Jacquie ’Alessandro - Kiss The Cook

"Yup. That's one of my specialties. Ivory brownies. You eat and wash up at the same time. It's a real time-saver."

He touched his tongue to the side of her neck. "Sounds great."

"Glad you think so," she said, her voice a mere whisper. "I baked them just for you."

He lifted his head. "Brownies? For me?"

"Well, for the cookout. You said chocolate, and you look like the brownie type."

"What's the brownie type?"

The yummy, delicious, drool-inspiring, want-to-scarf-you-down in two bites and then go back for seconds type. "You're a male. That makes you the brownie type."

He leaned forward and gently bit the sensitive skin behind her ear. "If they taste half as good as you do, I'll be in heaven."

Melanie inhaled a deep breath and tried to calm her frazzled nerves, but it was hard to do with her hormones jumping up and down, giving each other high fives. "My toes feel like they're being barbecued over a slow flame."

He straightened, a sheepish, lopsided grin touching his lips. "I don't even want to mention what part of my anatomy feels like it's roasting over a flame," he said in that same velvety, goose-bump-inducing voice.

Melanie clearly read the desire and passion in his darkened eyes. "I think I have a pretty good idea. It's kinda hard to miss, seeing how it's poking me in the belly and all." She knew she should step back, away from him, away from his obvious arousal, but her feet refused to cooperate. Her feet were very happy right where they were. In fact, her whole body was perfectly content plastered smack up against his.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. "I, ah, think I'm done with the car."

"Oh?" What car? She managed to drag her gaze from his face and saw her Dodge. Memory returned. Ah. That car.

"Give me your keys and I'll try it out."

Melanie handed him the keys. "Watch the broken springs. I wouldn't want you to open an artery."

"Thanks," he said, his tone unmistakably dry.

Gingerly sitting on the seat, he slid the key in the ignition. The engine turned over on the third try.

He disconnected the battery recharger and slammed the hood of her car. "That should hold you for a while, but you need to have a mechanic look it over." He glanced at the crack in the windshield and the missing radio antenna. "Actually, what you need is a new car."

"Sorry, but a new car isn't in the budget. I'll just feed this baby a couple quarts of motor oil and she'll be fine." A hot wave of embarrassment washed over her, and Melanie looked down at her Nikes. Two minutes ago they were kissing like they couldn't get enough of each other, and now she didn't know what to say. She was scared to death that he was going to kiss her again.

She was scared to death that he wasn't.

He reached out and entwined their fingers. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he asked, "What's the matter, Mel Gibson? You look nervous." He took a step closer to her, until their bare legs brushed. "Am I making you nervous?"

"Certainly not," she lied in her haughtiest tone. Nervous? He made her more nervous than a dog on its way to the vet. And if he brushed the palm of her hand with his tongue once more, she was going to break out in hives. And probably rip off his clothes.

"You make me nervous," he said against her palm, his breath beating warmly on her skin.

"I do?"

"Big time. Every time I look at you my stomach feels weird."

"Probably ate some bad Boston crème," she suggested with a shaky laugh.

"I don't think so. But we can argue about it later."

"Later?"

"Yeah. I'll pick you and Nana up around one-thirty."

He neatly replaced his tools. Melanie tried not to notice how tanned and strong his arms looked, or how incredible they'd felt wrapped around her. She failed completely. She noticed and she remembered.

"There's a pool at my mom's subdivision," he said when he finished, "so bring your bathing suit. And don't forget dessert."

"Umm… dessert, Nana, bathing suit. Got it. Anything else?"

He brushed his mouth over hers in a quick kiss, then tousled her hair. "Nope. See ya, Mel." He ambled off to his car, whistling, like he hadn't a care in the world. Infuriating man. First he kissed her into oblivion, then he rumpled her hair like she was a dog.

After watching him drive away, Melanie walked into the house in a daze. She should have told him that she didn't want to see him again. When he'd offered his proposition, she should have said, "Sorry Chris, but I have no time for you and I don't want a relationship." Somehow that had turned into "Sure, I'll go to the cookout and bring dessert."

And now he'd kissed her. Kissed her until she'd all but melted into a steaming puddle on the driveway. She should have given him and his doughnuts a cheery adios and wished him a nice life. She should have slammed the door on his beautiful face. She should have-

Nana tapped her on the shoulder. "You've been standing here in the foyer for a good five minutes, staring off into space. You okay?"

Melanie snapped out of her fog. Okay? Not exactly. She felt like she'd been sucker punched in the heart. "I'm fine."

A sly grin eased over Nana's wrinkled face and she nudged Melanie in the ribs. "Great kisser, huh?"

Fire burned in Melanie's cheeks, but there was no point in denying it. Nana could read her like a book. "Actually, great is an understatement."

Nana slapped her knee and let out a whoop of laughter. "Well, it's about time! But I do have one piece of advice."

Good. Advice is what she needed. Levelheaded adult advice from her wise grandma. "I'm listening."

"Better change your shorts before you meet his mama." Nana cast a pointed glance at Melanie's rear. "Mr. Great Kisser left a motor oil handprint on your butt." With that, Nana walked into the kitchen, chuckling.

Melanie twisted around and groaned. The seat of her shorts bore the black imprint of Chris's large hand. She didn't know much about motor oil, but she suspected it would be nearly impossible to wash it out of cloth. Now they were even on the ruined clothes thing, although she was only out a pair of shorts. He'd lost a suit.

She glanced again at the handprint and heat shimmered through her at the memory of him pulling her close, letting her feel his desire.

She needed to stay away from him.

In fact, she never wanted to see him again.

Damn it, she couldn't wait until 1:30.

Chris lounged in a plastic chaise by the pool and struggled to keep his eyes off Melanie.

Talk about mission impossible.

From the moment he'd seen her in her bathing suit, all the blood had drained from his head and settled in his groin, a fact that made standing up without holding a towel or a newspaper in front of him a bit of a problem. For now he lounged, knees strategically bent, cradling an ice-cold can of Coke between his hands, and tried to carry on a conversation with his brother.

Mark was talking a mile a minute, but Chris had no idea about what. "Blah, blah, blah," Mark said. Chris nodded absently and made a few noncommittal noises in response, but he was too busy feasting his eyes on Melanie to follow Mark's story.

She was in the pool, playing in the shallow end with his five-year-old niece, Amanda. Water glistened on Melanie's honey-gold skin, her mop of curls sleeked back to seal-like slickness from the water. Amanda squealed with delight as Melanie tossed her a colorful beach ball.

Chris couldn't understand why Melanie's simple, black one-piece suit had sent his libido into such a frenzy, but it had. Probably because it showcased her long, lean legs, accentuated her slim waist, and hinted at cleavage, leaving him all but panting to see more.

He raked his hands through his hair and sighed. Good grief, the woman had him behaving like a testosterone-inflated fourteen-year-old. He hadn't suffered such a bad case of tongue-tying, palm-sweating, boner-inducing lust since the seventh grade, when Marisa Guacamora had let him feel her Kleenex-enhanced breasts through her cheerleading sweater. If Melanie had worn a bikini, he'd probably have suffered an aneurism.

But worse, and much more frightening than the lust, he genuinely liked her. Hell, he liked her a lot. She was warm, intelligent, funny, a great cook, and if his laughing niece was any indication, she was also great with kids. Not to mention a fabulous kisser.

The woman had threat to bachelorhood written all over her. He knew he should run-not walk-away from her and her big brown eyes to protect his long-anticipated freedom, but he felt disinclined to move so much as an inch. In fact, it suddenly occurred to him that being a "swinging bachelor" was not all it was cracked up to be. His date last night with Claire was proof of the pitfalls of singledom.

Was it possible that after spending only two months as a carefree man-about-town he was ready to call it quits? Give up the ship, throw in the towel, and involve himself in a meaningful relationship?

No! He wanted to live it up-have all kinds of guy fun. Sow some oats. Date a hundred women. Yeah. That's what he wanted.

Wasn't it?

He'd certainly thought so.

Until two days ago.

He sneaked a peek at Melanie and stifled a groan at the arousing sight of her, wet and sun-kissed, her swimsuit molded to her like a second skin.

All right, so maybe he only wanted one woman. The sexy brunette in the pool. Wanted her so much he thought he was going to explode.

He blew out a breath. This did not bode well for his bachelor lifestyle, but somehow the realization didn't panic him. If anything, it filled him with a sense of relief. No more empty, awkward dates. He could spend all his time and energy pursuing one woman… one particular woman.

One particular woman? Whoa! The enormity of that slapped him with the force of a brick to the head. He could practically feel his long-awaited freedom evaporating like smoke in a windstorm. No way was he giving up the ship. Damn it, he was going to be a bachelor if it killed him!

Clearly he was suffering from a case of too-much-work, not-enough-play syndrome. And if Melanie was the one his annoyingly particular libido wanted, so be it. Surely if they slept together, she'd be purged from his system along with everything about her that threatened his lifestyle.

As long as he was up-front that he wasn't looking for a long-term relationship, he wouldn't feel guilty when they parted ways. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain by pursuing her. What was the worst that could happen?

She could say no.

His heart thunked in protest. No was not an option he cared to contemplate, especially when yes was so much better.

Hmmm. Sleeping with Melanie. Melanie in his bed, tousled from a bout of hot sex. That was definitely something to consider.

And where better to consider it than in the pool? Glugging down the rest of his Coke, he debated how best to slip into the water without anyone noticing his condition. He'd just decided to make a run for it when Mark jabbed him in the ribs.

"She's really something, Chris," Mark said in an undertone. "Every time I look at her, my bathing suit gets tight. I'm so horny I can barely think straight."

Chris slowly lowered the Coke can from his lips. "What?" He must have heard Mark wrong. He didn't just say horny. His brother couldn't be lusting after Melanie.

"I said she's something. A totally bitchin' babe. Cripes, what a bod." A wolfish grin lit Mark's handsome face. "I'm not sure what office she's running for, but she definitely has my vote."

Great. His twenty-one-year-old brother had the hots for Melanie. This had to be nipped right in the bud. Melanie was his. Well, she wasn't his. Yet. But he meant to change that. ASAP.

God, what am I thinking? He raked his fingers through his hair again in frustration. She wasn't his. He didn't want her. Mark was welcome to her.

Okay, he wanted her. But he didn't want to want her. And he definitely did not want Mark to want her. If Mark so much as touched her, Chris would have to hurt him.

"Back off, bro," he drawled in as casual a tone as he could manage. "Melanie's mine."

Mark lowered his sunglasses and peered at him over the rim. "Huh?"

Chris lowered his sunglasses and stared right back. "Mine," he repeated. "Hands off."

A crooked smile slashed across Mark's face. "Whoa, big brother. Not that Melanie's not terrific, but I was talking about Zoë." He practically smacked his lips. "She's the one who has my trunks in an uproar."