Grill Me, Baby (4 page)

“Put that away.” Paolo frowned at the paper she held out. “We’ll look at it later.”

“Fine.” Michaela stuffed the paper back into her briefcase, shut it with a snap and set it on the floor. Clearly, Paolo wasn’t going to talk business until he was good and ready. The macho Argentine in him probably wanted things done his way and the Italian in him preferred to do it on a full stomach.

Michaela took a quick inventory of his small living room. She had expected to find a bachelor pad complete with a big, flat-screen TV, black leather couches and the latest issues of
Maxim
magazines lying on his coffee table, featuring hot girls in bikinis.

Instead, his apartment was kind of cozy in muted tones of ochre, accented by two brandy colored leather couches, a man-size espresso-colored recliner, and a large coffee table. The butter-colored walls were jammed with autographed photos of a grinning Paolo posing with A-list celebrities. In all the pictures, Paolo’s tanned arm was amiably slung over each celebrity’s shoulders. Michaela’s jaw dropped. Had that many superstars eaten at Ristorante Bella Luna? The Latin lover sure knew how to schmooze.

“I’ve made a lot of friends here,” he said with a casual nod at the photos.

“Friends?”

He flashed a confident grin. “Of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated, walking toward the couch competing for space beside an upright piano. She noticed the array of thriving herbs in terracotta pots on the shelf under the window. So Paolo had a green thumb and he played the piano. Interesting…

“Nice place,” she murmured.

“Thanks. It’s not big, but it suits my needs. Come to the kitchen. I’m making
crostini
.”

Michaela followed the tempting aromas into his surprisingly large kitchen.

“Please sit down.
Salud
.” He handed her a glass of chilled pinot grigio and clinked it with his. Gesturing toward the cobalt-blue tiled kitchen counter, he pulled out a barstool for her. The counter was set with square straw place mats and sleek white dishes, a clean, simple setting for his meal. Ripe figs rested in a white bowl at the end of the counter.

Paolo followed her gaze and gestured to the bowl. “Figs are my favorite fruit.” He bared perfect white teeth in a lopsided grin. “I love to pull apart the delicate skin and devour the plump flesh inside.”

His vivid description made Michaela’s toes curl and she sputtered her sip of wine. Their gazes locked and the smolder in his dark eyes made her sizzle like the hot skillet where he was grilling slices of Tuscan bread. After drizzling them with olive oil, he lovingly rubbed each slice with a split clove of raw garlic and topped it with a thin smear of cannellini paste, followed by chopped, ripe tomatoes. Her gaze was captivated by Paolo’s large, brown hands when he took a sprig of basil from a potted plant on the windowsill, plucked the leaves, and roughly tore them up.

“Your herbs look so healthy. What’s your secret for growing basil?” she asked.

“I take the leaves and pinch, pinch, pinch.” He winked. “But always on the bottom.”

“I’m sure you’re a pro at pinching bottoms,” she murmured dryly.

He grinned shamelessly. “I like to think so
.
” Paolo finished sprinkling the basil over the
crostini
and handed one to Michaela.

Before she could respond, the front door flung open and three giggling girls in bikini tops and sarongs sauntered into his apartment.

“Hey, Paolo, got enough for us?” a Pamela Anderson wannabe asked.

“Yeah, smells delish,” added her identical twin. “We couldn’t resist popping in.”

“Paolo,
amor
, the aroma in the hallway would tempt a saint. What are you making?” a sexy, tanned brunette asked as she sashayed toward him.

“I would invite you to stay and eat, but I’m in the middle of a business dinner.” He indicated Michaela. “This is Chef Michaela. We’re competing for the new cooking show I told you about.” He passed around a platter. “Here, have some
crostini
.”

“Hi.” Michaela tried to sound friendly, but she wasn’t thrilled about the interruption or the familiarity of the sexy babes.

The three of them sized up Michaela’s buttoned-up chef tunic and barely acknowledged her with a polite nod. Evidently, she posed no threat.

“Maki, these are my neighbors. The twins are Sasha and Suki. And this is their roommate, Elena,” he said, nodding toward the brunette. “Elena owns Cheeky Chic, a Brazilian bikini shop in South Beach. Elena’s like me, we both have Italian mothers.”

Michaela smiled politely and watched the girls eat the
crostini
and lavish compliments on Paolo. He, in turn, was basking in their flirting and enjoying himself immensely.

“Paolo, can we tempt you for a little swim?” Elena sidled up to him. “We were on our way to the pool.”

“Not today, Elena.” Paolo’s smile broadened and those rakish dimples appeared, seeming to wink at her. “I really am in the middle of a business meeting. Maybe tomorrow night.”

Michaela told herself not to be bothered. She didn’t know why the idea of Paolo carousing in a pool with three bikini-clad bombshells annoyed her, but it did. She was glad when they finally left.

Determined to seem unfazed, Michaela asked, “What part of Italy is your mother from?”

“Mamá was born in Buenos Aires, but her mother was from Firenze. When my grandmother’s family moved to Buenos Aires, she met my grandfather, who was from the States.”

“No wonder your English is so good.”

“Thanks. Have you been to Italy?”

“I spent a year in Paris, studying at Le Cordon Bleu. That summer, I toured Europe, but spent most of my time in Spain and Italy. Tuscany was my favorite region.” Michaela took a final, crunchy bite of
crostini
and sipped more wine.

“Mine too,” he said, beaming. Paolo grabbed a dishtowel and tucked it in the front of his jeans, apron-style. He turned to the stove. “We’re almost ready to eat.”

Michaela watched him sauté fresh
haricots verts
in a liberal amount of garlic and green olive oil. She checked out the grill section of the six-burner, Jenn Air stove. “You’re not grilling tonight?”

“Nah, only the
crostini
. I prefer to grill meat outdoors or at the restaurant.”

She got up from the barstool and peeked through the glass oven door. “Roast pork tenderloin and potato-fennel gratin.” She inhaled the savory aroma. “You must have added cream and flavored the gratin with vermouth. Am I right?”

His eyes gleamed with admiration. “You have an amazing sense of smell.”

Michaela smiled. “My taste buds are even better.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Paolo’s glance rested on her mouth briefly and then returned to gaze into her eyes. “Move aside,
mujer
, I need to work.”

His warm breath tickled her sensitive ear. That and his firm hand on her waist sent a hot thrill coursing through her. He was a lethal combination—an exotic chef with sexy hands making killer food. To her surprise, he suddenly launched into a Spanish ballad as he turned back toward the oven. She had to hand it to him—Paolo was pure entertainment, but he oozed too much Latin charm and hot sexuality for his own good—or hers.

When he bent over to open the oven door, Michaela couldn’t help but notice that his jeans did justice to a tight, muscular butt. Her face flamed with embarrassment when he turned from his bent-over position and caught her ogling the seat of his pants.

Paolo flashed a knowing grin. “Is it too warm in here? You look flushed, Maki.”

“It’s the wine.” Michaela looked away from the devilish twinkle in those dark eyes as she opened the top two buttons of her tunic. Paolo’s gaze dropped to the hollow at her throat and her pulse tripped up. An image of him kissing her and unbuttoning the rest of her tunic came out of nowhere. He smiled slowly, the sensual invitation in his eyes sparking sweet heat that spread from her face and neck to a place deep in her belly. Flustered, she looked away and rapidly fanned herself. “Can’t wait to taste the tenderloin,” she said lamely.

“It’s my mother’s recipe. Mamá’s family in Firenze grills a whole pork loin on their outdoor spit every Sunday afternoon. They stud it with lots of garlic and rosemary, and then baste it with red wine. The best part is the crackling rind.” He pressed his fingertips together and smacked them with a kiss.
“¡Delicioso!”

“Yes, well, it might be delicious.” She tore her gaze away from his sultry mouth and swallowed hard. “But it’s too rich to indulge in on a weekly basis.”

“That’s silly.” Paolo’s appreciative gaze slid over her figure. “With your shape, you shouldn’t be worrying about rich food, little spaghetti. Women are supposed to have curves.” He moved his hands in an exaggerated hourglass shape.

You certainly know all about female curves,
she thought, recalling his near-naked neighbors as she headed toward the overflowing sink. What a disaster—so different from her habit of washing, drying and putting things away as she used them to avoid a messy overload at the end.

“I’m going to clear things up a bit,” she said.

Paolo shook his head of shaggy, black hair. “Don’t. I’ll do that later.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, the heat of his skin sending a tingle straight to her toes as he led her back to the barstool. “Sit down. We’re ready to eat.”

There it was again, that dazzling, white-toothed smile against dark olive skin, the type of smile any sensible person would do well to ignore, Michaela thought, looking away.

“Please refill our wine glasses while I serve the gnocchi,” he said.

Michaela obliged and then sat back and enjoyed having Paolo serve her. She speared a tiny dumpling and tasted it. Rich and creamy, the gnocchi tasted delicious bathed in tomato basil sauce, but it had whole ricotta and egg. She could tell on the first bite. It was possible to achieve a lighter, airy gnocchi without the yolk or ricotta. She would have made it with potato instead of flour and used one egg white.

“Very nice,” she said politely, liking the hint of nutmeg in the gnocchi.

“
Gracias
.”

The glazed pork tenderloin emerged from the oven with a perfectly crusted outside and tender and herb-studded inside. Paolo served two thick slices beside a serving of the golden gratin and fragrant
haricots verts
.

When he drizzled extra virgin olive oil over the gratin, Michaela switched her plate with his. “No oil for me.”

“Nonsense, I insist.” Ignoring her resistance, he drizzled the olive oil over the
haricots verts
as well!

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.