Kiss The Cook

angles. She looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electric socket.

Her mascara had run, forming black moons under her eyes. They were big, limpid, chocolatey-brown eyes and they studied him with clear exasperation. She had creamy skin, and a battalion of pale freckles marched across her straight nose. Two deep dimples winked at him from the sides of her mouth. Despite his annoyance, his eyes lingered there for several heartbeats. She had the most incredible, lush mouth he'd ever seen.

His gaze dropped. Her shirt was soaking wet and clung to her like a second skin, clearly outlining soft curves encased in a lacy bra. The words PAMPERED PALATE were embroidered on the pocket. She was the woman from the elevator. He breathed in. She smelled like fried chicken.

'Listen, you pervert,' she said, her eyes flashing, 'I was not copping a feel. I was trying to save your pants.'

She was breathing hard, and every time she inhaled Chris felt her breasts pressing against him. Soft, full breasts that made his groin tingle and his heart speed up. Jeez, I must be losing my mind. She looked like a drowned rat. This woman was nothing but a pain in the ass-literally. He was simply suffering from malnutrition-induced dementia. Of course he would be affected by a woman who smelled like chicken. It had nothing to do with the sexy curves plastered against him.

Wanting her away from him as soon as possible, he said, 'If you'll just move, I'll save my own pants.'

She scooted off him, stood and grabbed the umbrella. 'Fine. But don't blame me if-'

The sound of material ripping was unmistakable.

'Uh-oh,' she said.

Gritting his teeth, Chris got out of the car. He peered inside and saw a good-sized piece of dark material on the seat. Hoping it wasn't what he suspected, he picked it up, dangling it between his fingers.

Dark wool.

Like from a man's suit. His suit. His brand-new suit.

'Oh, boy. That doesn't look good,' she said. 'Looks just like my panty hose did.' She peered around at his backside, then straightened. Her amusement was clear. 'Hmmm. I see you're a boxer man.'

Chris mentally counted to ten. The sooner he jumped her car, the sooner she'd be on her way, and the sooner he could get home. Without a word, he popped her hood, then walked to his car to get the jumper cables. He left the umbrella with her. There wasn't any point in bothering with it-his suit was already ruined, and the rain was tapering off a bit.

She stood under the umbrella and waited while he attached the cables.

'Okay,' he said, several minutes later. 'Turn the key.'

She slid into the car and turned the ignition, and the engine coughed to life. Chris almost jumped for joy. He quickly disconnected the wires from both cars and replaced the cables in his trunk.

'I think that should do it,' he said, slamming the Dodge's hood.

'Yes. Thank you very much.' She smiled, and two deep dimples winked at him. 'My name's Melanie Gibson. But everyone calls me Mel.'

He stared at her. 'Your name's Mel Gibson?'

'Yup. What's yours?'

He couldn't believe he was standing in the rain talking to a lunatic woman who thought she was Mel Gibson. 'I'm Peter Pan.'

She looked him up and down, then shook her head. 'I don't think so. Peter Pan wore green tights.' She waggled her eyebrows at him, Groucho style. 'I already know you're wearing white boxers.'

In spite of himself, Chris felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. He quickly smothered it. Why the hell did he feel like laughing? He was angry. Inconvenienced. Wet. Hungry. His suit was ruined; probably his shoes, too. I'm deranged from lack of food.

'So, are you going to tell me your name?' she asked. 'Don't be shy. Believe me, it can't be worse than mine. No matter how hard I try, no one will call me Melanie.'

He held out his hand. 'Christopher Bishop. Call me Chris.'

She shook his hand, and Chris immediately noticed how soft her skin was. And how cute her dimples were. A warm tingle zoomed right through him. Jeez, I'm really losing it. This woman was so completely not his type, it was laughable. He preferred small, curvy, blue-eyed blondes. She was tall, lanky, and dark-eyed. Not to mention a mess.

But there was something about her-he had no idea what-that had all his senses standing at attention. He shook his head. Obviously the final stages of malnutrition were setting in.

Her look turned serious. 'I'm really sorry I blocked you in. And about your pants.' She reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a card. 'If you send the repair bill to me, I'll be happy to pay it.'

He took the wet card and studied her closely. Now that home was again fifteen minutes away, his annoyance ebbed somewhat. The rain had dwindled down to a mere drizzle. 'I doubt they can be repaired, but thanks anyway.' He leaned closer and sniffed. 'I saw you on the elevator. You smell like fried chicken.'

She cocked an eyebrow at him. 'Wow. Words I've always longed to hear.'

He laughed. 'I meant, I smelled you in the elevator and…' His voice trailed off and he shook his head. 'Somehow that doesn't sound right, either.'

'That's okay. I smelled you in the elevator, too. You're wearing my favorite men's cologne. It smells much better than chicken.'

'Not if you're starving, it doesn't,' he said. Almost as if he'd planned it, his stomach let out a loud growl.

'Well, Christopher-call-me-Chris Bishop, you sound hungry, and I happen to have two hundred bucks' worth of Pampered Palate food in my car. Could I interest you in a meal? As a way of saying thanks?' She smiled at him. 'We make the best fried chicken in Atlanta.'

Since he was ready to eat the windshield wipers off the Mercedes, he didn't even consider refusing her offer. 'Sounds good.'

She handed him the umbrella and leaned into the car, once again affording him a heart-stopping view of her long legs. She straightened and handed him two boxed dinners. 'Here you go. Enjoy.'

'Thanks.'

'Least I can do. Well, I'd better let you get home to your dinner.' She slid into the Dodge and waved to him. He nodded in return and walked to his car.

Melanie clicked her seat belt into place and pushed her wet hair behind her ears, trying not to watch him as he climbed into the Mercedes. Whooooeee. Christopher Bishop was, for lack of a better word, a complete hunk.

He was gorgeous when he frowned, but when he'd smiled at her, he was downright devastating. Dry, he was beautiful. But wet he was stupendous. Looking at him, with his dress shirt molded to his muscular arms and chest and his hair combed back by his hands, she got a clear image of what he must look like coming out of the shower. She thanked God she wasn't a cartoon character-her eyes would have bugged out two feet and her tongue would have rolled out onto the ground.

Well, she'd never see him again. Good thing, too. Any guy who looked that good and smelled that good was a hazard to her mental health. She knew firsthand that men who looked like Christopher Bishop couldn't be trusted. Brokenhearted women probably littered the sidewalks around his house. Yup, he had girl in every port written all over him. She exhaled loudly. Been there. Done that. Never again.

She put the Dodge in gear and pulled forward, driving to the end of the curved driveway. The moment her foot touched the brake, the car stalled.

'Oh, no. Not again.'

Melanie turned the key. Growl, growl, silence. She turned it again. Growl, silence. One more turn. Silence. She looked around her. At least she wasn't completely blocking the driveway. Cars could get around her. She was just contemplating the wisdom of screaming and pulling out her hair when a horn tooted. She looked out her window and saw the Mercedes pull up next to her.

She felt around on the seat for the knob to open the window. Finding it, she jammed it back on and rolled down the window. Christopher Bishop looked at her from the driver's seat of his car.

'What's wrong?' he called.

'I stalled out.'

'There must be something more wrong than the battery,' he said, frowning. 'Probably faulty spark plugs, or a