Deliciously Sinful

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Copyright Page

I need to give a big thank-you to my agent, Roberta Brown, and the editors at Grand Central Publishing, Alex Logan and Amy Pierpont. Thank you for being wonderful, talented, and supportive while I wrote this book. Alex, your comments always get me through revisions and make me LOL.

I would also like to thank my amazing friends who have been by my side during a very challenging year. J. and G., we’ll always have quicksand. BRCU, thank you for being my surrogate family. Jerry Fucking Snyder and Kristen Amazing, home is wherever I’m with you. Melanie, I love our domestic partnership. Paul, you are the best car husband a girl could ever have. Leutzy, I want to be you when I grow up.

Reno, you rock.

W
hen Phoebe Mayle touched her forehead, it was sticky with blood. She looked at her fingertips and red stains spotted her skin. The front end of her car was smashed into a fallen redwood tree, and steam was rising from under the hood to mingle with the earsplitting downpour of rain that was hitting the roof of her car like a shower of nails. If she’d broken any bones, she couldn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything except the way her entire body was shaking from the shock of the impact.

The windshield was cracked, but the rearview mirror was intact. Her quivering hands were barely able to tilt the mirror so she could inspect the wound on her forehead. She gasped at her reflection. There was a gash that was dripping blood, and both of her eyes were already turning the shade of an eggplant. Otherwise, she didn’t appear to have any major injuries. No, her current worry was the fact that she had just totaled her car, and now she was stranded miles from help. She might have a concussion, and the temperature was dropping steadily. Who knew how long it would take for a rescue team to navigate the road and find her?

She wasn’t quite sure what had happened. The last thing she remembered was the tree falling directly in front of her car. Luckily she’d been driving slowly because of the weather, or the damage would have been a lot worse. As it was, she’d blacked out when her head hit the steering wheel, and she wasn’t sure how long she’d been out. Now she tried to gather her wits and figure out a plan.

Good luck with that.

From what she could see through the curtain of rain, several trees had fallen, mudslides were coating large portions of the cracked road, and the nearest house was probably a good ten miles away.

This is all your fault.
Everyone had told her not to go out to the farm in this weather, but she had insisted on going. Insisted because she was a control freak who was trying to prove a point. And the point was that she could do it all, with or without a certain person named Nick Avalon, who’d left her high and dry when she needed him most.

She should have done so many things differently.

You can’t do everything.

Ah, yes. Finally.
Finally
, she could admit that to herself. Sitting there, staring at her bloody hand, she didn’t have any choice but to realize that she simply wasn’t able to control every aspect of her life—or those around her.

Great time for such amazing self-realizations. She was caught in a downpour that made it incredibly stupid to start walking anywhere, and—by the looks of the nearest hill—she was fairly certain a mudslide was about to occur in the near future, covering what shelter she had.

And why are you here? Because you couldn’t let Nick Avalon get the better of you. You had to risk your life for some quail eggs just to prove you were as capable as he was?

So here she was. Shivering in a wrecked car deep in a redwood forest, in the middle of what used to be a road, with no food, water, or even rain gear.

This never would have happened before she’d met Nick. She’d started adopting his ways; she’d become just a bit too carefree and she’d started taking risks.

All her life, she’d avoided hazardous situations. So what had she done? Fallen for the charms of the most hazardous situation on the West Coast.

“Nick. Avalon.” She said the words aloud in a bitter tone.

She would bet he was sunning himself in L.A., getting ready for a new job at some fancy restaurant, surrounded by hot young Hollywood starlets. Smoking a cigarette and drinking tequila.

Frustration overwhelmed her, and she screamed. Loud. And screamed again.

Out of all the days in her life, the one day she wished she could take back was the day Nick Avalon drove into her town.

B
lowing a frizzy strand of hair out of her eye, Phoebe Mayle looked at the bowl of organic, vegan, carob brownies she was mixing. It looked like brown glue. It was her third attempt that day. And looked like it was going to be her third failure.

You’re making brownies, not Pavlova.

What was she doing wrong? She’d followed the recipe down to the last half teaspoon of vanilla. Glancing at the calendar hanging on the wall, she sighed. The summer bake-off was in a few months, and these brownies had won the contest for ten years running.

Unless a fairy godmother came down and waved a magic spatula over the mixture, there was no way the Green Leaf was going to take first place this summer.

Great. The entire town would know that since Phoebe had taken over the café, one of the oldest establishments in Redbolt, California, everything was going downhill. Customers would dwindle until only “Grandpa Dave”—the town’s oldest resident—would come in for his daily cup of tea (which, Phoebe was convinced, the old man would do until the day he died), the place would close, and her aunt and uncle would be turning in their graves.

Take a deep breath. You can do this! They’re just brownies.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Phoebe looked out the café window. Indeed, a monstrous, shiny yellow SUV had pulled up out front, and though she couldn’t see the driver due to the late-afternoon sun reflecting off the windshield, she knew it could be only one person.

“Thanks,” Phoebe said sarcastically.

Jesse said, “Pheebs, I can’t believe you hired some guy from L.A. to come and run the café.”

She’d known the girl since she was born, and had had the pleasure of watching Jesse grow into a young woman. A few years ago her niece had started growing the dreadlocks that were now piled high on her head and wrapped in a colorful scarf. True to the nature of the family’s long-standing belief in personal expression, Phoebe’s brother-in-law had heartily approved when his daughter had quit washing her hair.

Phoebe reached behind her back and untied her apron. “Do I have chocolate on my face?”

“No,” Jesse said innocently.

Rolling her eyes, Phoebe picked up a stainless-steel frying pan and looked at her distorted reflection. She wasn’t surprised to find a brown smudge of chocolate on the bridge of her nose. Using the tip of a towel, she wiped it off. Scraped it off, actually; chocolate crumbs fell off her face and onto the floor.

“And I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have found someone local.”

“I tried. Come on, Jesse. You know there isn’t anyone around here qualified to maintain Sally and Dan’s standards.”

“What about you?”

Phoebe must have looked surprised because Jesse replied, “Well…you could learn, right?”

Phoebe picked up the product of her previous attempt at the organic brownies and tossed it at Jesse, who jumped aside before the lump hit her right in the chest. “Hey! Watch it. I don’t want to die from a fatal brownie wound to the chest!”

The hard square landed across the café with a hard thud. “That’s why. Everything I make turns out like crap. Not to mention, I just don’t have the time. I have a whole other business to run, remember?” A business that had been suffering ever since she’d inherited the Green Leaf Café from her deceased relatives.

“I really thought I could handle it. I mean, I have all the recipes. Why can’t I just make them work?” She glanced at the myriad reviews tacked to the wall. All photocopies from food magazines, travel guides, and newspapers. All praising the simple, organic cuisine produced by the Green Leaf Café. All written before Phoebe had taken over the place.

Luckily, no critic had visited recently. Phoebe really didn’t want to be responsible for denting the café’s stellar reputation as the best gourmet bistro north of San Francisco. A six-hour drive north, to be precise.

“Hey,” Jesse said gently. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to give you grief. We all know you’re trying really hard.”

Phoebe blew a strand of hair away from her eye. “And the cook-off is right around the corner.”

Jesse smiled, but she was biting her lip as she did so. “Yeah!” she said with enthusiasm. A lot of enthusiasm, way more than any cook-off deserved.

“Are you, um…” Jesse glanced at the plate of rock-hard brownies. “Are you sure you want to enter the brownies this year?”

“Well, what choice do I have?” Phoebe picked up another brown lump of brownie and bounced it on her palm. The rough edges pricked her skin. “Dan and Sally have been winning that cook-off with their brownies for the last ten years. I know it seems silly, but I really want to get the ribbon this year. For them.” And also for herself. She needed to prove that she could
do
this. That she could run the business as well as the family who entrusted her to do so. Winning the cook-off the first year Dan and Sally weren’t there to enter themselves—well, it all seemed monumentally important.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Jesse said.

She tossed the rest of the brownies into a garbage can. “It’s my own fault. I never should have committed to running this place.” But she had to. Phoebe believed in tradition, in family. In obligation. “I had no idea my organic farming business would become so popular.”

“Hey,” Jesse said, “you rock.”

“I don’t know about that. But so many local markets and restaurants are placing orders. I even got one out of Berkeley yesterday.”

“Wow. So things are booming, then?”

Phoebe nodded slowly. “Yeah. They are.”

“That’s great; it really is. I know that farm is your true passion.”

“Maybe…” But it shouldn’t be.
This
should be; this café. Her family’s reputation. Making brownies and winning the cook-off and being responsible and successful.

“Is that a freakin’
Hummer
?”

Phoebe glanced up at the teenager who’d spoken the words. “That must be our new chef,” Phoebe said. “Thank God.”

Jesse, her eighteen-year-old waitress and niece, leaned against the counter, eyeing the Hummer with a frown.

Jesse turned toward the window and crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s getting out of the monster.”

It was early spring, and now the bright sun reflected off the so-shiny-it-hurt-your-eyes yellow-painted metal of the huge vehicle her newly hired chef had arrived in. The windows were tinted dark, so she couldn’t make out any images from inside the vehicle.

This would be the first time she’d actually meet the person she’d hired to take over the kitchen at the Green Leaf Café.

Her heart sped up a bit and she wiped her damp palms on her apron. She hoped she had chosen wisely. She realized hiring Nick Avalon was a risk. She knew he’d been fired from his last job. She knew he had a bit of a reputation as a bad boy. But she’d also done extensive research of his history as a chef, and he’d had what was definitely the most impressive résumé of any she’d received. Magazines like
Bon Appétit
had done articles on him and featured his recipes. He’d made a few guest chef appearances on popular Food Network television shows. And he’d worked at restaurants so popular even Phoebe had heard of them.

Still. In essence, she’d hired a stranger to help carry on her family business. Their legacy.

It’s okay. You’re a smart businesswoman. You know what you’re doing.

And she’d spoken with him on the phone. He had a nice voice and seemed friendly enough. And he was British, which she couldn’t help but find a bit engaging. Heck, he could have called her a
daft cow
, and it probably would have sounded charming.

Had she made a mistake? Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. Only time would tell.

She watched as the Hummer door swung open. Then two shiny black sneakers, the likes of which Redbolt had surely never seen before, hit the pavement. Ascending over said sneakers were the hems of black jeans covering long, long legs. A tight black T-shirt clung to a lean torso.

But it wasn’t his clothing that had “attitude problem” written all over it. No, it was his face—the way his mouth turned down and his nose lifted up, and the way his eyebrows slashed over blue eyes framed by inky lashes.

He had short black hair, and his dark aviator sunglasses didn’t hide the air of disdain that emanated off him as he shut the door of his SUV and glanced up and down the town’s main street.

Phoebe bit her lip. When she’d described the town, she may have slightly exaggerated its attributes. She watched him gazing at the “colorful shops” and “various entertainment options” that she’d portrayed in her ad. The shopping options included an organic baby clothing store, a bead store, a small art gallery, a hookah lounge, a hardware store, and a few other establishments selling an array of tie-dyed clothing. As for entertainment, Redbolt did boast two small bars and one theater. Unfortunately, the movies generally played a month or so later than anywhere else in the country.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Hollywood. He’d have to deal with it.

She watched as Nick Avalon shook his head, took a deep breath, and came toward the front door. Phoebe ignored the flutters in her belly. Why should
she
be nervous? She was the boss, right? He was the one who should be suffering anxiety.

Right?

She was a modern, confident woman who ran two businesses, one of which was booming, the other of which was, well…

She narrowed her gaze on the man walking through the door. The man who would be, in large part, responsible for continuing her family’s legacy.

Dear Universe: Please let this man be the right choice; please,
pu-lease
let me have made the right choice.
If the universe cared about her at all, maybe it was listening to her plea. Or Carl Sagan was full of crap, and the universe was some kind of lie that hippies and hipsters used to fulfill their spiritual needs. Either way, she hoped she hadn’t made a mistake.

He pushed through the door and stopped. “So this is what nowhere looks like,” he said as the door quietly closed behind him.

But she still heard the door shut. And that was because the café was entirely silent. Everyone—her staff, her patrons, the flies on the wall—was looking at this man who obviously didn’t belong here. He looked like he belonged in a magazine as a model of what every man in L.A. should aspire to in terms of appearance. (She knew this because sometimes she secretly watched reality television, including the exceedingly popular cooking series
Satan’s Pantry
.)

Without removing his sunglasses, he glanced around the bistro. His stance was easy, nonchalant, and confident.

He didn’t look impressed.

Oh no. Maybe her love of the television series had influenced her decision to hire Nick Avalon. He definitely had a devilish air about him.

But he was far, far away from the set of
Satan’s Pantry
. Phoebe held out her hand. “You must be Nick.”

Slowly, he pulled the aviators off his face. When his gaze fell on hers, she nearly gasped. Instead, she bit her lip as she took him in.

Eyes as blue as the morning glories taking over her front yard arrested her. His black hair only emphasized the striking color of his eyes, and the way he was looking at her—staring, really—made those flutters in her belly spread to her chest.

Because that look of disapproval was aimed straight at her.

Phoebe steadied herself. She would
not
be intimidated by some fancy-pants from Los Angeles. She continued to hold out her hand. “I’m Phoebe. The owner.”

He shook her hand, and she refrained from cringing at his hard grasp. And tried not to jerk away as a shiver of heat rushed up her arm. That would be showing fear, and she had to convey nothing but absolute confidence. Right away, she knew that showing any sign of weakness to this…this…predator could be deadly.

“Pleasure.” He took another long glance around the café.

She’d interviewed him on the phone, so his British accent wasn’t surprising. However, it was a bit shocking how the smooth, relaxed intonation of his tone made her want to get a bit closer to his mouth.

Where had that crazy thought come from? Maybe she was low on blood sugar. Too bad the brownies were the texture of bricks, or she would have popped one into her mouth. But she really didn’t need a broken tooth right now.

He said, “So. Here we are, then. The Green Leaf
Café
.” He ground the last word out of his mouth; then he nodded, but it was more to himself, as if he was processing the fact that everything was real. That he was there.
Here.

Phoebe straightened. “I’m sure it’s not quite like what you’re accustomed to.”

“No. No, not really what I’m used to.”

“But I’m also sure you’ll find things here are more modern than you might imagine. We have a state-of-the-art kitchen that was remodeled just last year. And our wine cellar holds one of the finest selections in the area.”

“Is that so? The whole area of Redbolt?”

He glanced across the counter to the prep area. Okay, compared to those showcased on the TV show
Satan’s Pantry
, it might be small. But it was efficient, and the appliances were of professional quality.

None of which helped Phoebe make a decent batch of brownies.

“Anyway,” she said, “welcome to the Green Leaf Café. I hope you’ll be happy as our new chef.”

She thought she saw a shudder go through him, but she wasn’t sure.

Then he actually shivered, as if he’d just caught a chill, or seen a ghost.

She raised her chin. How dare he walk in and give her such attitude? He was lucky she’d hired him. Lucky! The café might be small, and rural, and rustic—but that was certainly no reason to give it, or her, disrespect.

“Mr. Avalon—”

“What is
that
?”

His gaze fell on the brown lump of brownie on the floor in the corner. He glanced at her and cocked a brow. Then he strode over and picked it up. He started juggling the brown lump between his palms.

Darn it to heck. She began to feel her face flush. “It’s, um, er…” She bit her lip and straightened her spine. “A brownie.”