Kiss The Cook

only one night in his arms, she was addicted to the feel of him. The taste of him. If she stayed another night, her heart would suffer a fatal attack of the love-sickies.

Oh, who am I kidding? She already had the love-sickies so bad she was ready for the intensive care unit.

And boy, have I done it this time. Falling head-over-heels, ass-over-backwards in love. And with a confirmed bachelor, no less. That was certainly brilliant.

She looked out the window and cursed her stupidity at letting her hormones get her into this mess. It was entirely their fault. She should have shot those suckers dead the minute they started acting up. Bang! Death, followed by a hormone funeral and a brief period of mourning. Then back to her orderly life.

But nooooo. She had to meet Mr. Gorgeous. One look at him and all her plans had hopped out the window and plunged forty stories to their demise.

She sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eyes. There he sat, calm, cool, collected, humming off-key to the radio, while she was suffering. He'd probably already forgotten about their time together. No doubt the minute he left her, he'd forget her name. She bet he'd come up with some excuse to not see her for the rest of the week, then conveniently 'forget' to ever call her again.

Well, that was fine. Who needed him anyway? They'd spent their time together, now it was finished. She'd go on with her life, he with his. Two ships that pass in the night, make love several times-okay, several dozen times-then say adios.

She needed to nip this now. She knew firsthand where falling in love left a person-in a big, dark, painful hole with your skin ripped off. It had taken her a long time to climb out of that dungeon once before, and she didn't ever want to do it again.

She'd had her fun; now it was time to end it.

Before it was really too late.

'You're a million miles away, Mel Gibson.'

She blinked at the sound of his voice and realized they were parked in front of her house. The porch lamps blazed cheerfully and the kitchen light glowed, announcing Nana's presence.

Melanie stared at him, unable to look away. She wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn't force any sound past the lump lodged in her throat. God help her, she didn't want to go inside and leave him. But she needed to end this before he did and left her in tatters.

He touched her cheek with a single, gentle finger. 'I'm sort of at a loss for words,' he said, a sheepish smile tilting one corner of his mouth.

Melanie swallowed. 'Yeah. Me, too.' Say good-bye. Say have a nice life. Get out of the car. Her mouth and feet refused to cooperate with her brain. She remained silent and motionless.

Taking her hands, he entwined their fingers. 'This was the most incredible weekend of my life,' he said in that soft, husky voice that sent chills up her spine.

Melanie nodded. She wanted to agree with him, but she couldn't speak. Tears were on their way, and it took all her concentration to hold them at bay.

'I'm leaving on a business trip tomorrow afternoon,' he said, 'and I won't get back until late Friday night.' He squeezed her hands. 'How about I pick you up Saturday morning and take you out for breakfast?'

'Chris, I-'

'I want you to spend the night again. The whole weekend.' A sexy grin touched his lips. 'We still have some skinny-dipping to do.'

'I can't.' There. She'd said it.

'Why not?'

Good question. 'I, ah, can't sleep over.'

'Sleeping wasn't exactly what I had in mind.'

The tears hovering close to the surface threatened to spill over. Sure, that was fine. He had nothing to lose. A few weeks of sexual fun and games, then he'd move on to the next woman.

And that was the way it was supposed to be for her, but her heart was involved, damn it. Even though she'd firmly ordered it not to, her heart had jumped into love faster than ice melted in July.

'Listen,' she said, 'last night was fun, but-'

'No buts. As I recall, you owe me a cooking lesson. You're not trying to welsh on your promise, are you?'

'I never promised-'

'Because I deal with promise-welshers very harshly.' His tongue traced a warm path up her palm, and a legion of pleasurable tingles skittered up her arm. 'You'd find yourself on the receiving end of a severe tongue- lashing.'

'Oh, my.' Clearly his definition of a tongue-lashing was not the one that appeared in Webster's Dictionary. The mere thought evaporated her concentration like a puddle in the Sahara.

'And then there's the matter of the tennis match you want to play,' he murmured against her palm. 'How's your game?'

'Ah, quite good. Why?'

'There's a guy at work I wouldn't mind trouncing on the court. You up for the challenge?'

She looked into his dark blue eyes-eyes that somehow managed to be teasing and serious at the same time- and knew she couldn't refuse. Not when her hormones and every bone in her traitorous body had joined forces with her heart and ganged up on her. She didn't stand a chance.

Adopting what she prayed was a casual smile, she said, 'You've got yourself a tennis match. And since I'd never let it be said that I'm a promise-welsher, I'll teach you how to cook something. Any requests?'

A half smile curved his lips. 'Lots of them.'

'I meant for our cooking lesson.'

'Oh. Anything, as long as it's not complicated. You have a very bad effect on my ability to concentrate.' Cupping her face between his palms, he kissed her long and deep, until she could barely recall what planet she lived on. 'See what I mean?' he whispered against her lips. 'I can't remember what we were just talking about.'

'Tennis lesson. Cooking match,' she whispered back. Whew. What a relief. He didn't affect her concentration at all.

Not one little bit.

* * *

On Monday afternoon, Chris sat on a Chicago-bound jet and tried to focus on the spreadsheet illuminated on his laptop screen. But his mind refused to cooperate.

All he could think about was his early morning conversation with Glenn Waxman about the vacant store across from Pampered Palate, and how that conversation would ultimately affect Melanie's loan.

Glenn hadn't known about the proposed restaurant. Chris squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a groan. Well, he knows now, thanks to me. In fact, Glenn had been very grateful for the information, explaining that if the review had gone to the bank missing such pertinent facts, the firm would have looked foolish.

Chris had pointed out that since he'd merely overheard the conversation, there was always the chance the info was incorrect. Glenn had promised to verify the facts before adding them to the review.

It won't matter. She'll still get the loan.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, a sick ball of dread cramped his stomach and refused to budge. Glenn had said the review should be finished by the end of the week, which meant Melanie would hear from the bank by the middle of next week.

Since she'd only worry, he decided there was no point in telling her what he'd done until Glenn had verified the information and she knew the bank's decision. We're only talking about a few days. By remaining quiet, I'll save her from getting an ulcer. After she heard from the bank, he'd tell her. If the loan was approved, he had nothing to worry to about.

If it wasn't, he'd simply explain why he'd done what he had.

And pray he didn't lose her in the process.