Page 7 of Recipe for Temptation

Once she’d disappeared from view, he made a beeline for the kitchen to tell his staff he was leaving. As he neared the back foyer he passed Griffin Palmer, the restaurant’s maître d’.

“Evening, Griff,” he said.

“Evening, boss.” Griffin gave him a sly smile. “You and Miss St. James seemed to be getting along rather well.”

Michael grinned. “You could say that. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“That she is.” Griffin winked at him. “And I suppose it never hurts to give food critics the VIP treatment. Not that you need to bribe anyone into giving the restaurant rave reviews,” he added quickly.

Michael stared at him, his grin faltering. “What’re you talking about, Griff? Who’s a food critic?”

“Miss St. James. She called two weeks ago, said she’d never been to the restaurant and thought it was high time she paid us a visit.” Griffin frowned. “Didn’t she introduce herself to you?”

“No.”

Once upon a time, food critics had prided themselves on their secrecy. They’d conducted reviews anonymously because they understood the value of experiencing a restaurant just like ordinary patrons. But nowadays, many food critics didn’t hesitate to reveal their identities. Michael had trained his staff to treat all customers the same—with warmth, courtesy and respect. He didn’t believe in kissing anyone’s ass just to get a good review.

“What paper does Miss St. James write for?” he asked Griffin.

“The Houston Chronicle. I spoke to her when she called to make the reservation.”

Michael clenched his jaw. “What did she say her first name was?”

“You mean the whole time you were cozying up to her, you didn’t ask for her first name?”

Michael scowled. “It wasn’t important.”

“Her name’s Randi St. James.”

The name struck Michael as vaguely familiar. Then suddenly he remembered why. He’d met Randi St. James two years ago at one of his book signings in New York City. While he’d autographed multiple copies of his latest cookbook—she’d bought enough for family and friends—she’d told him that she was a food critic and had enthusiastically lobbied for a Wolf’s Soul to be opened in Houston.

The beautiful, alluring stranger he’d encountered tonight was not Randi St. James.

So who the hell was she? And what was she up to?

Noting Michael’s ominous expression, Griffin heaved a deep sigh. “Don’t tell me that nice young lady isn’t who she says she is.”

Michael said nothing, inwardly seething. He felt like a damn fool. He was used to women employing creative tactics to get his attention, but he’d never imagined that one would go so far as to pose as a food critic. The woman was either the most aggressive fan he’d ever met, or she was seriously unbalanced for attempting such a scheme.

“Wait a minute,” Griffin said. “She didn’t introduce herself to you. That doesn’t make any sense if she expected to receive preferential treatment. How did she know you’d find out her identity?”

“She obviously assumed you’d tell me,” Michael muttered.

“Maybe…” Griffin was unconvinced.

Biting back an impatient oath, Michael said, “Look, I’ve met the real Randi St. James. Unless there are two writers by the same name reviewing restaurants for the Houston Chronicle, the woman is a damn liar.”

He sent a dark glance toward the corridor leading to the restrooms. His mystery woman—whoever she was—had just emerged. Despite what he’d just learned about her—that she was a fraud, possibly a deranged stalker—his body still stirred at the sight of her. With her sensual beauty and a body made for sin, she was a recipe for temptation that any red-blooded male would find hard to resist. Unfortunately, that included him.

As he watched, she glanced around the foyer, searching for him. When their gazes connected, she gave him one of those slow, entrancing smiles that sent blood rushing straight to his groin.

Damn it all to hell. Why’d she have to ruin everything by lying? They could’ve had such a good time together.

Incredible, he amended, mindful of the throbbing ache between his legs.

But no matter how badly he wanted her, one thing Michael had never tolerated in women was deceitfulness. It was an automatic deal breaker for him. Always had been. Always would be.

“I think she’s waiting for you,” Griffin told him.

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