Grill Me, Baby (7 page)

Paolo followed her there. “Let me give you a hand,
querida
. Two chefs are quicker than one.”

“No, thanks. I’m doing the cooking tonight.”

His mouth twitched. It was obvious that she didn’t like being told what to do. No sir, she was more comfortable issuing orders. One thing was for sure—she would need an attitude adjustment before they taped the show. For now, he would bide his time and pretend to go along. But once they were in front of the camera, he would take the lead.

Michaela felt restless as Paolo’s broad-shouldered physique invaded her personal space. Did he have to be so tall and imposing and ooze so much testosterone? She took a measured step away from him, but he moved in closer until she could feel the tiny, soft hairs on her forearm graze the skin of his hard muscled arm. A spurt of excitement raised goosebumps on her skin. She steeled herself against it by downing a large gulp of wine. Things were getting off to a wrong start and her treacherous body was reacting to him. She replayed the image of Paolo’s beautiful, pregnant girlfriend crying in his arms.
Paolo is a cad
, she told herself sternly. She would do best to boot the horny devil’s pointed tail out of her kitchen.

She set the wineglass down. “I’d rather work alone, if you don’t mind. Please go back to the living room.”

Paolo looked chagrinned. “Maki, I sense a lot of animosity from you. If you must know…the pregnant girl you saw last night is my little sister Claudia.”

“Your sister? Really?” She hadn’t expected to hear
that
excuse. “But she’s blonde,” she blurted out.

“So what? My sister Mafalda is blonde too, like my father was.”

“Oh.” She suddenly felt ridiculous. Of course there were blonde Argentines. She had jumped to all kinds of terrible conclusions about Paolo without having the facts.

“Claudia is driving me crazy.” A muscle ticked in Paolo’s jaw and his voice sounded strained. “No matter how much I try to reason with her, she refuses to make up with her husband.”

Michaela studied Paolo. His eyes looked sincere and caring. “Why?”

“It’s complicated. Claudia is a newlywed. She should have never gotten married so young. She was only nineteen when they eloped. I wish I had been there to stop her, but now that they’re having a baby, she needs to forgive her husband for taking a job so far away. The baby deserves to have a father!”

Michaela remained silent. She did not want to open that can of worms. The less she knew about Paolo’s personal life, the better, especially since his concern for his sister was an appealing trait. What he’d said about a baby deserving to have a father had also pleased her. But she didn’t want to dwell on Paolo’s good qualities at the moment, especially when the earnestness in his dark eyes was drawing her in.

“I should have kept closer tabs on Claudia. Whenever we talked, she said things were going great and that she’d visit Miami when she and Bobby could get away. I had no idea she was alone and pregnant.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it,” she said.

Paolo rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, well…there’s nothing I can do about it now. Call me when you’re ready.”

Michaela watched him retreat to the living room and saunter over to her stereo, where he turned the radio to a Latin station. She enjoyed the sound of Brazilian jazz as she finished the wine and poured herself another glass. Well, at least Paolo wasn’t a deadbeat dad, but instead, a protective brother. Peeking through the kitchen pass-thru window, she watched him study her family photographs on the shelf. He leaned forward and examined each silver-framed photo.

“Hey, Maki, is this little freckle-faced, carrot-top you?” he called out. Michaela could hear the amusement in his deep baritone.

“I do not have freckles.”

“I’ll have to do a closer inspection to see for myself. You were no spaghetti in those days, Maki
.
More like a little meatball,” he teased merrily.

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” she replied, her lips twitching in spite of herself.

Paolo’s loud rumble of laughter filled her living room. He already felt at home and was having fun teasing her.

“Who’s the adorable little girl with the blue eyes and blonde curls?” he asked.

“My sister, Tiffany. She takes after my mother’s side.” She couldn’t understand why her parents had given her a formal name like Michaela, instead of something fun like Tiffany. But she had to admit, the name Tiffany suited her cute little sister perfectly.

The doorbell rang and Paolo rushed to answer it before Michaela could get out of the kitchen. She heard Tiffany’s cheery voice when Paolo let her in.

“Hi, there. And who are you?” Tiffany’s naturally flirtatious tone was laced with curiosity and delight.

“Paolo Santos, and you are?”

“I’m Tiffany, Michaela’s younger sister,” she replied. “Speaking of which…where is she?”

Michaela sighed. She would have been happy to see Tiffany any other day. Her sister’s bubbly personality usually entertained her, but this was no time for sisterly fun. Hopefully, Tiff would get the message and leave when she realized that they were having a business meeting. But she wouldn’t hold her breath. Tiffany had been known to turn a blind eye when it suited her.

Knife in hand, Michaela emerged from the kitchen. “What’s up, Tiff? I was just thinking about you.”

Tiffany gave her a surprised look. “Cool. We had ESP then because I was thinking about you too! What are you making?” she asked, staring at Michaela’s knife. “I’ve been so busy shopping, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and I’m about to pass out.”

Michaela smiled. “Me too.”

Paolo immediately said, “You must stay and have dinner with us.” He smiled at Michaela. “The more opinions we get on our menu, the better. Eh, Maki?”

“Maki?” Tiffany repeated, raising her brows with delight as she glanced at Michaela.

Michaela tried to show in her eyes that it wasn’t a good time for Tiffany’s visit, but her meaningful look went unheeded.

Tiffany lifted a two-handled, glossy white paper bag with a pink hibiscus sketched on it. “I went shopping on Lincoln Road and discovered this funky little boutique called Faloola. They have the cutest stuff and it’s just a five-minute drive from the studio.” Tiffany worked as a makeup artist for Stefan Falcone, South Beach’s go-to fashion and celebrity photographer. She also did freelance modeling whenever Stefan needed someone in a pinch.

“What did you buy?” Michaela asked, wishing she could somehow usher her out without hurting her feelings.

Tiffany’s blue eyes twinkled. “A sexy red dress for your show on Monday. You’re going to look fab-u-lous!” she crowed in a singsong voice.

Sexy red dress? Michaela glanced at Paolo and caught the blatant wink he sent her way. “Thanks for thinking of me, Tiffany. I’ll try it on later and reimburse you.”

“No need to.” Tiffany gave her a tight hug. “It’s my gift.”

“Aw, that’s very sweet of you.” Michaela returned her hug. Her little sister’s impetuous generosity always warmed her heart. Tiffany had a sunny disposition and was always up for fun, even if her impulsiveness often got her in trouble.

“I bought this outfit there too. What do you think?” Tiffany gave a little twirl for their approval, her long blonde curls floating around bare, tanned shoulders. The clingy turquoise halter dress fit her hourglass figure to perfection.

Blessed with a gorgeous face and a leggy model’s slim figure with just the right curves, Tiffany could wear anything. She was sexy without even trying and she often dated several guys at once. At twenty-five, she had never had a serious relationship because the boys she went out with always ended up being “too lame”. In spite of her flirtatious personality, Tiffany held stringent standards for whomever she was going to end up with. Michaela could not have been prouder of her little sister for not falling into a destructive relationship like Michaela had with her ex-fiancé, Jeff. Maybe seeing how much Michaela had suffered had made Tiffany extra cautious when it came to commitment.

Tiffany loved dating and meeting men, but when the guys got serious, she ran. The only good-looking guy who hadn’t tried to put the moves on her was her boss. It was a good thing, too, since the enigmatic Stefan was at least a dozen years older than Tiffany and dated most of the models he photographed.

“Great outfit.” Paolo sent Tiffany a ravishing grin as he admired her from head to toe. He nodded toward Michaela. “I hope you got one like it for your sister.”

Seeing the appreciative gleam in his eyes made Michaela wish she were wearing something more appealing than a tank top and yoga pants.
Stop that,
she told herself firmly.
Don’t care so much about attracting Paolo.
The man was a known player, and most importantly, her adversary. They were competitors and that was the only reason she had let him in her apartment.

“It sure smells good in here,” Tiffany said, grinning shamelessly. “Hint, hint.”

Michaela couldn’t turn her sister away after the generous gift, so she caved. “You can stay for dinner, if you like, Tiff. Wanna help me set the table?”

“Sure. Should I do it now?” Tiffany asked eagerly.

“Not yet,” Paolo boomed. “Come into the living room and have some prosciutto melon balls.”

“I’d love to,” Tiffany said, trotting after him.

Michaela stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Paolo pour a glass of wine for Tiffany, then return to sit beside her on the living room couch. She waited for the male charm sure to surface any moment, this time directed at her ever-so-delighted sister. Amazing how at ease he felt after a mere half-hour at her place.

“So…tell me all about yourself, Paolo.” Tiffany settled comfortably on the couch after a sip of wine. She crossed one tanned leg over the other and gave him her undivided attention. “How do you know Mic?”

“Maki and I are doing a show together. Hasn’t your sister told you about me?” Paolo asked, turning to give Michaela a reproachful look.

Tiffany looked enchanted, as if she was uncovering a delicious secret. Her eyes lit up with interest. “I didn’t realize you were her competition. I thought you were a new boyfriend.”

“He isn’t,” Michaela said quickly. “Our meeting tonight is strictly business.”

“Suuure…if you say so, Mic,” Tiffany teased.

With no time for banter, Michaela listened to her grumbling stomach and returned to the kitchen to finish cooking. She picked up the wineglass and tossed back the contents. A rush of warmth spread from her cheeks, down her neck, to the tips of her hands and toes. She needed to prepare an entire meal in record time.

She could barely make out what Tiffany and Paolo were saying above the music, but they seemed to be getting along great. Well, at least Tiff would keep Paolo entertained so Michaela could concentrate on her meal. Tiffany had always been the cheerful, vivacious one, while her family and friends had referred to Michaela as the “serious little bookworm”. But what had they expected when even her parents had misread her pensive nature and labeled her as uncreative? She had always wondered what it would be like to be her sister, whose playful nature could coax a smile out of anyone. Tiffany’s sentences always ended with a giggle, whereas Michaela only laughed if she was genuinely amused.

With a pang, Michaela remembered her sixth birthday when she had asked for an Easy Bake Oven with all the trimmings to make pretty cakes. Instead, her parents had bought her something “sensible” they hoped she would enjoy more than an Easy Bake Oven: a complete set of encyclopedias. They declared that baking cakes would only make her fatter, while the encyclopedias would open a whole world of knowledge. That was when Aunt Willow, bless her kind heart, stepped in and bought Michaela the coveted little oven, ignoring their objections.

The first thing Michaela did when she graduated from high school was donate the encyclopedias. With the Internet, she didn’t need them anymore. But she’d done it mostly because every time she glanced at them it was a stinging reminder that her parents had imposed their will on her, dousing her creative spirit. They had meant well, but they had done more damage than good with their practical gift.

Michaela spent her teen years glued to her books trying to please her demanding parents who wouldn’t be satisfied unless she made class valedictorian and was admitted to a top Ivy League school. To cope with the stress, whenever she felt anxious, she ate cookies or candy bars she kept stashed under her bed. But as soon as she finished indulging, she felt sick inside, knowing it wasn’t good for her. Her wake-up call came in her sophomore college year when her doctor told her she had to drastically change her diet or risk health problems. She took a course in nutrition and met Dr. Robin Wells, a brilliant professor who changed her outlook on food…and life. Under the wise woman’s mentorship and guidance, Michaela blossomed and became empowered. Now, years later, they still kept in touch and Dr. Wells had generously offered to add a foreword to Michaela’s cookbook.

Michaela pulled out two Sabatier chef knives and held them side by side as she made short work of slicing the crimini mushrooms before throwing them into the pan with the shallots and minced garlic already sizzling in the olive oil cooking spray. After stirring a few times, she added a cup of dry Chardonnay and waited for the stock to reduce while she lightly dredged the grouper filets in Panko and seasoned them with freshly ground pepper and coarse sea salt.

“Something smells good, Maki,” Paolo called out.

Michaela deftly sliced the zucchini and acorn squash lengthwise and coated them with a scant amount of olive oil before seasoning and brushing freshly chopped rosemary leaves over them.

She looked up and spied a lovely box of chocolate truffles beside her refrigerator, no doubt one of Paolo’s “surprises”. Chocolate was her biggest weakness, so she tried to limit it, except for once a month when her hormones demanded more.

She was jarred from her work by a loud shout of laughter. Giving in to curiosity, she peeked out to find Paolo and Tiffany bent over one of her high school yearbooks, laughing. She bolted out of the kitchen, hoping it wasn’t her senior yearbook. When she neared their side, she froze.