Spicing It Up

Besides, although Amanda was arguably my closest friend, we had an unspoken agreement not to discuss Trevor much. He had never hit it off with her, which I’d found ironic considering the huge number of men she did like. It was a little embarrassing to find out she’d been right.

“Mir?”

I stared at her blankly.

“I’ve got some vino in the fridge,” she offered. “Want me to break it out?”

As long as it wasn’t the type of cabernet sauvignon you were supposed to pair with lamb. “Trevor and I broke up.” The admission got me going—pushed me over the edge and unleashed the building g-forces.

Amanda’s memorable violet eyes widened in shock as I paced around the table, explaining in rapid-fire delivery that I was somehow “too bland” for the man who had proclaimed to love me as recently as…Well, I couldn’t specifically remember the last time he’d said it, but still! Then I talked about how Hargrave NonFiction, people who’d reportedly paid six figures for the biography of a supermodel’s Chihuahua, didn’t want me either.

At some point, Amanda poured us each glasses of white wine. Having had practice with people sharing tales of woe over cocktails, she was a seasoned pro at listening. Mostly, she muttered little sounds of encouragement and, where appropriate, a briefly interjected, “That pompous bastard.” All much appreciated. When I finally wound down, I slumped into one of the matching chairs, realizing I did feel oddly better. Maybe there was something to be said for this talking stuff out.

But they’d be serving sorbets in hell before I worked cracked nipples into a conversation.

“Wow.” Amanda heaved a sigh. “I’ve never heard you say so much at one time. You’re good and truly pissed off.”

“You don’t think I should be?”

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic. I mean, not about the rotten night, but everything will work out in the long run. This just gives you the chance to write an even more kick-ass cookbook. And I never was convinced that Trevor was the right guy for you.”

After tonight, I was inclined to agree. Who the hell did he think he was? The encounter at the restaurant had knocked me so off balance that his unexpected criticism had temporarily made me feel lacking somehow. Colorless and insignificant. But the only thing wrong with me were the hours I’d wasted on an ungrateful egomaniac.

I’ll show him colorless.

I slapped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “You know what? I want to get—”

“Sloshed?” She stood to get us more refills.

My friend, the ever helpful bartender. When life hands you lemons, do tequila shots.

“No. Well, maybe.” I was getting there, since I’d been pretty tired even before the first couple of glasses. “But I was going to say even.”

“You want vengeance?” she asked as she walked around the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen.

“Not vengeance.” In the past, I’d channeled my emotions into cooking and had come up with some of my best dishes. Now, my anger had taken a subconsciously productive turn. “Vindication.”

Bland, huh, Trevor?

Not compelling enough for the Big Apple big shots?

Maybe I could roast two ducks with one glaze.

“I have a plan,” I said.

Amanda shook her head. “Can I be like you when I grow up? I’d still be cussing the guy out and cutting up his picture, and here you are already methodically working through your problems and coming up with sensible solutions.”

I winced at the word methodical, wondering if it was code for boring. “I’m not sure sensible is the right word for what I have in mind.”

“Ooo…I’m liking the sound of this. Anything I can do to help?”

“Possibly.” Even though I’m often more of a loner, I couldn’t think of anyone better for helping me brain-storm my bizarre, fledgling idea—the type of idea best mulled over at 3:00 a.m. with a little alcohol buzzing through your system.

“So, what’s your plan?” she wanted to know.

I laughed recklessly. “Sex sells, right?”

2

An appetizer is the first impression—that simple yet delicious moment when your eyes meet across the room and zing!

Six months later

THE PROBLEM WITH temporary insanity is that it’s temporary. Eventually it wears off and you’re left with “What have I done?” Such was the case with me this fine afternoon in mid-January.

Spicy Seas was closed on Tuesdays, so I sat in the empty tavern where Amanda worked. Since the bar didn’t open until happy hour and the early-shift waitress had called in sick, the place was deserted except for me, Amanda and a hunky bar-back named Todd. They were setting up for this evening’s business, and I was swiveling listlessly on one of the stools lined up at the polished teak counter that ran the length of the wall. I glanced past Amanda, a shag-cut strawberry-blonde since Christmas, to the mirrored paneling, trying to reconcile my reflection with the author of the sexy book that would be on shelves at the beginning of February.

What I saw was a woman with stick-straight, shoulder-length hair, a bulky blue cable-knit sweater, and a disbelieving look in her puppy-dog brown eyes.

You’d think I would have adjusted by now to Hargrave NonFiction’s remarkably fast decision to buy Six Course Seduction—once I’d given them the hook they’d needed, they’d jumped on the idea and rushed it into production to get it out for Valentine’s Day marketing. The sale hadn’t quite seemed real when I’d fielded the call from my editor saying they wanted to contract the cookbook and a follow-up, but I’d started to believe it was going to happen after I’d flown to New York in the fall to discuss the release and promotion schedule. However, any adjustment I’d finally made to impending publication, or to my book’s racy new subtitle, had been rendered null and void by the arrival of the dust jacket this morning.

Six Course Seduction: From Hors D’Oeuvres to Orgasm. The cover was currently tucked in the manila folder I’d brought with me, but the image lingered like a visual aftertaste.

While Amanda sliced limes behind the bar, I mulled over Miriam Scott printed in immediate large-font proximity to the word orgasm. Though I was panicking in reserved silence, my feelings must have been clear in my expression. Or dazed lack thereof.

“You’re overreacting,” Amanda chided. “I kind of like it.”

“Your name won’t be on it.” I clutched the folder closer to me as if Todd might have X-ray vision.

I had known the publisher would go with a provocative cover, of course. Provocation was the entire point of the chattier revised version, at least as far as marketing was concerned. But not even my editor, Joan, calling to say, “Now, Miriam, don’t freak out,” had prevented my freaking out.

Against the scarlet background was a neck to mid-thigh photograph of a curvy and airbrushed nude woman. In place of the slim black censor bars you would see on network television, there were a couple of strategically located food items—luckily nothing as cliché and truck-stop stripper as a whipped-cream bikini. The pictures were starker and more suited to my hot recipes. For instance, the single digitally enlarged habanero serving as a fig leaf. If it had been even a millimeter to the left or right, they would have to sell my book in a plastic wrapper.

I sighed. “You don’t look at it and think, porno with peppers?”

At Amanda’s snort of laughter, Todd paused in his trek to the back storage room for more ice, sending a brief worshipful glance over his broad shoulder. She ignored the adoring expression, much as she had the other nine million I’d witnessed in the month he’d worked here.

“It’s not pornographic,” she said when we were alone. “I thought the picture had an artistic simplicity. There are people who would pay good money to hang that in their homes.”

“Yeah, but there are people who like instant mashed potatoes, too.” No accounting for taste.

She rolled her eyes, handing me a stack of napkins. “Here, make yourself useful.”

I began restocking the clustered metal holders Todd would place on the tables throughout the bar’s large one-room interior. Maybe Amanda was right about the artwork being tasteful, excuse the pun. The sensuality in the picture could be viewed as understated…in a bright red, naked kind of way.

“What did you think the book was going to look like?” Amanda asked reasonably.

I ran a hand through my hair. “I hadn’t got that far yet.” Some days, I couldn’t even believe what I’d written, much less imagine it in bookstores across the country.

Ever since I’d received the call that my recipes would be published—actively promoted, according to the in-house publicist scheduling my upcoming appearances—I’d waffled between pride and the fear that no one in the restaurant community would take me seriously again. Which would be a real problem if the escalating tension at work led to my looking for a new job. Trevor and I had not transitioned well from lovers to platonic employee and employer. We had, however, mastered the intricacies of platonic employee and horse’s rear end.

Maybe I should quit, but head-chef jobs don’t drop into a woman’s lap. And why the hell should I walk away when I’d invested as much as he had in the restaurant? Granted, not in the monetary sense, but in more personal ways. I just hadn’t anticipated his recent petty acts of emotional sabotage and passive-aggressiveness.

Now that he no longer had any input on the cookbook, he’d done his best to distance himself from the project. After he’d heard about the racy concept through the industry grapevine, he’d assured me—wearing his best Poor Baby face—that my culinary skills were enough to gain back my reputation if the book flopped and made me a laughingstock. In front of my kitchen crew, he treated me with exaggerated courtesy, giving others the impression that I might still be grief-stricken by his defection and should be handled with kid gloves, which undermined my authority. And he was dating a young blond chef who had worked at a Charleston inn until the place had been mismanaged into a temporary closing, due to reopen in the spring. Clearly Blondie had the image Trevor sought for his love life…and maybe in his restaurant?

“Miriam? Are you aware you’re grinding your teeth?” Amanda asked.

I stopped abruptly. “Sorry. Thinking about Trevor has that effect.”

Amanda set down her knife, her gaze as sharp as the blade. “Why are you even wasting thoughts on that cad? I know I don’t have a lot of experience with sustained relationships, but you can’t tell me there was anything there worth missing.”

“No, that’s definitely not the problem.” Miss him? Ha! The more I was around him and his current attitude, the more I wondered how I had allowed myself to go out with him in the first place. It was like looking back on some flavorless, overprocessed, disgustingly fatty junk food you prized as a kid that would turn your stomach if you tried it as an adult.

“So what’s up, then?” Amanda prompted. “Come on, talk to me. It’s what people do in bars.”

I was under the impression people drank in bars, but I’d learned my lesson with that months ago, when I’d woken up with a hangover and the outline for a book I was currently second-guessing—half sex advice and half cooking manual. At the moment, I was second-guessing a lot of things. “I’m a little worried that I handed him a golden opportunity by taking off the next few weeks.”

My publisher wanted me to plug the book’s release with signings in the southeast and a few cooking segments on talk shows. It might not be a full-fledged book tour, but the regional appearances were daunting to someone who had never done any television. Joan assured me a consultant she knew in Atlanta was coming to work with me on media preparation. He’d be here tomorrow. The hope was that, if he did his job right, my public appearances would help sell even more copies, justifying his expenses and paving the way for my as-yet-untitled sequel.

It was all great visibility for me…unless the book tanked and I’d repeatedly linked myself to it up and down the coast.

“What? That toad owes you vacation! You worked nonstop through the holidays.” Amanda balled up her fists on her shapely hips, her eyes narrowed and full of the light of battle. Despite any personality differences, she was extremely loyal to me. Might have made life simpler if I could just date her. “Not to mention the eighty-hour weeks to help get that restaurant of his up and running. Besides, he can’t fire you when he approved the time off. Did he give you crap about it?”

“No, he was eager to approve the time.” That’s what worried me. “Blondie’s gonna be filling in. You think they’re edging me out?”

“The place wouldn’t last a week without you.”

“I suspect he’s trying to prove otherwise.”

After a moment of silent fuming on my behalf, she shrugged. “You should move on, anyway. Sever all ties with Trevor, date more.”

“I’ve dated.” There had even been a couple of kisses good-night over the last six months, but that paltry statistic was more likely to incite Amanda than appease her.

“Barely! I could probably count your dates on one hand, and one of them was nothing more than meeting for coffee. I think working for your ex is hindering your love life.”

Funny. I thought being me was hindering my love life. My hours were weird, I’d been busy writing the second book—or at least telling myself I should be writing it—and most of my social circle was comprised of couples Trevor and I had spent time with. Besides, I wasn’t the kind of woman who had new guys beating down my door. Even though men say they’d love to find a woman who isn’t into constant talking and emoting, many of them are unsettled when they do find someone more reserved.

“Well, we can’t all be romance goddesses,” I answered lightly.

“Better not tell that to your reading public.”

Yeesh. She was right—a certain persona was expected. Even the picture for the dust jacket had been an ordeal. The publisher definitely hadn’t wanted a headshot of me in a white toque. No, I’d been wearing makeup that made my skin feel heavy, and my mousy hair had been teased into big poofy curls I personally hadn’t found any more flattering than my normal do. At least I’d successfully vetoed the photographer’s suggestion that I be nibbling suggestively on a piece of chocolate-dipped fruit.

What would the image consultant be like? Just someone who walked me through the basics of a television appearance, or another person who encouraged large hair and fondued strawberries? If so, I hated him already.

“Maybe I’m not the right person for this,” I mused aloud.

“For what?” Amanda asked as she double-checked her well, the group of commonly used liquors kept in front with plastic pour spouts attached. In the low-cut, long-sleeved red top she wore tucked into jeans, she would make a killing in tips tonight. I should have sent her to New York in my place. And on the publicity tour.

“This book.”

“Little late for that now,” she said. “Besides, you’re the perfect person for the book. You just don’t know it yet.”

Doubtful. I could talk to people about what went on in their kitchens, sure. No problem. I’m your gal. But I’d bluffed my way through the “bedroom” portion of the manuscript—the part that had convinced my publisher to shell out actual cash.

Discuss sex with strangers? I hadn’t been able to talk to my own mother about getting my first period. Rather than tell her, I’d taken quarters to school and stocked up on supplies from the vending machine in the girls’ restroom. It wasn’t that Mom was unapproachable; quite the contrary, I’d had nightmares about her cheerfully telling the cashier it was my inaugural tampon purchase. It sounds like an exaggeration, but I vividly remember her maternal pride on our one and only mother/daughter bra outing. Unfortunately, twelve department-store shoppers probably do, too.

And it had taken almost a month of friendship with Amanda before she’d finally got the “too much information” message when it came to sharing the details of her romantic escapades. I was not a hotbed of racy gossip.

“Want me to pour you a drink?” She glanced at the wide red-leather watch on her wrist. “We open in five minutes, so it’s not really breaking the rules.”

“Oh, no. I have to be careful imbibing around you. A few drinks and an encouraging nod later, I could wind up hosting some bad reality show called Chefs Gone Wild,” I teased. “I blame you for this book in the first place. Friends shouldn’t let friends outline under the influence.”

“You came up with everything,” she countered with an approving grin. “I don’t even know any recipes, so it’s not like I contributed anything but support.”

“Yes, but you’ve gradually corrupted me—all that bar talk. Sex on the Beach. Sloe Screw. Buttery Nipples.” Which, after my initial shock wore off, I discovered was a butterscotch-flavored shot. “And Screaming-Up-Against-the-Wallbangers.”

She laughed. “That belongs in the Bartender’s Guide to Mixed Metaphors. Come on, now. You are happy they’re releasing your book, aren’t you?”

“Giddy.”

Actually, for all my misgivings, I’d worked hard on the cookbook. If I hadn’t proved whatever point I’d set out to make, I’d still given a lot of thought to my culinary instructions and was thrilled to get it in front of people. It’s just that while I’d been penning chapter three, “Soup, Salad or Me?”, I hadn’t considered the reality of anyone actually picking up a copy and reading it. My remarks to the public on how to spice up their cooking and their love lives would be displayed in stores across the country.

I groaned. “Little old ladies are going to see it!”

“Hey, little old ladies deserve to get some, too.”

“The sex part was a marketing ploy,” I reminded my friend. “The book’s about great food.”

Amanda’s violet eyes sparkled. “I meant great food.”

“Sure you did.”

A knock sounded against the locked glass door at the front of the room, and Amanda came around the bar to answer it. But Todd emerged from the storeroom before she’d gone very far.

“I’d be happy to get that for you,” he said soulfully. With that tone, he could have as easily said, “I’d be happy to take a bullet for you,” or “I’d be happy to father your many children.”

As he disappeared toward his left, to the entrance that wasn’t visible from where we sat, I turned to Amanda. I hadn’t said anything about Todd since I’d met him, but couldn’t help myself now. This was getting ridiculous.

“You know he’s crazy about you?”

“It’s just one of those older-woman crushes,” she said dismissively.

“He’s what, two, three years younger?”

“Still.” She leaned against the bar stool next to mine. “He’s not…I mean, he’s awfully boyish. I’d feel all, ‘Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me.’”

I laughed. “With that outdated reference, you are old.”

But I knew what she meant. I wasn’t sure why I’d even broached the subject. Maybe her needling me about my slow love life had made me realize how un-characteristically long it’d been since she’d mentioned hers.

“You aren’t seeing anyone these days, are you?”

She started, her eyes wider than normal. “Why do you ask?”

“Seems like it’s been a while since you were telling me about the guy you’re involved with or want to be involved with or are dumping after your brief but torrid involvement.”

“And you’re complaining? I thought you didn’t want to talk about stuff like that.”

Her casual tone seemed forced, and I wondered in a surprising flash if I’d hurt her feelings during some previous conversation. “I don’t need to hear every guy’s exact talents and proportions, but I’m still interested in who’s who in the life of Amanda White.”

“Oh. Good to know.” Her smile was rueful. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time there is a man.”

Speaking of men.

Wow.

Todd had reappeared, jangling the keys to the main entrance door, and behind him—did I already say wow? The patron who’d come inside from the cold was tall with golden-blond hair, striking features, piercing eyes that I was pretty sure were green, a black leather jacket and dark jeans. Literally everything about him made me want to volunteer to warm him up. And I do not mean with my signature cayenne-spiked gourmet hot chocolate.

I can’t even explain what made him so…let’s just say he had a quality. Certainly he had a gorgeous face, complete with a strong chin and jaw that proclaimed masculinity and strength and decisive power. From what I could tell, he also had an amazing body beneath the charcoal knit sweater and perfectly sized jeans, neither tight nor baggy. But it wasn’t any of those things that turned my knees to custard. It was the overall impression he created, something about the way he carried himself. Trying to define it would be like trying to properly explain the taste of truffles to someone who’s never had them.

Standing next to me, Amanda let out an appreciative sigh, and I figured my days of not hearing about her love life were over. Jealousy scalded me, but I smiled in her direction as the source of our mutual—cross-eyed, drooly lust—admiration came toward us.

“He…” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and I doubted her breathy tone was due simply to keeping her voice low.

“Has a certain quality, doesn’t he? Sensual. Confident. Powerful.”

“Jumpable.” She cut her gaze to me. “And, damn, do you need a man.”

This was why I was a chef and Amanda microwaved most of her meals; she wasn’t big on savoring.

“Ladies.” His deep voice was rich, as velvety as a perfectly prepared roux. His smile held none of the arrogance I’d sometimes glimpsed in Trevor when he realized women were checking him out.

“Hello, there.” Amanda had the presence of mind to flash an answering smile. My greeting so far consisted of openmouthed ogling. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” He frowned at her. “Do you work here? I thought…Are you Miriam Scott?”

Amanda’s gaze whipped toward me, and I could feel her shock. Or maybe what I felt was my own shock. This man had sought me out? On purpose?

My heart accelerated when I spoke to him, in that nervously infatuated way I’d assumed people outgrew after puberty. It was difficult to get my pulse back to normal when I was reeling from the surprise of a gorgeous stranger appearing and asking for me by name. “That’s I’m. Me. I’m her. Miriam.”

Was it too late to take Amanda up on her offer of a drink? A gin and hemlock would hit the spot.

The stranger’s green eyes widened. “You’re Miriam? Oh. So sorry about the misunderstanding.” For a millisecond, his puzzled frown not only lingered, it deepened. But then he replaced it with a polished smile. His arm snapped up at the elbow, suddenly bent and extended toward me so that we could shake hands. “Dylan Kincaid, here to get you ready for public appearances.”

He was professional enough not to say what I’m sure all three of us were thinking: And, Lord, do we have work to do.

3

Homey comfort foods definitely have their place, but are they enough to satisfy you? Rich, exotic pleasures are more accessible than you think.

LIKE A PANICKED GENERAL trying to rally the troops, I gathered my thoughts. I needed everyone to report for duty now. “Mr. Kincaid, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I braced myself for the handshake, vowing not to dissolve at his touch. His palm was warm, but not soft, and his fingers wrapped purposefully around my hand. Can I be your love slave? Amanda was right, I did need a man.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” I managed to choke out, awarding myself points for remembering to let go of him.

He smiled apologetically. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you by arriving early. My previous job ended sooner than expected, and Joan mentioned you were a bit nervous about the promotional events.”

His eyes warmed affectionately when he mentioned my editor, and suddenly I wondered what she’d meant when she’d said she “knew him.”