Spice (2 page)

“I think by now you can call me Kaname, or Kane,” he said, trying not to stare at her T-shirt. It looked to be a size or two too small considering the way it hugged her more-than-a-handful breasts and allowed her belly button to peek from beneath the hem. It bore the café's strategically placed logo, two pin-up style female chefs sitting on the name Sugar and Spice, with the tag line, “Everything nice!”

He gave her a smile as he handed over a twenty. “I always enjoy your buns.”

“Ah, oh.” She grew flustered as she worked the register. “Well, I guess that's why you're a repeat customer, right?”

“It's one of the reasons.” He nodded, then grinned with true appreciation. “No matter what mood I'm in, you seem to have just what I need.”

She dropped his change on the floor. He smiled as he heard her friends giggling at the table behind him.

He leaned over the counter, staring at the line of her back beneath the chocolate-colored T-shirt, the luscious curve of her butt emphasized by the tight low-rise jeans. Damn, he wanted to get his palms on that ass, lick every indentation of her spine. “By the way, I don't like vanilla either.”

She straightened with a snap, her cinnamon brown eyes deer-in-the-headlights wide. “What?”

“I heard you say that you don't like vanilla. Neither do I.”

Her mouth worked silently for a moment. “You . . . don't?”

“Don't get me wrong, vanilla done well can be extremely satisfying. But there's nothing wrong with a little spice, some variety, extra flavor on the tongue. Don't you think?”

She had his change in a death grip, her head down. When she looked at him again, a wicked, challenging light shone in her gaze. He was in trouble.

“I definitely believe in variety being the spice of life, Professor,” she said, her voice low and husky. “It's why I make sure I offer a little something extra for every taste.”

Let's see how far she'll go,
he thought. He leaned forward, dropping his voice to match hers. “I'd like to sample more of what you have to offer.”

Her nipples pebbled as he watched. He reflexively licked his lips, his hands curling against the edge of the counter in an effort to resist touching her. He had to remind himself that he was civilized, educated, a world traveler, cultured. One did not throw a woman over one's shoulder to find the nearest flat surface in a public place. But he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to.

He forced his gaze back to her face, just in time to see a dimple sprout on her left cheek. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Would you be willing to set up a taste test?”

Her gaze roamed over him, then her lips pursed in what he steadfastly believed was approval. “Are we still talking about desserts?”

“Absolutely not.”

The table behind him was silent as a grave. He saw her eyes dart to her friends, then back to him.

“A taste test, huh?” She arched a brow. “I suppose you're going to try to convince me that you have a sophisticated tongue, capable of handling whatever I decide to offer up for this test?”

He reached out, his hand covering hers. “I think my tongue and I can handle whatever you're willing to dish out.”

Her dark eyes widened with surprise, then darkened with pleasure. “All right then. How about tonight?” She handed over his change. “I can meet you at Pascal's, and we can see what happens.”

He took his time taking the money, fingers stroking her palm. “I'll meet you there at seven. Should I bring my copy?”

“Your copy of what?”

“
The
Perfumed Garden
. It's more than archaic descriptions and colorful language, you know.”

She blinked at him. “Are you for real?”

“You'll find out soon enough, right? See you later.”

As Sullivan strolled out of the café, he heard one of the women mutter, “Damn. Anybody got some tequila?”

“I
'm so freakin' nervous!”

Nadia stood in the center of her bedroom in the two-story condo she owned above the café. It had seemed like a great idea at the time, since she had basically lived and breathed her job for the last three years, getting up early to prepare baked goods for the breakfast rush. Now she wondered about the logistics of having a lover over for sexy-times while her employees worked below.

Of course, she had to get to the sexy-times part first.

Five minutes after Sullivan had left the café, Nadia's friends had taken her in hand, determined to get her ready for her date. Other than her new haircut, Nadia hadn't done much beyond the basics with her appearance—when you spent every day elbow-deep in dough, manicures were an unnecessary extravagance. It was also woefully apparent that, besides a few outfits she cycled through when hanging out with her friends, she had nothing to wear on a date and certainly nothing she could wear to upscale Pascal's. Siobhan had sprung into action, taking charge and smoothing the way as she had since the day they'd met in rehab. At thirty-five, Siobhan had the body of a buxom twenty-five-year-old, and her golden blonde hair, creamy fair skin, and cornflower blue eyes made students and businessmen alike stop dead in their tracks when she worked the front of the café. Her looks also made her extremely popular when she performed as “Sugar” Malloy with her burlesque troupe. She was truly the sugar to Nadia's brunette, brown-eyed, peachy-skinned spice.

“You have a right to be nervous,” Siobhan told her, laying three different dresses out on the bed. “It's your first date in more than four years. Take it from me, though. I don't think you have anything to worry about with Professor Sex, except for deciding which dress to wear.”

Nadia surveyed her choices, all borrowed from Siobhan and Vanessa. Nothing in her closet was even close to their impeccable taste since she'd jettisoned or sold off everything related to her time in LA in the equivalent of a bridge burning to ensure no ties remained to her previous life. The first option was a retro red polka dot sundress with a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt possessing a definite rockabilly vibe, totally Siobhan's style. The second dress was a sleeveless, formfitting knee-skimming number in black sure to emphasize every curve and roll from her boobs to her butt but perfectly suited for Vanessa's svelte figure. The third dress was a teal number with thin braided straps and a plunging neckline that led to a fitted waist before softly draping into a just-above-the-knee skirt. It was simple but pretty, and was sure to complement the warm golden tones of her skin. Nadia liked it the best, but she was afraid it would make her look like she was going to prom instead of on a feeler date for a lover.

Then again, the combination of innocent dress and salacious intent seemed appropriate. “The red would be great if we were going to see one of your burlesque shows, so I'm crossing that one off the list,” Nadia said, thinking out loud. “And the black is just too intimidating. I'm a little too soft in the middle to do it justice and I'm not putting on Spanx when there's a possibility of getting some tonight.”

“The teal it is, then.” Siobhan slipped it off the hanger, then helped Nadia into it. After adjusting the choker-style collar, Siobhan stood back and observed her. “The good professor is going to lose his mind.”

Nadia stared at her reflection and had to agree. The dress was slightly loose in the bodice but actually emphasized the curve of her bust and made her waist seem smaller. Siobhan had done some makeup magic on her too, making Nadia's eyes dark and smoky. She looked confident, sexy, ready for anything.

“I owe you big-time, Sugar. If this goes well, I might even let you take me shopping.”

“I get to drag you shopping?” Her partner grinned. “The professor better deliver or we're going to have words. Got condoms?”

Nadia picked up her clutch. “Yep.”

“Got cash and credit?”

“That too.”

“Got your phone and driver's license in case the sex is so good you forget your name and where you live?”

Nadia laughed. “If all goes well, we're coming back here. The good professor already knows where I live and work, and besides, there's nothing like home-field advantage. I'm in control here.” She'd need that control too. At least until Professor Sex proved he was worth losing control to.

—

Nadia handed her MINI Cooper off to the valet then headed up the steps to Pascal's entrance, trying to quell the nervous fluttering in her stomach. She'd picked the nouveau cuisine eatery to meet the professor because she'd heard it had a live band, good tapas, and better cocktails, and the only college-age people were the waitstaff. If this initial sortie with the professor went well, she wouldn't want to fill up on dinner. And if it didn't go well, a chocolate martini beat a pint of rocky road ice cream any day.

She still had her doubts about Professor Kaname Sullivan being the one she needed. The double entendres had been fun, but could the man follow through? Would he even show up?

The restaurant's glass door swung open. She thanked the hostess, and then looked up, stopping dead in the doorway.

Damn.
The professor sure cleaned up well. Gleaming dress shoes, loose black trousers and jacket, and a cobalt blue dress shirt showed off his lanky physique and golden skin to perfection. The ambient light caused strands of his dark hair to gleam, making her want to thrust her hands deep into the thick waves. The glasses gave him a Superman double whammy of geeky-sexy but did nothing to blunt the heat in his gaze. Tonight the goatee made him devilish, or maybe that had more to do with the knowing, sensual twist of his lips.

This was not the professor. This was a dangerous man.

“Nadia.” He took her hand then kissed her cheek in greeting as if they were old friends and not potential lovers. Then he stepped back, and the toe-to-head perusal left no doubt in Nadia's mind that he liked what he saw. “You look amazing.”

She smoothed a hand down the silk skirt. She'd lived in jeans and sneakers for years getting the café off the ground, and being in a dress this nice after so long was hard. Seeing Sullivan's reaction made her glad she'd gone through the effort of prettying up and slipping into something a little more upscale.

And with the right incentive, she could slip right out of it too.

“You're a beautiful woman, Nadia,” he said after a long moment. “In this dress or those fantastic jeans you were in earlier.”

She felt her brow wrinkle. “You thought my jeans were better than this dress?”

“Don't get me wrong. You're breathtaking in that dress. But those jeans . . . When you bent over to pick up my change, I just about lost my mind. Lucky for me, my jacket covered most of my reaction.”

“Thank you. That's good to know since my wardrobe is just about all jeans.”
Most of his reaction?
She'd wanted to check out his junk back at the café, but couldn't figure out a way to do it that wouldn't have been obvious.

His grin told her that he knew exactly what she was thinking. “You live in a town sitting by the ocean. You can't tell me you don't own a swimsuit or two.”

She laughed. “That's a requirement of living here, isn't it? Beachwear, boards, and blonde highlights?”

He gestured to his dark waves. “Two out of three ain't bad.”

The hostess smiled at them. “Your table's ready. If you'll follow me, please?”

“Shall we?” Kane's hand settled on the small of her back then froze as he realized there was nothing but bare skin beneath his fingers. His fingertips did a slow glide down her spine before settling just above her waist, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Her girly parts went all giddy from the contact, her breath catching at the stroke of his thumb along her spine. A good girl would have pulled away. She pressed into his hand instead.

The hostess guided them to an intimate table tucked into a quiet corner of the restaurant away from the jazz ensemble. Kane seated her like a proper gentleman, and then took his time taking his chair.
Don't look, girl, don't look—okay, maybe just a peek.
She brushed an imaginary wisp of hair out of her eyes as she surreptitiously scoped out his package. Damn loose-fitting slacks.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked, shooting another grin her way.

“So far, so good.” She looked around the restaurant, needing a distraction from his mesmerizing gaze. Pascal's had an Old World vibe, wine-colored brocade and dark wood, tiny jewel-toned oil lamps on the tables, rich burgundy tablecloths. “Do you get out to the beach often?”

“Not as much as I'd like to, but my condo has a decent view of the bay. With the right incentive—say, seeing a certain brunette playing volleyball in a bikini—I'd make more of an effort.”

Nadia laughed, relaxing. “If you're challenging me to a game of volleyball, I accept.”

Their waiter arrived and recited the night's specials. Nadia ordered a pomegranate martini, Sullivan a glass of red wine. As the waiter left, Sullivan raised an eyebrow at her. “So if I win our game of volleyball, what do I get?”

Nadia held up a hand. “Slow your roll, Professor. It's still too cool out on the bay for volleyball on the beach, especially if you want me to play in a bikini. Besides, I'd have an unfair advantage over you, since you'd be too busy staring at my high beams to hit the ball.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “True enough, especially considering the heavenly nature of said high beams.” He reached over, clasped her hand. “Do you think you can dispense with the
professor
stuff? I'm not at work and you're not a student. Do you want me to call you Spiceland? Or Chef?”

Visions of
South Park
danced in her head. “God, no.”

His thumb stroked over her knuckles. “I could call you Spice, if you like. It fits you.”

His smile needed to be registered as a lethal weapon. “I'd rather you call me Nadia.”

“Nadia.” He said her name as if he tasted a fine wine, rolling it around in his mouth. “Is that from the Russian?”

“Yes. It means
hope
. Daddy Vic's mother was from Russia, and she'd hoped for a loving, happy life for my parents and me.”

His brow furrowed. “You call your father Daddy Vic?”

“I have two fathers, Nicholas and Victor Spiceland. They had me and my two older brothers through a surrogate. They're about to celebrate forty years together.”

“It sounds like your grandmother's wish came true then.” He cupped his wine, warming it in his hand. “You can call me Kane, which is short for Kaname.”

“Kane.” It suited him, strong, a bite of a word. “Kaname is Japanese, right?”

He nodded. “It means
vital point
. My mother is Japanese.”

“And Sullivan?”

“My dad is Irish. He's a foot taller than my mom is, but there's no doubt she rules that relationship. They met in Singapore, had me in Hong Kong, and now live outside of Seattle.”

“Wow, you're a veritable international male. How did you end up in Crimson Bay?”

“I love Seattle, but I also like sunshine. Outside of lecturing, I do on-demand profiling work with law enforcement agencies up and down the coast, and Crimson Bay is centrally located and laid back enough to suit my tastes and inspire me to write. Besides, Herscher University has a renowned Human Sexualities Studies program. Are you from here?”

Nadia drew a slow breath, captivated by the way he stroked her hand and focused on her as if no one else surrounded them. “I grew up in Sacramento and San Francisco until I decided to go to culinary school. Then I studied with pastry chefs in Paris, chocolatiers in Belgium, and finally landed a gig in Los Angeles.”

Their drinks arrived. Kane asked the waiter to return in a few minutes, and then focused on her again. “So why move here from Los Angeles?”

She fiddled with the stem of her glass, and then gave him a direct stare. “After getting out of rehab a few years ago, Siobhan and I decided we needed out of LA. She has family not far from here, and my folks are less than a two-hour car ride away. So we came here, sank all our money into the café, and finally we're doing all right.”

He stared at her a long moment. She stared back, daring him to stay, daring him to get up and walk out. She wasn't ashamed of her past, not really. If anything, she was ashamed of how long it took to get help and all the people she'd hurt before getting that help.

He squeezed her hand. “And now you're wondering if I'm going to cut and run or ply you with questions you don't want to answer.”

She blew out a breath. “Something like that, yeah.”

“I won't. I just have one question.”

She sat back. “Go ahead.”

“It wasn't alcohol, was it?” He canted his head toward her martini.