He might have a few moments to spare, after all.

Eric set the knife down and leaned back against the work island. He crossed his arms and calmly regarded his unwelcome visitor. “Okay, you didn’t come for in here for the grand tour. What’s on your mind, Lina?”

She darted a quick glance at his assistants and cleared her throat. So. She didn’t want an audience. That hadn’t stopped her a few minutes earlier, out in the dining room. That muscle jumped in his jaw again.

She took a deep breath and closed the distance between them. “Eric, I was unforgivably rude before. I’m sorry.”

He was mesmerized by the stark sincerity in her eyes. The anger that had felt so good a few short seconds ago came to a skidding halt in the face of Lina’s blushing self-rebuke. He wished he could hold on to his hostility. It made him feel safe.

He couldn’t say how long the silence stretched between them before faint whispers teased at the edges of his awareness. He turned toward his helpers. In perfect tandem, three heads whipped down and three pairs of hands became very busy.

Daniel burst through the door with a tray full of dirty dishes, Betsy on his heels.

“Pecan tart and chocolate wedges,” the waitress announced. “I can handle it.”

Cookie appeared with a bottle of French cognac. “The Avalons always have to have their postprandial pick-me-up.” She located two snifters.

Within five seconds, the place had become Disney World during Easter recess.

“I’d better go,” Lina murmured, not meeting his eyes. She turned to leave.

Before he realized what he was doing, Eric had caught her arm. He sighed, wondering why he couldn’t leave things as they were. The woman had apologized. As well she should have. Why couldn’t he just let her walk out? Then he’d never have to set eyes on her again.

He turned to Cookie. “Can you hold the fort for a few minutes?”

The maitre d’s inquisitive hazel eyes flicked to his visitor for an instant, but all she said was, “Sure thing, boss.”

“Come on.” Eric took Lina’s soft hand in his and led her through the doorway to the storeroom, where two walls of shelves were crammed with boxes, bags, huge cans, and plastic tubs. He unlocked the outside door and held it open for her. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then stepped outside with him, into the crisp May night.

They were behind the restaurant, which was located in a residential area of Rocky Bay. A public park was directly across the street. Traffic was sparse this time of night on the back roads of this little seaside town. Even though they couldn’t see the rolling waves and pristine white sand of Long Island’s South Shore a few blocks away, they could smell the tang of salt in the bracing cool air.

Eric inhaled deeply, cleansing his lungs. He’d been inside The Cookhouse for over eight hours straight, putting out fires, both literal and figurative. He’d almost forgotten there was a world outside the sultry confines of his kitchen.

He took a few steps away from Lina and rubbed his eyes, irritated from greasy smoke and exhaustion. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt, then stretched his stiff arms back until his shoulders popped.

He glanced at Lina. She was watching him in silence. In the dim glow of a streetlight he could just make out the half smile that curved her lush mouth.

“You look exhausted,” she said quietly.

“I’ve had better nights.”

As she stared at him, Eric found himself wondering what she was thinking.

He asked, “Are you usually so outspoken when you go out to dinner?”

She seemed to find that amusing. “Always.”

“Well, don’t hold back on my account. If there’s something more you’d like to add...”

Her teasing smirk made his breath catch. How could a woman be so obnoxious one moment and so disarmingly enchanting the next? The female of the species surely was a mystery to him.

She took a few steps toward him, those sexy toe-cleavage shoes click, clicking on the sidewalk. “Cookie explained about your disasters tonight. Under the circumstances, I must say, I have to admire...” She hesitated, rubbing her bare arms.

“My persistence? You’re cold.” Without thinking, he met her halfway and chafed her goose-bumped arms with his palms. He sometimes did this for the boys during Little League games in early spring when it was still so cold, you could see your breath.

He looked down. Lina’s eyes were nearly black in the murky half-light, her full, sensual lips slightly parted. Her scent teased his nostrils—something expensive, he had no doubt, with some silly name like Possession or Ecstasy or some such nonsense, but warm and stirring nevertheless. He thought he detected a hint of jasmine....

Abruptly he dropped his hands. Little League, huh? Month after month of abstinence must’ve finally taken its toll on his mind. This was no frosty morning on a ball field, and this vision in sapphire silk and designer perfume was anything but a pubescent boy in a batter’s helmet and his first cup.

His hand slowly came up. He lifted a strand of her hair and drew it between his fingers, watching it catch the meager light from the streetlamp.

Her voice was a shivery whisper. “What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see if your hair is as soft as sable.”

She swallowed, her eyes wide. “Is it?”

“Yes.” He finger-combed the strands back into place.

“Oh.”

He could swear she was blushing again, but in this gloom, it was frustratingly hard to tell.

She grinned crookedly. “Sable, huh?”

“Trust me. I know my pelts.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He ran a hand over her chilled arm. “If I had a jacket, I’d offer it, but under the circumstances...”

“I’m sure you have to get back to work anyway.” She started toward the door.

“Lina.”

She turned back.

A voice inside asked him what he thought he was doing. This wasn’t in the game plan. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to do this anymore....

“Why don’t you, uh, stay and have dessert? On the house. It’s the least I can do.”

She hesitated, but he saw the beginnings of a smile. She was about to accept.

“And if you’d like,” he rushed on before his rational side could interfere, “I could—we could—” Damn, was it this hard when he was courting Ruth all those years ago? “There’s this great little place in Island Park where we could get a drink. And a snack.” He grinned—disarmingly, he hoped. “They don’t serve duck.”

In the blink of an eye, her features iced up. A moment before, she’d been smiling warmly, even laughing with him. Now her eyes narrowed and her shoulders squared in haughty disapproval. She seemed to gain two inches in height as he watched.

What had he done wrong? Maybe they changed the way this is done, and no one had bothered to tell him.

She glanced away, as if the sight of him were somehow offensive. “That won’t be possible. I came with Joy.”

“No problem. I’d be happy to drive you home later—”

“No.” Lina spun on her heel and click, clicked back to the door, but not before impaling him with a look designed to wither whatever was left of his masculine ego.

He stared at the door long after it slammed.

Damn. Someone
had
changed the rules.

Chapter Three

“You know what you need.” Joy pulled a clean but wrinkled T-shirt of Lina’s—featuring Mr. Spock with his hand raised in a Vulcan greeting—out of a half-full laundry basket. She folded the shirt and added it to one of the growing piles on the dining table.

Lina groaned. She didn’t have to look up from the towel she was folding to see her roommate’s leer. “Give it up, Joy.”

“I don’t get it. All through your awful divorce, you kept saying, `Once I’m a free woman, watch out, fellas!’” She shoved a pile of panties aside to make room for dish towels. “Big talk. What happened to Miss Sexual Revolution?”

“You’re dating yourself.”

“Don’t change the subject, Lina. What happened to those grand plans you had to sow your wild oat bran or whatever?”

“Oat bran. Now, that’s an improvement. You just leaped three decades in a single bound.” Lina placed a folded blue washcloth on top of an apricot one. The one and a half bathrooms in Joy and Gary’s Manhattan apartment had been blue. The two and a half bathrooms in Lina and Steve’s Garden City colonial had all sported apricot linens. Unfortunately, the one Lilliputian john in the two-bedroom apartment the friends now shared in Forest Hills, Queens, was green.

Lina folded the last pair of socks and added it to her sock pile. “Do you believe we’re done with the folding? And it’s only Sunday!”

“Lee-nahhh...”

She cringed. “Okay. You want to know what happened to Miss Sexual Oat Bran Revolution? Just the thought of negotiating the whole safe-sex thing wears me out.”

Joy shook her head. “I don’t buy it. That’s not the only reason you haven’t slept with anyone. I mean, when Gary and I split up three years ago, I decided I could either crawl under a rock and hide, or I could learn how to be discriminating, ask the right questions, and take precautions.”

“Well, thank you, Dr. Ruth.”

“These are skills you’ll need to cultivate, Lina, as a divorcée of mature years.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Divorcée?”

“Mature years.”

Joy shrugged. “That’s okay, there’s always your ex, ready and willing to satisfy all your carnal needs.”

Lina shuddered dramatically. “Steve puts the moves on me every time our paths cross. Probably figures if he does it often enough, he’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe one of these days you’ll get desperate enough to—”

“Does the expression ‘When hell freezes over’ mean anything to you?”

A few moments of blessed silence lapsed before Joy caught Lina’s gaze and smiled knowingly. “Come on, admit it. You’re waiting for Mr. Right.”

Lina rolled her eyes. “There’s no such person—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. But that’s who you’re waiting for.” She stood and shook out one of her sheets decorated with Mickey and Minnie Mouse. “Otherwise you’d have spent the last two years doing the wild thing with all those Mr. Close But No Cigars out there. Like you said you were going to.”

“I date,” Lina said defensively, rising to help Joy with her sheet.

“Close, but no cigar.”

Lina smirked as she and Joy synchronized their folding motions. “Cigar, huh?”

“Just make sure the darn thing’s shrink-wrapped.” Joy placed the folded sheet on a pile destined for her own room. “So when are you going back to The Cookhouse?”

“Whoa! I thought we were talking about sex?”

“Sex, food—what’s the difference?”

The two women hefted piles of clean clothes and headed down the hall.

“Joy, you know how I feel about that place....” And about married chefs who come on to their customers and are off limits anyway.

She felt foolish thinking about how her insides had turned to pudding when Eric Reid touched her hair.
Like sable.
Not too corny. Maybe Joy was right. Maybe two years of abstinence had warped her mind.

Joy opened the linen closet and slid a pile of towels into it. “You did apologize to Eric last night, didn’t you?”

“I told you I did.” And that’s all she’d told Joy about her encounter with the chef. The chef with the Kahlua eyes and the honey-and-smoke voice and the wedding ring. She wanted to forget about the incident, not rehash it ad nauseum with her blabbermouth roomie.

“Well, what’s the problem? You know the screw-ups were out of his control.” Joy took the blue and apricot washcloths from Lina and wedged them into the overstuffed linen closet, slamming the door quickly to avert a terry cloth avalanche.

“The problem is, it’s obvious the place just isn’t up to snuff.”
The problem is, I don’t want to see Eric Reid again.

More to the point, she wanted to see him too much.

Lina carried her things into her room, and Joy disappeared into hers.

“Something’s weird about this, Lina.” Joy’s voice bellowed through the apartment as the roommates filled their dressers. “You’re not even giving The Cookhouse the ittiest, bittiest chance. I mean, this just isn’t like you.”