Recipe for Temptation (5 page)

“Sure. Why not? After the way you raved about the recipe she submitted, I have to admit I’m a little curious about her. She could be the one.”

“Maybe,” Drew hedged. “But none of the other finalists received a personal phone call from you. It might look fishy, like we’re playing favorites.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Michael said smoothly. “What’s her number?”

Sleep hadn’t diminished Reese’s anger.

Not that she’d actually gotten much sleep.

She’d tossed and turned throughout the night, reliving every embarrassing second of her confrontation with Michael Wolf. She couldn’t believe he’d accused her of impersonating a food critic in order to lure him into bed. Of all the damn nerve!

And to think that she’d spent the past three years admiring the man and fantasizing about him. She should have known better. She was thirty-four years old, too damn old to have idolized—and idealized—a perfect stranger. Michael Wolf was a celebrity chef, a TV

personality who entertained people for a living. It shouldn’t have shocked her to discover that the man behind the charming persona was arrogant, cruel and conniving. Yet she
was
shocked. And humiliated. While
she’d
been thinking what a great guy he was,
he’d
been secretly laying a trap for her, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make a fool out of her.

Bastard,
Reese thought with renewed anger. If she never saw Michael Wolf again, it’d be too soon.

Turning her head on the pillow, she leveled a bleary-eyed glare at the bedside clock.

It was just after seven. Bars of sunlight slanted through the shutters that covered the bedroom windows. Reese couldn’t have gotten more than two hours of sleep last night, but she was too agitated to stay in bed any longer. She might as well take a shower and go about her business. Michael Wolf had already cost her one sleepless night. She’d be damned if she let him ruin her entire day.

Remembering that she’d turned off her cell phone at the restaurant last night, Reese reached inside her handbag on the floor. When her searching fingers encountered the smooth surface of a hardcover book, she felt a fresh burst of anger. It was Michael’s cookbook, which she’d taken to dinner hoping to get his autograph.

Scowling, Reese yanked the book out of her purse and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a loud, satisfying thud and slid to the floor. Making a mental note to toss it into the fireplace the first chance she got, she pulled out her cell phone and pressed the button to retrieve her voice mail messages.

As expected, the first one was from Victor. “Hi. It’s me. I guess you’re out having dinner right now. Alone, I hope.”

Reese bit her bottom lip, guilt gnawing at her conscience as he continued. “Look, I know I agreed to give you time to settle in before I called, but…I miss you. I wish you’d reconsider staying in Atlanta for the whole summer. It’s not fair to either one of us. I—”

Catching himself, he broke off and blew out a deep breath. “I know I promised not to badger you about this. Just…give me a call as soon as you can.”

As the message ended, Reese fell back against her pillows and groaned. Why was Victor making this so difficult? Why couldn’t he give her the breathing room she so desperately needed? Didn’t he understand that this separation period could ultimately
help
their relationship?

The next message rolled on. “Hello, Dr. St. James. This is Drew Corbett, executive producer of
Howlin’ Good with Michael Wolf.
I was calling to congratulate you on being a finalist in our apprentice contest. I’d like to invite you to Atlanta to audition for the show this Friday. Please call me as soon as possible to discuss the arrangements.”

As he rattled off his phone number, Reese sat up slowly, her eyes wide with shock.

Was someone playing a prank on her? Was Ashton Kutcher waiting to jump out of her closet to smugly announce that she’d just been “punk’d”?

Six months ago, Reese had been watching
Howlin’ Good
when Michael Wolf announced to viewers that he was launching a nationwide search for an apprentice to appear on his show that fall. On a whim Reese had entered the contest, never expecting anything to come of it. Between work, Victor and helping to plan her sister’s wedding, she’d forgotten all about the contest. And now she learned that she was a finalist?

“Un-freaking-believable,” she whispered.

If she’d received the news twenty-four hours ago, she would have been positively ecstatic. But after last night’s disastrous encounter with Michael Wolf, Reese wanted absolutely nothing to do with the despicable man.

What a difference a night makes.

Since she had no intention of auditioning for the show, she decided she’d better return the producer’s call so he could find another sucker to replace her.

She’d just jotted down the man’s number when her cell phone rang.

She checked the caller ID and frowned. It was an unfamiliar number with a local area code. The only person Reese knew from Atlanta was Layla Chase, and she was halfway around the world in Somalia.

Realizing that the caller might be the television producer, Reese answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Miss St. James?” a deep, masculine voice rumbled into her ear.

Her traitorous heart knocked against her ribs. That voice. She’d recognize it
anywhere.
“Yes?”

“This is Michael Wolf.”

Reese moistened her dry lips. “What do you want?” she asked curtly.

“It seems that I owe you an apology.”

Reese sat up straighter in bed. It was the
last
thing she’d expected to hear from Michael. Hell, she hadn’t expected to hear from him at all!

“I’m listening,” she said coolly.

“Last night I accused you of lying about your identity, and I was wrong. So I’m calling to apologize.”

Reese was silent, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. She knew she should accept his apology and leave it at that, but she just couldn’t let him off the hook that easily. Not after the way he’d humiliated her.

“What possessed you to accuse me of something so outrageous?”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Michael said evenly. “My maître d’ must have gotten you confused with a food critic who has a similar name. Ever heard of Randi St. James?”

“No.”

“Apparently she also had dinner reservations. My guess is that my maître d’ got your names and dates mixed up. When the restaurant opens at ten, I’ll call and have someone check the reservation database for me. But I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.”

“In the future,” Reese said drily, “you should probably get your facts straight before you go around maligning innocent people. Especially when those people are paying customers.”

“Point taken.” There was a note of wry amusement in his voice. “I understand congratulations are in order. You’re a finalist in my apprentice contest.”

“Imagine that,” Reese said with as much enthusiasm as if he’d told her it was going to rain.

“My producer tells me he called you yesterday.”

“Yes, he did. My cell phone was turned off, so I just received his message this morning.” She paused, then added sarcastically, “Just in case you think I had an ulterior motive for not telling you last night that I was a finalist.”

When Michael said nothing, Reese frowned.

“Wait a minute,” she said suspiciously. “You didn’t actually
think
that, did you?”

He hesitated. “The thought may have crossed my mind.”

“I don’t believe you!” Reese burst out, indignation launching her from the bed.

“Just how conceited
are
you?”

He made an impatient sound. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are! Only a conceited jerk would concoct outrageous scenarios in which women are so desperate to be with him that they resort to lying and impersonating others just to have him.” She shook her head in disgust. “Congratulations, Mr. Wolf. In one fell swoop, you’ve gone from being my favorite chef to the most arrogant, overbearing man I’ve ever met.”

“I thought Bobby Flay was your favorite chef,” Michael snidely reminded her.

“He is now!”

“Good. Then why don’t you go and audition for
his
show? Oh, wait, that’s right.

You entered a contest to become
my
apprentice.”

“I plead temporary insanity,” Reese jeered. “Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way, Miss St. James—”

“That’s
Doctor
to you,” Reese snarled, though she’d never been hung up on titles.

“Fine. As I was saying,
Dr.
St. James,” Michael replied, bitingly mocking, “I’m glad you realize that you made a mistake by entering the contest. Showing up for the audition would have been a huge waste of your time and mine. It wouldn’t have worked out between us.”

“That’s probably the understatement of the year!”

“Good,” Michael said tersely. “I’ll let my producer know that you’ve decided to withdraw from the competition. Goodbye, Dr. St. James. Have a nice life.”

“Wait a minute,” Reese snapped. “Where do you get off putting words in my mouth? I never said anything about withdrawing from the competition.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Michael growled. “You just told me that entering the contest was a mistake.”

“It was! But that doesn’t mean I’m about to cavalierly walk away from a chance to win one hundred thousand dollars.” She paused, then couldn’t resist adding spitefully,

“You didn’t think I was only interested in being your lowly apprentice, did you?”

“I don’t really give a damn. There’s not a chance in hell you’re winning that contest.”

“Says who?” Reese challenged.

“
I
say.”

“Is that so? Well, it’s my understanding that the apprentice will be chosen based on who has the strongest audition.”

“And who do you think has the final say on that? Trust me, if I don’t think I can work with you, it’s a no-go. So do yourself a favor and stay home on Friday.”

“I don’t think so. I finaled in that contest fair and square. You have no right—”

“I have every right. It’s my show, my contest, my rules.”

“Yeah? We’ll see about that.”

Reese hung up on him, snatched up the prescription pad where she’d written down the producer’s contact information and quickly punched in the number.

When she got Drew Corbett on the phone, she said sweetly, “Good morning, Mr.

Corbett. This is Reese St. James.”

“Hello! Thanks for returning my call. First things first. Can you make it to Atlanta for Friday’s audition? I have my assistant on standby to book your flight.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Reese said smoothly. “As luck would have it, I’m already in town.”

Chapter 4

“E
ight down, two to go.”

Reese smiled at the perky blonde seated next to her in the television studio’s green room. The woman had been chattering nonstop ever since she and Reese, along with eight other apprentice hopefuls, had been herded into the room to await their turn to audition.

“I’m so nervous,” the blonde confided. “I
love
Michael Wolf. I can’t wait to meet him.”

Reese merely smiled. It wasn’t that long ago she’d felt the same way. Now she knew better. The only reason she’d decided to show up for today’s audition was to spite Michael. She had no interest in sharing a stage with him or winning any money. Her game plan was simple: knock the judges’ socks off. If she won the competition, she’d politely decline the apprenticeship by citing “irreconcilable differences” with Michael, which would put him in the awkward position of having to explain himself to his colleagues.

Revenge is a dish best served cold,
Reese thought with wicked satisfaction.

When it was her turn, she followed the production assistant down a long, narrow corridor and through an open doorway that brought them to the set of
Howlin’ Good.

Despite her newfound loathing for Michael Wolf, Reese couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement as she started down the aisle toward the kitchen at center stage. With its gleaming mahogany cabinets, granite countertops and modern stainless steel appliances, the set of
Howlin’ Good
had become as familiar to her as her own kitchen. To be here in person was surreal.

Her fascinated gaze took in a kaleidoscope of cameras, lights, monitors and microphones. A network of lights hung from the ceiling, facing in various directions and at different angles. There were several technicians milling around, checking lighting, adjusting equipment and giving instructions to one another. A small group of people stood chatting around a table that had been erected in front of the stage—the judges, Reese realized when she spied another popular chef whose cable show she often watched.

For the first time since her arrival at the studio two hours ago, she began to feel nervous.

The feeling only intensified when she glanced around and saw Michael emerge from a doorway to the right of the stage. He was followed by his executive producer, whom Reese had met that morning, and a man wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.

As Reese watched Michael stride purposefully toward the stage, she wondered how anyone could look so mouthwateringly good in a simple black T-shirt and jeans. But the shirt clung enticingly to his broad, muscular chest, and the jeans rode wickedly low on his hips.

As if sensing her hungry appraisal, Michael turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the crowded set before homing in on hers. Reese’s breath caught. Her pulse thudded as his gaze swept over her, taking in her white ruffle blouse and linen slacks before easing back up to her face. Though his expression didn’t change, there was no mistaking the subtle challenge that glinted in his eyes.

Reese lifted her chin defiantly, answering with her own silent message:
Bring it on!

A smile played at the corners of his lips before he glanced away to finish conferring with his producer.