Some Like It Spicy (12 page)

“Ashton.”

Her spine tingled at Ty’s voice. She turned to look at him.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She stared at him, wanting to say something, but her mind was blank.

He cleared his throat. “Looks like we’re going to get out of here early today.”

“Looks like.” Could she sound any dumber?

“So how about that cooking lesson?”

“Ty, we don’t have—”

“Tonight good for you?”

Her mind flashed to the possibilities. The two of them, alone, whip cream readily accessible. But then she looked around the room, at the cameras and screens and wires and lights. Not such a sexy setting. She would be just fine.

“Tonight will work,” she told him.

“Great. I’ll have my driver pick you up at seven. He’ll take you back to my apartment.”

She dropped her head forward. “Your…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence and he was already gone.

Oh, boy
.

Nothing was going to happen.

The mantra became a chant in her head all afternoon and on the car ride to Ty’s apartment. She’d snuck out of the brownstone, as if she had to hide where she was going. Ridiculous, since any of the chefs could have won the prize. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

But if Duffy or Jin had been the chef to win, they probably wouldn’t have worn a black wraparound dress that created curves, or a padded bra that turned B-cups into C-cups.

No, the men wouldn’t have, but what about the women? What if Jolene had been the one to win? Perfect Jolene, with her perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect body. Perfect, beauty-queen Jolene. Her pulse picked up pace.
Calm down, Ashton
, she chided herself. It didn’t really matter what anyone wore, since this was nothing more than a cooking lesson.

But she was very glad that Jolene hadn’t won.

The car stopped in front of a building in trendy TriBeCa. The driver opened the door and walked her into the building. “Mel,” he said, “this is Mr. Cates’s guest. He’s expecting her.”

“Right this way, miss.” The doorman led her to the elevator and pushed the seventeenth floor. “Have a nice night.”

She shook the whole way.

When the elevator doors opened, Ty stood waiting. He looked great in dark jeans and a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

She took a slow step off the elevator.
This is not a date
, she reminded herself.

“Welcome, Ashton,” Ty said in a soft, sultry drawl. He held out a hand.

Maybe he’d intended a handshake, but for some reason she found herself taking it and holding on. Strangely, she couldn’t feel any cuts or scars, as if he hadn’t held a knife in a while. His skin was too smooth for a chef, the opposite of hers.

“You look lovely.” He seemed just as reluctant to let go of her hand.

She could feel her skin heat even as she begged her body not to respond. She didn’t want him to think she’d dressed for him. Even though she clearly had.

“Let me show you the place,” he said.

Ty’s apartment was not what she’d expected; it just didn’t seem to fit him. The walls were stark white, like a hospital. The purple, squared couch was so low it looked uncomfortable, and the three-legged coffee table seemed to be an architectural anomaly. In fact, the space was just plain stark, as if the designer had taken the minimalist approach to the nth degree.
Ty Cates, the one on Page Six, would fit in this apartment, as long as he had a blond model on either side of that horrid couch. But the Ty she was coming to know belonged somewhere else, like the cover of a Pottery Barn catalog.

She wandered over to a steel and glass side table covered with frames. The first shot showed a young Ty in a cap and gown between a man and a woman. He looked so much like both of them, they had to be his parents. She picked up a picture of a young girl, about seven, with her arm around a boy who looked a few years older. “Who’s this?”

He took the frame from her. “Maryanne and Lucas. My niece and nephew.”

“Do they ever visit you?” He shook his head. “Between the kids and the restaurant, Ruby’s only made it out once since I moved here. But my parents usually come for a week every year.”

“You’re lucky you have such a close family.” She pictured her own apartment, where she displayed only two photographs: one of her grandmother and one of her, Chloe, and Jenna on the day the restaurant opened. She couldn’t even remember if she had a picture of her parents.

“Do you want to see the rest of the place?” He gestured to a doorway.

Probably, she decided, the bedroom. A room she definitely did not need to see. “How about the kitchen?”

The kitchen was on the far wall opposite the bedroom. It opened to the loft, with a huge, granite island in the middle. All the appliances were a matching stainless steel, which she loved. She also approved of the backsplash, one by one tiles in shades of burgundy, deep blue, eggplant, and burnt sienna.

“Now, this I like,” she said, running her hand across the smooth countertop.

Ty nodded. “This was the one place I wouldn’t let the decorator touch. She actually wanted to put in an electric, flat-top range because she didn’t like ‘bumps’ in appliances.” He said “bumps” in a high-pitched tone, as if to mimic the decorator’s voice.

“You actually let her live after making a comment like that?” Ashton joked.

“I considered turning her over to the food police, but it just seemed easier to ban her from the kitchen.” He opened a built-in wine cooler. “What would you like to drink?”

“You choose.”

He grabbed a bottle of white and set it on the counter.

“Very nice,” she murmured, looking at the label. She ordered the wine for her restaurant, so she knew this bottle’s cost was in the triple digits.

“So, Ashton,” Ty started as he used a corkscrew to open the bottle. “How’d you get into cooking? Was it your dad’s influence?”

“Hardly.” She waited until he poured a glass and she took a sip. “My dad may know every obscure ingredient in existence and has eaten in the best restaurants around the world, but he wouldn’t deign to enter the kitchen. He considers that my mom’s job, although God knows why, since he’s never had anything nice to say about her meals. I actually learned to cook from my grandmother.”

“I take it you’re close.”

“Were close. She passed away a year ago.” Just talking about it made her chest ache. “I spent more time at her house than my own growing up. My dad—” Ashton cut herself off. She so didn’t want to go there tonight. “Let’s just say my dad isn’t the easiest person to get along with. Nana owned a neighborhood tea shop, and she’d let me help make the sandwiches and mini-quiches and spinach pies. When she died, she left me her house to turn into a restaurant.”

The world blurred as waves of nostalgia hit her. She felt a wet drop on her hand and then another. She quickly turned her back to Ty and wiped away the tears.

“Hey.” Arms enfolded her from behind. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she said on a sniffle. She wanted to sink through the floor from embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” he repeated into her ear.

She let herself lean back against his chest. “I still miss her. She was the one person I could talk to, the only one who understood what it was like to live with my father. I could always count on her, no matter what, to be on my side.”

“I bet you have a lot of people on your side.”

Ashton thought about it. “My partners, Jenna and Chloe. Jenna and I have been friends since we were little. Chloe and I met in culinary school, but I feel like I’ve known her forever. It’s different with them, though. I have to be…strong. I convinced them to invest all their money, so I can’t fall apart just because the restaurant is doing poorly—” She stopped abruptly and put a hand over her mouth. What was with the verbal diarrhea? Her financial trouble was none of Ty’s business.

She stepped out of his arms, and felt only a slight pang at the loss of his warm, comforting embrace.

“This is a cooking lesson, isn’t it?” she asked, forcing her voice back to normal. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Then, let’s get cooking.”

Chapter Eleven

When Ty had moved up North, he’d had to get used to a whole new breed of females. Southern women still believed in chivalry, still thought men should hold open doors, kill spiders, and always provide a shoulder to cry on. Northern women, he’d found, were independent to the extreme. They didn’t let men see them cry, they could kill spiders themselves, and old-fashioned romance gave them the “icks.”

Scarlett O’Hara, Ashton was not. She epitomized a lady of the North.

And it was making him damned frustrated.

“It’s okay to let people hold you, comfort you,” he told her. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It doesn’t make you weak.” He didn’t know what emotion she needed to let out more: grief over the death of her grandmother or rage over the fact that her father was an unsupportive asshole.

She glared at him, all trace of tears gone from her face. “I came here to cook, not take part in a therapy session.”

“Fine. We’ll cook.” He grabbed his wineglass, downed the rest of it, and then poured another. Since staying sane was apparently off the table, he figured he might as well get drunk.

She took his cue and poured herself another glass. “What are we making?”

He opened the refrigerator and started pulling out ingredients. “Pizza. With a French flare.”

Her gorgeous blue eyes lit up. “Bet you don’t know how to make a proper Chicago-style pizza. How ’bout I give
you
a little lesson.”

“You’re on.” He pulled another ball of pizza dough out of the refrigerator. “Here. Find whatever else you need.” Luckily, he’d had the neighborhood market make a delivery that afternoon.

She scavenged in his cupboards and the fridge until she found what she wanted. Next to his ingredients, she lined up tomato sauce, a block of fresh mozzarella, pepperoni, mushrooms, onions, and green peppers.

“Your pizza looks kind of sissy,” she remarked, eyeing his selections.

“Just wait. You’ll be begging me to let you serve it at your restaurant,” he predicted.

“Sorry, but I don’t think so. You can’t beat a true Chicagoan when it comes to pizza.”

He stepped closer to her until they were shoulder to shoulder. He tilted his head so his mouth perched just over her ear. “That sounds like a dare.”

“More like a challenge,” she said with confidence, but to his delight, he could see a shiver run through her.

With a chuckle, he removed a ball of dough from its plastic bag. “You may be a master at deep dish, but let me show you how to throw a thin crust.” He demonstrated a few expert tosses.

“I’m impressed,” she said. “But I’ve got to tell you, those toppings look pretty frou-frou.”

“In about twenty minutes, you’ll be eating your words.”

“But look at them. Where’s the tomato sauce, the mozzarella, the pepperoni?”

He shook his head with a mocking
tsk
. “And you call yourself a chef. I thought you had more imagination.”

She actually
harrumph
ed
.

“I’ve never heard that sound out of anyone but my great-aunt,” he teased.

“Just make your pizza.” He spread a layer of sour cream mixed with Dijon over the crust, which Ashton pretended made her gag. “Can you cut some thin slices of tomato?” He used his thumb and pointer finger to demonstrate the width he wanted.

“Of course,” she bristled.

While Ashton sliced the tomato, he crumbled a log of goat cheese. He layered the tomato slices over the sauce, and then crumbled the goat cheese on top. To finish, he topped the pizza with some beautiful tuna and a sprinkle of fresh basil.

“Voilá,” he said as he finished. “Tell me that doesn’t look delicious.”

“Let’s just wait until we have something to compare it to.”

“If you want to be embarrassed, that’s fine with me.” He picked up the tray and set it in the preheated oven.

“While that’s cooking,” Ashton said, “I’ll show you how a real pizza is made.”

As she kneaded the dough, he couldn’t help but think this was the best night he’d spent with a woman in a long time. Before he’d moved to New York, when he’d been just a young Southern boy slaving away in his kitchen, he’d dreamed of nights just like this. Of spending an evening in the kitchen with a beautiful woman doing his favorite activity in the world: cooking.

Ty Junior twitched in protest.

Okay, his
second
favorite activity.

With other women he’d dated, that dream had been impossible. How could he cook with someone who didn’t even eat? Or would just throw up the meal he’d so brilliantly created?

“Now, pay attention,” Ashton commanded. She picked up the dough, swung it in the air…

And it landed on his head.

She erupted into laughter that was contagious. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”

He lifted the edge of the dough from his eyes. “Maybe you should try it again.”

She removed the dough, got into position, and threw. This time she wasn’t even close. The dough flew partway across the kitchen and landed half on the sink and half hanging off the counter.

They moved for it together, bumping heads.

“Ow!” Ashton half yelped, half laughed as she rubbed the top of her head.

Ty’s head was stinging, too, but he barely felt the throb over the euphoria.

He put a hand on the top of her head and began to massage. The bottle of wine they’d finished in record time was making him a bit fuzzy. “I think you need to take a lesson on pizza tossing,” he told her.

Her hands moved to his waist as they stood chest to chest. He gently massaged the top of her head, while his other hand moved to her cheek. She nuzzled his hand like a kitten.

Her lashes drifted shut. “This feels nice,” she whispered.

It did. But he knew something that would feel even nicer. He lowered his head and met his lips with hers.

She tasted like perfection with a hint of Chardonnay. His lips couldn’t leave her; it was as if his brain had lost all ability to send messages and his body had taken over. His brain was screaming at him that this was all wrong.

His body knew nothing had ever been this right.

She returned his passion lips to lips, touch to touch. She gripped his hair as her tongue playfully danced with his.

His tongue and lips followed a trail across her jawline, down her neck to where her pulse beat a frantic staccato. He teased her there for a bit, enjoying the way she panted and moaned.

As he kissed her, she slid her hands down his torso and tugged his shirt from his jeans. Her palms slid underneath the fabric to his skin, and the coolness of her hands against his burning skin made him suck in a pint of air.

Growling, he grabbed her at the waist, and set her on the island counter. She landed in tomato juice and basil and cheese chunks, but she didn’t seem to care as she gripped each side of his head to tug his lips back to hers.

When he drew back, she groaned in protest.

He placed his index finger on her lips to quiet her. “I have a new recipe in mind I want to try out.” He moved his hands to her shoulders and dragged the top of her dress off until it pooled around her waist.

At the sight of her in a lacy, black bra, he felt his eyes bug inches out of his head. “My God,” he whispered on an exhale.

Her skin turned pink. “Not what you’re used to, right? No implants…just me.”

“You’re beautiful.” His voice broke with awe. She was real; she was what he’d been missing.

“You don’t have to lie. I know what I—”

“Ashton.” He cut her off. “If you don’t believe that I want to fall to my knees right now and worship your amazing body, then I guess I’ll have to show you.”

He stuck two fingers in the bottle of tomato sauce and ran it over her collarbone. Then, he followed his fingers with his tongue, lapping up the sauce. “Mmm. Sweetest tomato sauce I’ve ever eaten.”

Ty drew a line down her chest, just teasing the top of her breasts. She pouted when he didn’t remove her bra, only nibbled through the fabric.

“My turn,” she said as she put the tip of her finger in the sauce. She rubbed it against his mouth, and then lowered to him.

As they licked every inch of sauce off each other, smoke itched at his eyes.

“The room’s on fire,” Ashton said against his lips.

With an annoyed groan, and without breaking their kiss, Ty picked her up. She wrapped her legs around her waist and held on.

After switching off the oven, he grabbed a towel with one hand, opened the door, and pulled out the blackened pizza. He closed the oven with his elbow, and then dropped the pizza to the floor.

“Ty,” Ashton giggled, “the food.”

“Forget about it,” he said. “You taste so much better.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He let go of her lips just long enough to look in her eyes. “I am hungry. For dessert.” He took a deep breath, the Southern boy in him forcing him to ask instead of just take.

“Are
you
ready for dessert?”

…

Ashton knew what Ty was asking.

Part of her wished he’d just haul her into the bedroom like a caveman and take her. This way, though, she had a say, she was responsible for her actions. And her bad judgment.

God, she knew she was going to regret this tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. But wrapped around him like snakeskin, she’d never wanted anything more. Not winning the show, saving the restaurant, even getting her father’s approval. Spending one night in Ty’s arms trumped everything else.

She stared into his stunning hazel eyes, which nearly smoked with desire, and knew she was staring at him the same way.

“Ashton?” A frown of uncertainty marred the perfection of his face.

She wanted to be coy and clever like him and say something witty. But this wasn’t a game anymore.

“I want you,” she finally said, then lowered her head to kiss him sweetly.

He growled and dropped her feet to the ground. “Come on.” Grabbing her hand, he tugged her toward the bedroom.

In record speed, they dashed through the living room, down a short hall, and into the bedroom. Ty flipped on the lights as they headed toward the bed. She barely had time to glance around the masculine room in grays and blues before her dress pooled at her feet.

Standing in nothing but her matching black bra and panties, Ashton looked up at Ty. To her satisfaction, his mouth hung open and his eyes were glassy.

“Funny,” she murmured. “I never thought you’d be the kind of guy who was like lightning in the bedroom.” She expected a smile, but she got an intense stare, one so filled with heat that she actually had to fan herself to keep from bursting into flames.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know when to go fast…” He lifted her and kicked her dress away. “And when to go slow.”

As hot as she was, she actually shivered.

Ashton held her breath, waiting for his hands on her nearly nude body, but he just stood, staring. She fought the urge to cover herself with her arms or dive for the light switch. Her body was long and lean; she had nothing to be ashamed of. But Ty was used to women whose torsos were defined by the number of ribs sticking out. He wasn’t used to staring at a body that wasn’t perfect.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Want to get a move on it, pal?” She tried to sound light, but she could hear her failure.

His gaze never moved from her, roaming up and down. “This is one of those times I was talking about,” he said. “A woman’s body should always be admired slowly, especially if it’s as perfect as yours.”

Normally, drivel like that would have set off her gag reflexes, but for some reason, Ty’s slow, sexy drawl made her want to believe him.

At the point where she thought she might actually go mad, he lifted his hands and placed them on her bare shoulders.

The coolness of his hands against her raging-hot flesh nearly caused a sizzle. He moved his fingers downward, paying homage to her body with soft, smooth caresses. Her arms, belly, legs, nothing was left untouched. By the time he knelt before her, she panted like she’d just run a marathon.

And then, when he gripped the sides of her panties with each hand, she stopped breathing altogether.

“Wait.” She put her hands over his. “You need to do some catching up.” She moved a hand to his shirt. Ty was still completely dressed and she fully intended to do something about it.

But he just sent her one of those dizzying smiles and shook his head. “Clearly you haven’t been down South. Haven’t you ever heard ‘ladies first’?”

I need to spend some time in Atlanta
, she thought dizzily as he lowered her panties and helped her step out of them.

Her knees shook until she groped behind her for the edge of the bed and sat down. Ty seemed to like this position even better as he put her legs over each shoulder and buried his face between her thighs.

At the first feel of his tongue against her, she screamed. She thought she heard Ty chuckle, but she was too lost in the most fabulous sensation she’d ever felt to care. The man clearly had some practice in this area. If she wasn’t personally benefitting from it, she might have been offended. But she’d never felt anything as good in her life as he ran his tongue up and down her cleft, knowing just where to suck and just when to apply pressure.

Ty pushed one finger inside her, then two, pumping in a steady rhythm. Sweat glistened off her body as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She was getting so close…

“Ty!”
His name burst from her lips as he sucked at that one special spot. She went flying into space, quivering and quaking beneath him.

He didn’t stop tormenting her until she returned to Earth and her body slowed to just an occasional shake. That’s when she realized she was still gripping his head as if to keep him in place.

An embarrassed laugh fell from her lips. “With that tongue, you should be carrying a license to kill.”

He lifted his head, looking way too proud of himself. And damn it, he should be. Her last couple of boyfriends hadn’t come half as close to giving her such a powerful orgasm.

“See,” he teased, “I can take things slow when the occasion calls for it.”