Grill Me, Baby

Dedication

In loving memory of my beloved dad, Vittorio Cocco, a strong and compassionate WWII veteran, a glorious chef, and most importantly, my warm and lovable father. Daddy’s Sunday meals were legendary. My fondest childhood memories are of sitting with my family at the dining room table, feasting on the delicious meals he cooked up with flair and so much love.

Acknowledgements

This book is a culmination of love and support from my family, friends and critique partners. I am grateful to my generous mom, Emilia, for always being my champion, to my glamorous Aunt Julia for sharing her love of books, and to my creative sister, Johanna, for her support.

A big thank you to my childhood friends and wonderful writers, Maggie Dove and Mariana Betancourt, for giggles and zany moments during our critique sessions, to Marcia King-Gamble for her valued friendship and commentary, and to the other Divine Critique ladies—Sandy Madden, Linda Anderson, Linda Conrad, Debbie St. Amand, and Carol Stephenson.
Mil gracias
to my esteemed friend and beta reader, Martha Paley Francescato, for her excellent observations. And many thanks to Isabel Arias for her fabulous feedback on
Grill Me, Baby.

Special recognition to Tera Kleinfelter, my editor extraordinaire, who made this dream come true. The stories I love to write are fueled by much enthusiasm from my tight circle of support—my darling husband Paul, my lifetime love, and our beautiful daughters, Genevieve and Jacqueline. Thank you for believing! Huge thanks to Genevieve for the many reads and her eagle eye for detail and to Jacqueline for her insightful comments and advice. You girls kept it fresh and lively. Mere words cannot express how much I love all of you! May our foodie adventures continue…

Chapter One

So
this
was the infamous Paolo Santos.

Michaela sized up her opponent in the waiting area of the producer’s office. The seriously hot Argentine seated across from her looked so relaxed, nobody would have guessed he was vying against her to host the hottest new celebrity chef TV show, A confident smile spread over Paolo’s rugged face as she assessed him. His large, muscular body was sprawled across the sofa, with one tanned arm draped across the sofa back and long legs stretched before him. A crisp white linen shirt revealed a hint of hard chest beneath a tailored buff suit. He looked like a perfectly caramelized Argentine
Miami Spice
.
churrasco
steak. Good enough to eat—damn him!

Michaela’s stomach growled so loudly that Paolo raised an amused eyebrow. A gentleman would have acted like he hadn’t heard it and discreetly looked away.

“Hungry?” he asked with a brazen grin. His deep voice and sexy Latin accent sounded as delicious as he looked.

“Maybe just a little,” she replied breezily. She was trying to relax before her meeting with the producer, but cocky Paolo Santos was doing his best to disarm her with steady, smoldering looks.

She smiled coolly and looked away.
Focus,
she told herself. In a few minutes, she would have to sell herself to Mr. Blumenthal, the producer, in order to land the host spot. If she did, she’d become an instant celebrity chef and her almost finished cookbook would rack up lots of sales. She would also be able to pay back her parents every cent they had shelled out for her education. Her parents, two successful partners in the same law firm, still hadn’t forgiven her for dropping out of Duke Law School in her third year. Adding insult to injury, she had chucked it all to become a chef. Their grimace of shame when friends asked about Michaela’s new career never failed to make her stomach churn. At thirty years of age, it still felt awful being a failure in their eyes.

She needed to use her nervous energy to show she could hold her own alongside celebrity chefs Paula Deen’s zaniness or Rachael Ray’s perkiness or Bobby Flay’s wise guy banter. But she wasn’t the only one competing. She had Santos to contend with, and for the life of her, Michaela couldn’t help staring at his mouth. It wasn’t just the pair of deep-slashed dimples that drew her attention; it was his full lips that were probably great at kissing…

Stop,
she told herself
, concentrate on the upcoming interview.

Michaela focused on the stark, modern painting on the wall before her, but the image of Paolo’s white teeth gleaming against his bronzed olive skin invaded her thoughts—strong teeth poised to take a bite out of her chances for the job. From the corner of her eye, she caught his black-as-sin eyes giving her a slow and thorough once-over.

Were all Latin men so forward? Could be a cultural thing, but he might be trying to seduce her into losing her focus. She had to be on her toes around this one. From the moment he’d stepped off the airplane from Buenos Aires and burst upon the scene at Flamingo Island, an exclusive country club residence island, Paolo had built up quite a rep as a player. Oh, she’d heard plenty of gossip about the executive chef’s prowess, but today was the first time she’d seen him in action.

During the past half-hour, Michaela had watched Paolo chat and flirt with the young, blonde receptionist, and then with the producer’s middle-aged secretary, Ellie. His sexy accent and exotic looks had captivated both women, as he charmed them with his impressions of Miami and its beautiful inhabitants—meaning them, of course.

They hadn’t even met yet and Santos’s attitude was a bit too familiar this morning. She already knew about his magnetic appeal, especially with the wealthy socialites of Flamingo Island who had standing reservations at Bella Luna. But bad boy types didn’t tempt her anymore, not after her break-up with Jeff Convers, tennis bad boy extraordinaire. That regrettable part of her life was behind her.
Don’t think about Jeff, the two-timing player,
she told herself. She took a deep breath and forced her thoughts back to meeting Edwin Blumenthal.

“Don’t look so worried, Maki.” One corner of Paolo’s mouth quirked up as he regarded her with interest. “Relax.”

“If I were any more relaxed, I’d be asleep.” She gave him a raised brow look. Usually that squelched the over-confident types. Distance was needed with this one. His smile alone could charm the shell off an escargot. “My name is Michaela. Maki sounds like a girlie cocktail, and I’m anything but.”

He cocked an eyebrow and she took instant note of the twitch at the corners of his lips. Paolo had glossy, jet-black layers cut like Keith Urban’s, except he wasn’t an Aussie country star—he was a hot chef
and
a major player.

“Michaela?” he repeated, drawing her attention to the shrugging gesture of his upraised hands. He gave her hair an assessing glance. “You should have been named Penny, it suits you better. Your hair shines like a new copper penny.”

“Are you a hairdresser too?” she asked, smoothing the sides of her long hair that were pulled half up.

Paolo flashed a dazzling grin. “No, just a chef.” He leaned forward and gave her a hearty handshake. “Paolo Santos.”

Strong grip. Nothing wrong with that, Michaela thought as she snatched her hand back the moment it touched his warm, callused palm. “Nice to meet you.”

“
Encantado
, likewise.” He leaned back on the sofa looking a little too pleased with himself. “I can’t wait to tell Mr. Blumenthal about my gimmick for the show.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Nobody said anything about coming up with a gimmick. Did you just make that up?”

His brow furrowed. “Why would I do that?”

She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “No gimmick can substitute for fine cooking.” She had certificates from The Culinary Institute of America and Le Cordon Bleu in Paris to prove it.

Paolo snorted. “Is that what you call your rabbit food?” He gazed up at the ceiling with a pained expression. When he looked back at her, his eyes twinkled with mischief. “I can’t imagine anyone feeling satisfied after eating only birdseed.”

She felt like pelting him with birdseed after that comment. Given his lean waistline and muscular physique, Paolo had to possess a high-octane metabolism that counteracted his rich, Italian-Argentinean cooking.

Not everyone was so blessed, certainly not she. She had been chubby until age nineteen when, to her shock and her family’s, she’d found out she had high cholesterol and high blood pressure. She’d had to drastically modify her eating habits and start exercising. As a bona fide foodie, she adored food and every nuance of preparing it. After years of experimenting, she’d found ways to prepare delicious, healthy meals—including desserts—and she was eager to share them with others. She was about to set Paolo straight in defense of her spa clients who gained weight merely by sniffing his fattening cuisine, when Ellie interrupted her.

“Mr. Blumenthal will see you both now,” Ellie said. “Please follow me.”

“Both of us? Together?” The last thing Michaela wanted was to share her interview with Paolo.

Ellie looked mystified by Michaela’s less than enthusiastic reaction. “Yes, he wants to see both of you—together.”

Michaela nodded and covered her disappointment with a friendly smile. She stood and smoothed the skirt of her jade green, wrap-style dress.

Paolo rose beside her and it was all she could do not to gawk at him. He looked to be about six foot three with wide shoulders and hard muscles that tapered in to a lean waistline. He probably sported a six-pack under his white shirt too. She straightened to her height of five foot seven on her three-inch high-heeled pumps, not wanting to feel at a disadvantage beside Paolo who was so much bigger. She watched him cross his fingers for luck and make a comical face at Ellie. Squaring her shoulders, Michaela blocked out the woman’s delighted giggle.

Paolo reached for the door and opened it with a flourish, allowing Michaela to enter before his towering form. “Thank you.” She caught a whiff of citrus and soap and inhaled deeply in spite of herself. Startled by her heady reaction to his clean, masculine scent, Michaela looked at Paolo and caught him giving her behind an admiring glance. They locked eyes and he winked. She raised her chin and turned her attention toward the producer.

Edwin Blumenthal, a gentleman of medium height and graying hair who appeared to be in his early sixties, stood behind a massive, granite-topped desk. His sky-blue golf shirt and khaki pants made him look as if he’d just finished teeing off. Lucky man, his spacious office overlooked beautiful Biscayne Bay, currently occupied by massive luxury cruise ships queued up to leave port.

After introductions, Michaela and Paolo stood facing the producer across the desk.

“Please sit down.” Mr. Blumenthal motioned toward the gray leather seats before his desk. “We have a lot to cover this morning, so I’ll be brief. Although
Miami
Spice
will be filmed and produced locally, it will appear nationally on the Food Network in the coveted Saturday morning line-up.”

Paolo propped both thumbs up in a gesture of enthusiasm. “Fantastic!”

Mr. Blumenthal nodded. “You two are the final contenders for the competition. Since you both work on Flamingo Island, it would be fitting to feature your cooking talents together in one pilot episode.”

“Are you looking for two chefs for the series?” Paolo asked, giving Michaela a quick glance.

“No,” he replied. “The show will have only one host, with visiting chefs from area restaurants occasionally making appearances.”

“Then why do we have to go on together?” Michaela asked, keeping her tone light.

“After eliminating the rest of the competition, the producers watched your audition tapes again and narrowed it down to the two of you,” Mr. Blumenthal said. “They’d like you to do one episode together to see how our viewers react. You, Miss Willoughby, have an elegant style, as opposed to Mr. Santos’s earthy approach.”

“
¿Sí?
” Paolo’s white teeth flashed happily. “
Gracias
. We both thank you, right, Maki?”

Michaela smiled at Mr. Blumenthal. “They could tell all this from a videotape?”

Mr. Blumenthal nodded. “We’re not in this business for nothing.”

“But my cooking is totally different from Paolo’s.” She paused, noting that Paolo had leaned forward in his seat. “His cooking is rich and spicy,” she said, refraining from calling it bad for you. “Mine is light and quite innovative. I have an amazing gimmick planned,” she blurted out, avoiding eye contact with Paolo. Why had she said that? She never used that word and now she regretted it, especially when she saw Mr. Blumenthal’s surprised reaction.

“A gimmick? Haven’t heard that word in a while. Well, good for you,” he said, beaming. “Good for you.”

She started to panic over her fib, but she covered it up with a confident smile. “Won’t you reconsider and allow me to present a show that focuses on delicious, health-conscious cuisine—one which everyone in the audience can enjoy without worrying about calories?” she asked Mr. Blumenthal.

Paolo let out a robust chuckle. “Why ruin good food by counting calories, eh, Mr. Blumenthal? We’re not here to lecture our audience. This is supposed to be a fun show, isn’t it?”