Page 12 of Recipe for Temptation

Reese charged after him, her chest heaving with fury. No way was she letting him have the last word!

“I know this may be hard for you to accept, you arrogant son of a bitch, but you’re not God’s gift to women. Believe it or not, there are a few of us who are perfectly capable of resisting your charms.”

Pausing at his car door, Michael glared back at her, his eyes hard and glittering in the night.

Reese wasn’t finished. “I’m so glad I found out what an asshole you are before I wasted another second of my time watching your damn show. And you wanna know something else? I’ve always liked Bobby Flay better, anyway!”

Before Michael could respond, she slammed the door hard enough to give the neighbors something to talk about.

As far as she was concerned, being fodder for gossip was a small price to pay for the sweet satisfaction of having the last word with Michael. After the abominable way he’d treated her tonight, she’d take whatever victory she could get.

Chapter Four

Michael was still in a foul mood when he woke up the next morning at his father’s house, where he often spent the night to keep the old man company.

To burn off steam, he threw on some sweats, laced up his sneakers and went for a run through the idyllic Stone Mountain neighborhood.

He couldn’t get the woman from last night out of his mind. Every time he replayed the encounter in his mind, he grew more angry and disgusted with himself. He couldn’t believe he’d let things get out of control like that. He was supposed to be teaching her a lesson for lying to him. But the moment he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her, he knew he was in deep trouble. She was built for a man’s sinful pleasure, softness and curves in all the right places. He’d wanted to devour her, to feast on all the tastes and textures of her warm, luscious body. He’d been seconds away from lifting up her dress and burying his mouth between her thighs when she’d pulled away, nearly killing him in the process.

Even now his groin tightened painfully at the memory. He’d been half out of his mind with lust, damn near ready to sell his soul for just one more taste of her.

But what bothered him more than anything was that he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that he’d been wrong about her. Maybe she’d been telling the truth after all. Maybe her last name really was St. James, and somehow Griffin had gotten her confused with the Houston food critic.

Michael scowled to himself. He had to stop thinking about her. He hadn’t misjudged her, damn it. But even if he had, what could he do about it now? After the way things ended between them last night, it was highly unlikely she’d ever step foot in his restaurant again.

He was still scowling when he returned to the silent house and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast for his father.

In no time he had buttermilk biscuits baking in the oven. As he went to work chopping fresh chives, ham and mushrooms for an omelet, his mind wasn’t on the razor-sharp knife in his hand—though it probably should’ve been.

“Nothing like the smell of hot coffee and biscuits in the morning.”

Michael jumped, and narrowly missed slicing off the tip of his finger. Smothering a curse, he glanced up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a checkered robe walking toward him. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts he hadn’t even heard Sterling Wolf enter the large kitchen.

“Hey, Dad,” he mumbled as his father joined him at the center island, a copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution tucked beneath one arm.

“Mornin’, son. Didn’t mean to startle you—especially while you’re holding a big knife,” Sterling said with a gritty chuckle. He clasped Michael on the back of the neck and pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to his temple. As he pulled away, he surveyed the contents of the cutting board and raised a thick salt-and-pepper brow. “What did those poor mushrooms ever do to you?”

Michael followed the direction of his father’s gaze, frowning when he saw the eviscerated remains of the mushrooms he’d been chopping for the omelet. Damn. As if it weren’t bad enough that the mystery woman was wreaking havoc on his libido. Now she was messing up his knife-work, too.

“I chopped ’em extra fine on purpose,” he said, straight-faced.

His father looked skeptical. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. Wanted you to have an easier time chewing your food, being a senior citizen and all.” He laughed and ducked as Sterling playfully swatted at his head with the newspaper.

“I may be a senior citizen, boy, but I can still take you across my knee—arthritis or not. And don’t you forget it.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said with mock sobriety.

His teasing words to the contrary, no one could dispute that Sterling Wolf was the epitome of robust health, though that hadn’t always been the case. Several years ago, he’d suffered a heart attack that prompted the need for a drastic lifestyle change. Michael and his younger brother, Marcus, had stepped in and taken charge. Overriding their father’s objections, they’d sold the family home—which had become a money pit—and relocated Sterling to the tranquil suburbs of Stone Mountain. Within a year his health had done a dramatic one-eighty, thanks to the new environment as well as the personal nutritionist and housekeeper who’d been hired to look after him.

Michael poured his father a cup of coffee, a decaf blend he’d discovered during a visit to Italy a few years ago. The coffee was so rich and flavorful that Sterling never suspected it was basically caffeine-free. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t complain about.

Taking an appreciative sip from his mug, Sterling claimed a bar stool at the large island while Michael set about chopping a new batch of mushrooms before sautéing them in a pan.

“So how was your trip?” Sterling asked, though he and Michael had spoken frequently during his monthlong publicity tour. “Sell a lot of books?”

Michael shrugged, deftly cracking eggs into a bowl. “I sold enough.”

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