pamela burford

Rule Number One: Never mix business with pleasure. New York restaurant reviewer Lina Holland learned that lesson by watching her beloved mentor self-destruct, and she's not about to make a similar mistake, even if the chef and owner of the restaurant she’s secretly reviewing is the most sexalicious hunk who ever seared a T-bone. It's not enough to be scrupulously impartial, she must avoid even the merest whiff of favoritism. Date a restaurateur? She can't allow herself to even think about it. Okay, she thinks about it, but that's all. Really!

Chef Eric Reid is a widower struggling to raise twin boys and keep his fledgling Long Island restaurant afloat long enough for word of mouth to lift it out of the red. Little does he suspect that the intriguing new customer groaning in ecstasy over his bourbon pecan tart is none other than the legendary Lina Holland, the reviewer whose thumbs-up could spell the difference between colossal success and the extermination of his lifelong dream. No one in the industry knows what Lina looks like, but he's convinced she's a brash, zaftig shrew who applies her makeup with a putty knife. When he finds out how wrong he is, the fun really starts!

Throw in a buttinsky roommate, a lecherous ex-husband, bribery by chocolate, and the fishing excursion from hell, and the result is, well, too darn hot!

Originally published by Zebra books, a division of Kensington Publishing Corp. About 48,000 words.

Excerpt One

"Come on." Eric took Lina’s soft hand in his and led her through the doorway to the storeroom, where two walls of shelves were crammed with boxes, bags, huge cans, and plastic tubs. He unlocked the outside door and held it open for her. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then stepped outside with him, into the crisp May night.

They were behind the restaurant, which was located in a residential area of Rocky Bay. A public park was directly across the street. Traffic was sparse this time of night on the back roads of this little seaside town. Even though they couldn’t see the rolling waves and pristine white sand of Long Island’s South Shore a few blocks away, they could smell the tang of salt in the bracing cool air.

Eric inhaled deeply, cleansing his lungs. He’d been inside The Cookhouse for over eight hours straight, putting out fires, both literal and figurative. He’d almost forgotten there was a world outside the sultry confines of his kitchen.

He took a few steps away from Lina and rubbed his eyes, irritated from greasy smoke and exhaustion. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt, then stretched his stiff arms back until his shoulders popped.

He glanced at Lina. She was watching him in silence. In the dim glow of a streetlight he could just make out the half smile that curved her lush mouth.

"You look exhausted," she said quietly.

"I’ve had better nights."

As she stared at him, Eric found himself wondering what she was thinking. He asked, "Are you usually so outspoken when you go out to dinner?"
She seemed to find that amusing. "Always."

"Well, don’t hold back on my account. If there’s something more you’d like to add..."

Her teasing smirk made his breath catch. How could a woman be so obnoxious one moment and so disarmingly enchanting the next? The female of the species surely was a mystery to him.

She took a few steps toward him, those sexy toe-cleavage shoes click, clicking on the sidewalk. "Cookie explained about your disasters tonight. Under the circumstances, I must say, I have to admire..." She hesitated, rubbing her bare arms.

"My persistence? You’re cold." Without thinking, he met her halfway and chafed her goose-bumped arms with his palms. He sometimes did this for the boys during Little League games in early spring when it was still so cold, you could see your breath.

He looked down. Lina’s eyes were nearly black in the murky half-light, her full, sensual lips slightly parted. Her scent teased his nostrils—something expensive, he had no doubt, with some silly name like Possession or Ecstasy or some such nonsense, but warm and stirring nevertheless. He thought he detected a hint of jasmine....

Abruptly he dropped his hands. Little League, huh? Month after month of abstinence must’ve finally taken its toll on his mind. This was no frosty morning on a ball field, and this vision in sapphire silk and designer perfume was anything but a pubescent boy in a batter’s helmet and his first cup.

His hand slowly came up. He lifted a strand of her hair and drew it between his fingers, watching it catch the meager light from the streetlamp.

Her voice was a shivery whisper. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to see if your hair is as soft as sable."

She swallowed, her eyes wide. "Is it?"

"Yes." He finger-combed the strands back into place.

"Oh."

He could swear she was blushing again, but in this gloom, it was frustratingly hard to tell.

She grinned crookedly. "Sable, huh?"

"Trust me. I know my pelts."

"Gee, thanks."

He ran a hand over her chilled arm. "If I had a jacket, I’d offer it, but under the circumstances..."

"I’m sure you have to get back to work anyway." She started toward the door.

"Lina."

She turned back.

A voice inside asked him what he thought he was doing. This wasn’t in the game plan. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to do this anymore....

"Why don’t you, uh, stay and have dessert? On the house. It’s the least I can do."

She hesitated, but he saw the beginnings of a smile. She was about to accept.

"And if you’d like," he rushed on before his rational side could interfere, "I could--we could--" Damn, was it this hard when he was courting Ruth all those years ago? "There’s this great little place in Island Park where we could get a drink. And a snack." He grinned--disarmingly, he hoped. "You'll be happy to know they don’t serve duck."

In the blink of an eye, her features iced up. A moment before, she’d been smiling warmly, even laughing with him. Now her eyes narrowed and her shoulders squared in haughty disapproval. She seemed to gain two inches in height as he watched.

What had he done wrong? Maybe they changed the way this is done, and no one had bothered to tell him.

She glanced away, as if the sight of him were somehow offensive. "That won’t be possible. I came with Joy."

"No problem. I’d be happy to drive you home later--"

"No." Lina spun on her heel and click, clicked back to the door, but not before impaling him with a look designed to wither whatever was left of his masculine ego.

He stared at the door long after it slammed.

Damn. Someone had changed the rules.

Excerpt Two

The door slammed shut and Eric was alone. He looked around the apartment—what he could see of it from the tiny foyer. It was pleasant enough, he supposed, but oddly unsatisfying, the furnishings an eclectic mix that reflected the personality of neither occupant. Off-white walls, hardwood floors, security bars on the windows. A typical Queens postwar building.

Still clutching the bagel bag, he made his way through the apartment to the only closed door. To knock or not to knock? He didn’t want to wake her. Eric hefted the bag under one arm and turned the doorknob. Slowly. He eased it open. He stuck his head in and looked around.

A breeze ruffled lightweight floral curtains that matched the bedspread sliding off the foot of a pretty brass double bed. In the subdued light that filtered through the curtains he made out Lina lying on her belly diagonally across the mattress, a pale yellow sheet twisted around her legs.

He nearly groaned at the unexpected physical response engendered by the sight of her luscious, barely clad body sprawled in the tangle of her bedding, looking much as he’d pictured her a thousand times in his fantasies.

Exhausted. Satisfied. Replete in the aftermath of his loving.

Eric took a deep breath and tried to rein in his galloping imagination. The smell of warm bagels reminded him he’d come here to bring Lina breakfast and make sure she’d recovered from her night-fishing ordeal.

That was why he’d come, wasn’t it?

He approached the bed and set the bag on the carpet. Now he could see she wore some sort of short white nightgown, a flimsy little cotton thing with spaghetti straps. Practically nothing to it. As insubstantial as a naughty thought.

He sat cross-legged next to the bed and angled his head to peer at her face. She was turned toward him, but her features were obscured by the pillow she clutched and by her disheveled hair, going every which way. Her full pink lips were half-parted. He knew he should leave, but...

He couldn’t resist the smooth expanse of her upper back exposed by the skimpy nightie. His fingers lightly stroked the warm, silky skin, earning a deep sigh of contentment as her back rose and fell under his palm.

Yes, he really should leave. He certainly shouldn’t allow his fingertips to trace up the back of her neck and over her scalp.

Like this...

His teasing caress set off a voluptuous tremor that culminated in a languid stretch. Another, deeper sigh, and her eyes opened and locked with his, inches away.

For a miraculous few seconds, her drowsy, contented expression remained unchanged, as if he belonged there. As if his presence in her bedroom were an extension of whatever dream she was floating out of.

Then those sapphire eyes widened. She blinked.

Tenderly he brushed her hair off her face. “Good morning.”

Her voice was a croak as she tried to say his name. She cleared her throat. “What...” She sniffed the air, her brow wrinkled. “Do I smell—” sniff “—bagels?”

He tapped the bag. “Right here. Still warm.”

She lifted her head and peered at the large sack. “How many did you buy?”

“Two dozen.” So he got carried away. “They freeze.”

Her eyelids were puffy. The side of her face that had been pressed against the bunched pillow was sleep-striped with pink wrinkles. But most alarming was her hair. On that side of her head, it stuck straight up. She noted the direction of his gaze and tentatively touched her head. She cursed.

“You look half-scared,” he said.

“I went to bed with wet hair. Didn’t know I’d be entertaining first thing,” she teased.

“You actually took the time to shower when you got home this morning? As wiped out as you were?”

“Are you kidding? I was covered in fish guts and stuff. I’ve never been so grotty. Stop laughing.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Yes you are. I should sneak into your bedroom some morning when you’re sound asleep and— Oh!” She caught his devilish expression and slammed him with her pillow.

“Is this the thanks I get for bringing you breakfast?”

She moaned, as if even the thought of food were more than she could bear after her bout with seasickness.

“How about a plain one?” He dug in the bag and came up with a smooth bagel. He tore it in two and offered her half. “To settle your stomach, soak up the acids and whatnot.”

“And whatnot?”

“You know what I mean. Just eat.”

She leaned on an elbow and ran her fingers through her hair. Now it looked less scary and just plain messy. Her nightgown had tiny buttons running down the front, and the top couple were undone. Her side-lounging position coaxed an enticing display of cleavage from her small breasts, the outlines of her dark coral nipples faintly visible under the wispy fabric. No sooner had he noticed this than Lina noticed him noticing it. She untangled the sheet and pulled it up to her shoulders.

Damn.

He shared the bagel with her, and they ate in silence.

“Better?” he asked when she’d taken a few bites.

She nodded. “Thanks.”

“So what did you have planned for the day?” He allowed his gaze to peruse her demurely draped form. “Not that I’m complaining. You can lounge around in bed, and I’ll feed you bagels till the cows come home.”

“A tempting offer, but I have work to do.”

“More superb restaurants to drag back from the brink of anonymity?”

“That’s me, patron saint of obscure four-star eateries.”

“You’re not going to make me wait three months to read the Cookhouse review, are you? How about a peek?” He rose from the carpet and sat on the edge of the bed, urging her to scoot over.

She bit her lip. “Well...I shouldn’t.”

“Sure you should. He ran a finger along the top of the sheet where it covered her chest, then gently pushed her onto her back and leaned over her. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Her eyes widened slightly; in the muted light they were the darkest indigo. “You won’t?”

“No,” he whispered, “I won’t.”

She swallowed hard. “What will you do if I refuse?”

He grazed his knuckles over her jaw. “Whatever it takes to change your mind.”

Her voice had a slight tremor as she whispered, “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“No.” Their lips nearly touched, their breath mingling.

“What are we talking about?” she asked.

“Not your article.” He lowered his mouth to hers.