“Teach me to be sexy...”

Phoebe Mars can’t believe her chef boyfriend has unceremoniously dumped her. She’s beautiful, successful, one of the city’s hottest pastry chefs...and determined to show her ex she’s worth fighting for. Notorious player Heath Jensen is just the tall stud of sexy hotness to help her win back her man!

Of course, there are a few teeny complications. For one, he’s Phoebe’s friend. For another, he’s her ex’s business partner. And when Heath volunteers to help her discover her wild side, Phoebe knows she doesn’t want her ex back. She falls for Heath’s charms, but outside the bedroom, he seems happy to just stay friends. Can Phoebe go back...especially when her heart is on the line?

“What do you see in the mirror, Phoebe?”

Phoebe saw an incredibly hot man more than capable of giving her a sexual adventure.

That’s probably not what Heath means.

With their bodies so close, could he feel the quiver that went through her? She was turned on, and the longer they stood together, the more the ache of arousal intensified.

“You have great hair and a great neck, too.” Heath trailed his knuckles across the curve of her neck. “Gives a man ideas. About doing this.”

Transfixed, she watched him lower his dark head toward her, anticipation coiling tighter until his teeth grazed an excruciatingly sensitive spot behind her jaw. The woman in the mirror was flushed, her lips parted, her hardened nipples visible through the silk of the tank top.

Her total focus was on the dual sensations of his mouth hot on her skin and the rock-hard erection pressed against her.

Phoebe might not be an experienced seductress or the type of woman who had leather in her lingerie drawer, but she’d sure as hell aroused Heath...

Dear Reader,

I live in the South, where the summers are incredibly steamy. Just when you think it can’t get any hotter, the temperature rises a little more...which I used as my inspiration for the relationship between pastry chef Phoebe Mars and sexy restaurant owner Heath Jensen.

Recently jilted by a critically acclaimed chef, Phoebe dreads running into him at a party. When Heath Jensen kisses her to help make her ex jealous, she’s stunned—especially by how hot the kiss is. Knowing that she’s playing with fire but unable to resist, she agrees with Heath’s suggestion that they pretend to be dating. Not only will it help salvage her pride and show her ex what he’s missing, she’s learning a lot about the art of seduction from Heath.

But when the three of them end up in Miami to scout a new restaurant location, Phoebe and Heath’s pretend affair becomes very real...and very hot.

Friends-to-lovers books are among my favorite to write (probably because I married my best friend!) and I’d love to hear what you think of Phoebe and Heath’s story. Drop me an email at booksbytanya@gmail.com or follow me on Twitter (@tanyamichaels) to chat about books, TV and my dog’s ongoing plot to murder me by tripping me on the staircase.

Happy reading!

Tanya

Turning Up the Heat
Tanya Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TANYA MICHAELS, a New York Times bestselling author and five-time RITA® Award nominee, has been writing love stories since middle-school algebra class (which probably explains her math grades). Her books, praised for their poignancy and humor, have received awards from readers and reviewers alike. Tanya is an active member of Romance Writers of America and a frequent public speaker. She lives outside Atlanta with her very supportive husband, two highly imaginative kids and a bichon frise who thinks she’s the center of the universe.

Thank you to Trish Milburn, who has been there for me in countless ways—including brainstorming naughty books over the phone at one in the morning.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Extract

Copyright

1

“I DON’T KNOW which is the bigger betrayal—that you called my boss behind my back, or that you did it first thing in the morning.” Phoebe Mars shoved her hair out of her face to make sure her roommate got the full effect of her glare.

Completely unapologetic, Gwen sat on the edge of the queen bed and handed her the cordless phone. “I’m allowed to call him. I knew him first, remember?”

True. After Gwen had introduced her to James Falk last year, he’d joked for months about stealing Phoebe away from her pastry-chef job to design signature desserts for All the Right Notes, a tapas bar that featured live music and wine tastings. He’d been stunned when she’d actually taken him up on it three weeks ago—although, not as stunned as she’d been by what had happened after she’d changed jobs.

She cleared her throat, trying to sound awake and articulate. “Hello?”

An exuberant person, James didn’t waste time on small talk. “Why didn’t you tell me it was one of your closest friend’s birthdays?” he demanded. “I insist you take the night off and go to the party!”

Gwendolyn Yeager, you are a dead woman. Gwen knew perfectly well why Phoebe didn’t want to attend that party. “But Saturday night is our busiest,” she protested, “and—”

“Honey, I adore you—almost as much as the customers adore your desserts—but we survived for months without you. We’ll survive this one night. After what you’ve been through, you deserve some fun.”

He meant her broken heart. Perhaps Gwen had neglected to mention that Phoebe’s ex would also be at the party. Seeing him would be the opposite of fun. It had been ten days, but the breakup still felt more like a bad dream than reality.

She wasn’t ready to face him. “How about I come in for a couple of hours but don’t work my full shift?” The offer was only partially motivated by cowardice. James was a dream to work for and she didn’t want to let him down.

“Not a chance. Gwen requested prep time to help you get ready. You are going to walk into that party at your most fabulous and show that ex of yours what he’s missing.”

Ah. So James did know. They ambushed me.

“Gotta run,” James said, “but Steve and I want to hear all the details tomorrow!” The line went dead.

Dropping the phone on the pale blue comforter, Phoebe turned to her roommate. “I hate you.”

“I can live with that.”

“And I’m getting a dead bolt for my bedroom door,” she proclaimed.

“We’ll pick one up while we’re out. Now you go shower while I make coffee. We have a big day of shopping ahead of us.”

“Ugh.” Phoebe flopped backward, pulling her pillow over her face. She loved shopping for recipe ingredients and kitchen supplies, but she doubted Gwen was taking her to look at infrared candy thermometers.

Gwen poked her in the shoulder. “You remember how determined you were in high school that you were going to tutor me into passing the geometry final? That’s how determined I am now. As far as I’m concerned, how a woman looks when she runs into her ex for the first time is tied in importance with how a bride looks on her wedding day.”

Weddings—the end result of getting engaged. Behind the pillow, Phoebe’s eyes watered. In hindsight, it was hilarious how wrong she’d been about her last date with Cam.

Painfully, agonizingly hilarious.

In addition to being lovers for two years, she and Chef Cameron Pala had been colleagues, working together at Piri, the newest Atlanta hotspot. Last month, Cam had begun hinting that if they were ever going to move in together or get married, maybe it would be healthier for their relationship if they didn’t also work together. So she’d taken the job at All the Right Notes. After she’d been there a few days, Cam had taken her for a walk in Piedmont Park, where they’d met. When he’d reached for her hand, his expression unusually somber, she’d actually believed...

Gwen lifted the corner of the pillow. “In retrospect, it was insensitive of me to mention brides, but you don’t really want to get married, Pheeb. You’re only twenty-five. Settle down in your thirties. Our twenties are the perfect time for wild, sexy adventures!”

The corner of Phoebe’s mouth twitched. Gwen had held a similar philosophy during their teenage years. “We have to live life to the fullest before we turn into boring adults, Pheeb,” she’d said. Her friend had been an audacious blonde bombshell since high school; she’d also been a sanity-saving counterbalance to Phoebe’s bitter mother.

Grateful for years of Gwen’s friendship, Phoebe sat up, pledging her cooperation. “All right. Make me fabulous.” If anyone could, it was Gwen Yeager, professional makeup artist. She worked on a television show that was shot outside Atlanta and occasionally freelanced for movies that filmed in the area.

“Yes!” With a triumphant smile, Gwen scrambled off the bed. “I can’t wait to find you the perfect dress. As relieved as I was when you finally stopped wearing baggy cargo pants—”

“They were considered fashionable when we were in high school.”

“—you still hide your bod in those long-sleeved, double-breasted jackets.”

“All chefs wear them!”

“Not tonight.” Gwen’s blue eyes lit with glee. “Tonight, you are a Gwen Yeager creation. Cameron will fall to his knees and beg you to take him back.”

“You really think so?” Traitorous hope warmed her heart.

“He’s absolutely going to want you back—if not today, then soon. You’re the best thing to ever happen to him.” She frowned. “The real question is, can you forgive him for hurting you like that?”

“I don’t know.” But Phoebe desperately wanted the chance to find out.

* * *

“FINALLY, HEATH JENSEN ARRIVES! Now it’s a party.” Bobbi Barrett, the guest of honor and Heath’s favorite food blogger, greeted him with a wide grin and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Happy birthday, beautiful.” Heath scanned the room over her shoulder, impressed that Bobbi and her boyfriend had been able to cram so many people into their Buckhead condo. Guests filled the living room and kitchen and spilled out onto the balcony. A brunette he was pretty sure he’d slept with waved at him from her perch on the arm of a low-backed sofa. “Quite a crowd. Not worried the neighbors will complain?”

“Of course not. The neighbors were the first people we invited.”

“Smart. Where can I put this?” He held up the small gold box containing her birthday present.

“Ooh, I’ll take that!” She eyed the box speculatively, as if trying to guess its contents. “But you know the only gift you had to get me was a reservation. Booking a table at Piri is next to impossible. You and Cam must be thrilled.”

Heath had always believed the upscale Portuguese-fusion restaurant he’d opened with Chef Cameron Pala would be successful—he never would have invested such a significant chunk of money otherwise—but buzz had spread even faster than he’d hoped. “You don’t need a reservation. You’re welcome anytime.”

“In that case, you’re officially my favorite person. Just don’t tell everyone else.” She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Speaking of my other guests, I should warn you that the Kemp sisters have been doing shots. Brace yourself—they have a bet going on which one of them you’ll take home tonight.”

“How high are the stakes? I’d hate for anyone to lose on my account. Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do would be to invite them both back to my place.”

Bobbi smacked his arm. “You are terrible.”

“Maybe I’m just misunderstood.” He gazed into her eyes, making a halfhearted attempt to keep a straight face. “How do you know my torrid love life isn’t an attempt to comfort myself because I’m secretly pining for you and cursing that Matt met you first?”

“Did I hear my name?” Matt Grantham slid an arm around Bobbi’s waist and nuzzled her neck.

“I was just telling Bobbi that you’re the envy of all the single straight men in Atlanta,” Heath said. “She’s a hell of a woman.”

Matt nodded. “Gorgeous, smart, funny and dynamite in b—oof.” He grunted when Bobbi’s elbow connected with his rib cage.

She shot him a stern look, but the twitch of her lips showed she was fighting a smile. “That’s more than enough about me. Matt, why don’t you get Heath a drink while I mingle?”

“What’s your poison?” Matt asked, leading Heath to a bar in the corner of the living room.

Studying the selection of liquors, Heath chose a top-shelf bourbon. While Matt poured, they exchanged opinions on the baseball season. Heath was analyzing the Braves’ pitching when he caught a flash of familiar red-gold waves in his peripheral vision. Phoebe? Last time he’d talked to her, she’d said she had to work and wouldn’t be here tonight. Nonetheless, he tried to get a better look at the woman as she stepped outside through the open balcony doors. He’d never seen Phoebe wear anything as short as that glittery navy dress, yet recognition sparked through him.

His gaze dipped to her heart-shaped ass and supple legs. Definitely Phoebe. A better man might feel guilt over how well he knew her body. It wasn’t entirely appropriate that he’d memorized the curves of a friend and former employee—but Heath hadn’t earned his reputation by being appropriate.

He interrupted whatever Matt was saying. “I just saw Phoebe Mars. I should go say hi.”

“Oh, right. She worked at Piri, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. She was our pastry chef.” Until Heath’s business partner had talked her into quitting.

Selfish SOB. Cam had strung her along and cost Piri an award-winning pastry chef just because the jerk had thought it would be too awkward to work with her after they broke up. When Cam had dumped her, Heath had battled back an uncharacteristic urge to take a swing at his partner for breaking her heart. Tonight, his feelings were more conflicted. He didn’t like the idea of Phoebe hurting, yet some part of him—a dark, disloyal part—delighted in her freedom.

Heath turned his attention back to Matt. “You have vermouth and green olives back there?” A moment later, he headed outside with his own drink and a vodka martini for Phoebe.

She stood alone, or as alone as one could be on a balcony with four other people, staring at the city skyline while the breeze toyed with the ends of her hair. She had gorgeous strawberry blonde hair that fell past her shoulder blades. When she worked in the kitchen, she secured it in a tight, low bun; Heath always savored these rare occasions when it tumbled free in riotous waves.

He joined her at the railing. June in Atlanta was steamy, enveloping him in heat, but even if it had been snowing outside, Phoebe in that dress would have raised his temperature. “I don’t suppose you’d consider chugging whatever’s left in that wineglass so I can look gallant by bringing you a fresh drink?”

“Heath!” Her full lips curved in a welcoming smile.

He only had a moment to admire the cleavage displayed by the plunging neckline before she threw her arms around him in an unexpectedly fierce hug. Her lush curves pressed against his body, and, damn, she smelled delicious. Was the scent perfume or just the by-product of working each day with cinnamon and vanilla and other tantalizing ingredients? He had the fleeting impulse to drop the glasses in his hands so he could hold her close, capture her mouth with his own and find out if she tasted equally delicious.

She pulled away, her smile sheepish. “Sorry. I almost knocked you over, didn’t I?”

“You don’t hear me complaining.” He’d happily allow her to knock him flat on his back if he could convince her to join him.

“I was excited to see a friendly face.”

He raised an eyebrow. She was hardly among strangers. When Bobbi had interviewed her as part of a dessert series last year, they’d become instant friends. Phoebe probably knew half the people here.

“A single friendly face,” she added. “It’s nice not to be the only one without a date. Or are you here with someone?” She gazed past him into the condo, her whiskey-gold eyes searching.

“Nope, I’m alone.” He thanked his lucky stars that the flight attendant he’d originally asked to come with him was somewhere over the Midwest right now. “I have it on good authority that the Kemp sisters are also solo—and on the prowl. Protect me from them?”

“Oh, please. You haven’t needed anyone’s help handling women a day in your life.”

Not since college anyway. Regardless, it wasn’t either of the Kemp sisters he wanted to handle.

Phoebe set her wineglass on the patio table. “I’m not finishing that. The floral notes are overpowering, and life’s too short to drink mediocre wine. What did you bring me?”

“Vodka martini, two olives, splash of brine.” He winked at her. “I know you like it dirty.”

Color tinged her cheeks, but she grinned back at him. “Yum.” Phoebe was an interesting contrast. Although she blushed at his habitual teasing, she’d often been the first to laugh if someone made a ribald joke in the kitchen. Muffled laughter, but Heath heard it just the same.

As she took the martini glass, her fingers brushed his. A rush of desire went through him, surprising him with its intensity. When she’d worked at Piri, they’d bumped and jostled each other plenty of times in a crowded kitchen.

But she hadn’t been single then.

“You look amazing tonight.” His gaze dropped to the creamy swells of her breasts for a moment before he made himself meet her eyes again. “Different, but amazing.”

“I can’t take credit for that. It’s easy to look amazing when your roommate’s professionally trained to make people look good. Gwen is responsible for my wardrobe, my cosmetics and my hair—not to mention making me attend the party.”

“She talked you into rearranging your schedule?” He and Gwen didn’t particularly get along, not since a disastrous double date Phoebe had engineered, but he appreciated that the woman had convinced Phoebe to be here.

“More like she rearranged my schedule for me. She called James, who is the nicest boss ever. No offense.”

He grinned. “None taken.” Nice wasn’t one of the adjectives that described him.

“I’m glad they persuaded me. I would have hated to miss Bobbi’s birthday. I was just clinging to the excuse of work because—” Her eyes widened, locking on a point behind Heath. Her fair complexion paled beyond its normal ivory.

Damn. Heath didn’t need to turn around to know Cam was inside. Probably with a date, judging from Phoebe’s pained expression. It had been too much to hope that her attending the party looking like fantasy made flesh was a sign she’d moved past her feelings for the hotshot chef. They’d been together for years. She wasn’t shallow enough to put that behind her in a matter of days.

“Phoebe?” He took her drink and set both their glasses on the nearby railing. “Do you trust me?”

Her gaze snapped back to his. “Sure.”

That makes one of us. Heath knew better than to trust his own motives as he cupped the side of her face. Helping her salvage her dignity provided an excellent excuse to touch her, and being successful in business had taught him a thing or two about seizing opportunities. Tendrils of her fiery hair tickled his arm as he leaned closer. “I have a plan.”

Then he pulled her tight against him and kissed her.

2

THE WORLD SPUN wildly around Phoebe as her brain tried to process what was happening. Her body, meanwhile, just wanted to revel in Heath’s kiss. He traced her lips, and then his tongue met hers, the hint of bourbon a sweet burn that spread through her. His hands were at the small of her back, holding her against him in a way that gave her a whole new appreciation for his body. She’d always considered him a sharp dresser, but suddenly she wondered what he’d look like without the well-tailored suits.

He kissed with assertive confidence, like a man who knew exactly what she wanted and was happy to give it to her.

For the past ten days, she’d been like a sleepwalker, cocooned in dull numbness. She hadn’t even realized how detached she’d been until now, with sensation rushing through her. Her skin tingled with pleasure. She angled her head, encouraging Heath to deepen the kiss. He did, and a shock wave of desire hit her. When was the last time she’d felt this damn good?

She curled her fingers in his dark hair. It was thick and soft, free of the stiff styling products that Cam—

Oh, God. Cam.

The memory of her ex’s presence jolted her from the sensual daze, and she staggered back, glad for the support of the iron-and-concrete railing behind her. “What the hell was that?” she asked, her voice little more than a breathless whisper.

Unreadable emotion flashed in Heath’s green eyes. Regret? Before he could answer, a guy from the far end of the balcony whistled at them. “We were debating whether we’d have to throw a bucket of water on you guys. Guess you two don’t need a party to have a good time.”

Cheeks stinging with embarrassment, Phoebe retreated inside...but drew up short when she found herself face-to-face with a scowling Cam. Heath was instantly at her side, his hand pressed lightly to her spine. She couldn’t tell if the gesture was meant to be comforting or possessive. But after the way every nerve in her body had just responded to him, the touch was like a brand through her beaded dress, as if her entire universe had contracted to his palm and fingers. For a second, she couldn’t even register what Cam was saying. She simply held her breath, waiting to see how Heath touched her next.

“—you two would be here together.” Cam’s words, at first just a meaningless buzz, slowly took shape. He’d pasted a smile on his face, the polite one he forced himself to use with important food critics he didn’t like, but anger edged his tone.

“Phoebe isn’t technically my date,” Heath said. “I’m just grateful I ran into her. You never know where a chance encounter might lead.” He looked at her when he said it, his tone meaningful.

Her breath hitched before sanity caught up to her. Heath was deliberately baiting his own business partner, making Cam think there was something between them. Why would he do that? The two men were planning to open a second restaurant together, and that process would run a lot smoother without any manufactured tension between them.

Cam looked startled by Heath’s insinuation. “I, ah...” His gaze went to Phoebe, searching, and she tried to look cheerful, not at all like she’d rather be home in yoga pants than facing her ex. Then his date cleared her throat. “Oh! Allow me to introduce you to Donna Moore.”

“Dana,” the blonde snapped, her eyes narrowing in displeasure.

“Dana. Of course. That’s what I meant to say. Dana, this is Heath and Phoebe.”

“Charmed.” If her tone was any icier, they could use it to make frozen drinks.

“How about we, uh, go wish Bobbi a happy birthday?” Cam suggested, steering his date away. As they merged into the crowd, he cast one final glance over his shoulder.

At me. Phoebe fought a grin at the surprising knowledge that he was jealous. As the executive chef of a noted restaurant, Cam was often in the spotlight, giving interviews and emerging from the kitchen to greet special customers. She’d been so proud of him, content to bake her desserts and watch him soak up the accolades. But it was a refreshing change to be the one getting a little attention.

Belatedly, she recalled Heath’s words before his mouth claimed hers. I have a plan. Understanding dawned. “You kissed me to make him jealous.”

“Hope you don’t think that’s too petty or juvenile.”

“Actually...” She recalled the times Cam had praised her as his muse and led her to believe marriage was in their distant future, contrasting those moments with the brutal shock of his announcement that they were “stifling” each other. He hadn’t even had the balls to make a clean break. Instead, he’d suggested they still go out occasionally—which she’d translated as code for wanting a backup sexual partner on the nights nothing better came along. Hell, no. “That was awesome.”

She just wished she’d realized sooner that Heath’s kiss was only playacting. As she recalled the greedy way she’d clutched at him and how her toes had curled inside Gwen’s borrowed stilettos, embarrassment rippled through her. Way to come on like a sex-starved hussy. She deeply regretted the loss of the martini she’d left behind.

“Thank you,” she told him. “But you didn’t have to do that.”

“Kissing a beautiful woman is no hardship.”

Heath thinks I’m beautiful. There was a momentary flush of giddiness before she reminded herself that he was a connoisseur of women. He appreciated many forms and shapes, the way she could savor dozens of desserts from around the world without ever picking a favorite. How many countless women had she heard him call “sweetheart” or “gorgeous”? His compliment, though flattering, wasn’t personal.

“Besides,” he added, frowning in Cam’s direction, “the big jerk had it coming. You were the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“That’s what Gwen said, too.” She was blessed to have such loyal friends, even ones who inexplicably disliked each other. The day Cam had broken up with her, Gwen had partially blamed Heath.

“That business partner makes single life look so glamorous, with his endless parade of women,” her friend had said. “Cam got so distracted by what he can’t have that he took you for granted.” Phoebe didn’t fault Heath, but the “grass is greener” explanation made as much sense as anything else. She’d thought they were happy.

“He is going to regret losing you,” Heath said. “If he thinks you’ve found someone, it might speed up his epiphany.”

Found someone? As in, an actual relationship and not just a quick kiss at a party? “You aren’t suggesting we make him think that you and I are dating?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

She laughed nervously. “No offense, but who would buy that? You’re never seen with the same woman twice.” Oddly, few of his ex-lovers seemed bitter. Most continued to smile and sigh when they saw him. He must be really good in bed. She felt wicked, secretly speculating on his sexual performance while he stood there giving her relationship advice.

The corner of Heath’s mouth curled in a half grin that made her immediately reevaluate her last thought. This man could teach a master’s class in wickedness. Next to him, she was a total novice.

“Why stop at making him think we’re ‘dating’?” he asked. “You want to really get under his skin, let him think we’re having a scorching affair hotter than an Atlanta heat wave. As for no one believing us...” His gaze arrested hers, and he shifted closer. She could almost feel the hard planes of his body through the fabric of her dress. “You’d be surprised at how convincing I can be.”

Oh, Lord, did she need a drink. Not her martini—ice water. Her throat had gone dry, and the crowded room was stifling. “I don’t know.”

Though she didn’t doubt Heath’s persuasive skills, she herself was a terrible liar. And she was still sorting through the aftermath of her breakup. Did she want to win back Cam’s affection? She was furious with him, but there were good memories and years of emotional investment. Either way, her feminine pride had taken a hit when he’d dumped her. Having Heath look at her as if he wanted to lick dark chocolate ganache off her bare skin was heady, yet confusing.

He rocked back on his heels, symbolically restoring the platonic distance between them. “Completely up to you,” he said. “Think about it, and we’ll talk soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should flee. There’s a Kemp sister heading this way.”

She chuckled, but he raised an interesting point about other women. “Heath, if people think you and I are a couple, won’t it hinder your love life?”

“Sacrifice I’m willing to make.” He grinned. “Temporarily. I’ve actually been swamped with work stuff recently and had to reschedule my last two attempted dates. So contrary to my suave reputation, I can go a couple of weeks without a woman on my arm.”

“Still, it seems pretty one-sided, me using you to make Cam jealous.”

“I’m at your disposal. Use me any way you want.”

It was the kind of outrageously flirtatious comment he routinely made. She knew better than to read anything serious into it. He’s a buddy, she reminded herself. He’s not genuinely propositioning you.

Yeah, she knew that. Intellectually. But the reminder would have been a lot more convincing without the memory of that scalding kiss still buzzing through her system.

* * *

“WHAT DO YOU mean Heath kissed you last night?” Gwen went from lazily lounging on the sofa to bolt upright and hyperalert—or as alert as one could look with bed head and flying toaster pajamas. She sounded scandalized, which was ironic considering the details of her own personal life.

Grinning at her friend’s reaction, Phoebe put her empty coffee cup in the sink. Then she made a beeline for her favorite armchair, the first piece of non–garage sale furniture she’d purchased after starting her side business of wedding cakes. Their apartment was modest, but the kitchen met her picky specifications.

“Which part of kissing don’t you understand?” she joked. “His lips, my lips. After the sordid tales of you and the hot stunt guy, I know you’re familiar with the concept.”

Gwen scowled, clearly not amused.

Wow, she really doesn’t approve of Heath. Not for the first time, Phoebe wished that two of her favorite people could get along better. She’d attempted to fix them up last year, thinking they had a lot in common, but the double date with her and Cam had been a massive failure. Even before Gwen’s blasphemous declaration that baseball was boring, Heath hadn’t been his usual charming self. He’d seemed oddly distracted. “Look, it wasn’t a real kiss. Heath wanted to help me make Cam jealous and offered to let me use him.”

A flutter of guilty pleasure went through her. What might a woman do with Heath Jensen entirely under her control?

Gwen shook her head firmly. “You don’t want any part of that. Making sure your ex sees you looking hot is one thing, but mind games are beneath you.”

“Maybe.” She recalled Cam’s stricken expression after he’d seen Heath kiss her and her vindictive delight. Maybe not. “But it’s not like you to judge. You’re the one always encouraging me to be reckless, have an adventure.”

“Yeah, but I figured you’d start small and work your way up. When a person goes skiing for the first time, she doesn’t head straight for the black diamond trails. She starts with the bunny slopes! Heath is no bunny.”

“I know the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off, but Heath would never hurt me.”

“Not intentionally,” Gwen agreed. “But you would be in way over your head trying to fake a red-hot fling with him. Next to that borderline man-whore, you’re a nun.”

“I went out last night in a dress cut down to my navel. I am not a nun.”

“Okay, wrong choice of word. But you have to admit you’re not...” Gwen peered at her with a combination of affection and sympathy. “Like when you talked about your love life with Cam? It sounded comfortable, maybe even a little routine.”

“Maybe I’ve never had a quickie with a ripped stuntman in a makeup trailer, but our sex life was plenty satisfactory!” Oh, there was a ringing endorsement. Hey, baby, wanna get satisfactory? Was that why Cam had left her—because the sex had been boring?

After growing up with a mother who’d done everything she could to impress on her that sex was evil, Phoebe had congratulated herself more than once on not turning out to be phobic. Still, her love life was pretty conventional. There’d been the boyfriend her freshman year in college who’d been as inexperienced as she was. He’d treated her like a princess, but the sex had not been earth-shaking. Then there’d been the bartender she’d dated during her year of working at a bakery. On the nights he worked, he didn’t get home until almost 3:00 a.m., and her predawn shift had started at four. Their sex life had been great...when they were both awake at the same time. Cam was by far the best lover she’d ever had, but now she realized she didn’t have much basis for comparison.

If she’d been more inventive in bed, would she have held his interest longer?

That was a depressing thought.

Phoebe sighed. “I guess instead of making fun of those Weird Ways to Bring Him to His Knees articles in your fashion magazines, I should be studying them for advice.” Then again, why read generic tips written by another woman? Why not get a guy’s opinion? She snapped her fingers. “Or Heath could help me.”

“What? Let’s not do anything hasty.”

“Heath offered to help.” Use me any way you want. “Why not take him up on it?” The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. “Best-case scenario, I win back the man I was planning to spend my life with, after an appropriate period of groveling. Worst case, Cam and I stay split up, but I salvage my pride by making sure he knows I’m not wasting away and I pick up tips on being more seductive. Where’s the bad?”

“In Heath Jensen’s arms,” Gwen said darkly.

There, her roommate was wrong. Because being kissed by Heath had been very, very good. And that had only been a brief preview of his expertise. Her pulse quickened.

How much more of Heath’s sensual skill would she experience firsthand? She glanced across the room to where her phone was charging.

Only one way to find out.

3

ARMS AND BACK muscles straining, a bead of sweat trickling down his chest, Heath raised himself into his last set of pull-ups. It was tempting to use the buzzing cell phone on the nightstand as an excuse to quit the workout, but after starting high school as the shortest, chunkiest guy in the freshman class, he took his athletic regimen seriously. Staying in shape required effort, especially for someone who worked with—and enjoyed the hell out of—food. He glanced down at the phone. Unless it was someone from the restaurant, and therefore a potential emergency, he’d call whoever it was back.

But then he saw Phoebe’s name on the screen, and he almost lost his grip on the bar.

Dropping to his feet, he snatched up the phone. “Hello?” So I’ll do an extra set of reps tomorrow. No big deal.

“Hey.” Her voice was soft, tentative. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

That depended. Was she calling to tell him she didn’t appreciate his meddling last night and that he’d better keep his hands to himself? “Just finishing up a workout.” He reached for his bottle of water. “What can I do for you?”

“Teach me to be sexy.”

Thank God he hadn’t opened the water yet. An announcement like that would have had him spluttering. His obituary in the AJC would read Restaurateur Drowns in Bedroom.

“Phoebe. Not to state the obvious, but you are sexy.”

“The word people use is cute.”

Stupid people, maybe. Not even a chef’s jacket and apron could hide those curves. And anyone who paid close enough attention to her mischievous smile would discover an alluring potential to misbehave. How did people miss it? Hell, he’d been trying to unsee it for months.

Maybe now he didn’t have to. For the moment, she was unattached. And he was no longer her employer.

“It’s not like I suffer from low self-esteem,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m attractive, and I’m talented in the kitchen. But I’m not...you know. Va va voom.”

“Did you not look in a mirror before you left the house last night?” For that matter, was she oblivious to how aroused he’d been when she kissed him back? He got hard every time he remembered the taste of her mouth beneath his, the feel of her fingers in his hair as she tugged him closer.

“Eye makeup and a low-cut dress are superficial window dressing. I want a more meaningful makeover. I want to be exciting.” She lowered her voice. “Seductive.”

A more seductive Phoebe. God help him.

“If I take Cam back,” she continued, “I don’t want to worry that I’m not enough to hold his interest.”

Cam. Right.

Heath had been so busy picturing Phoebe as a confident seductress that he’d momentarily forgotten this was all to prove a point to her ex. Which was your idea, genius. He could hardly fault her for taking him at his word. Hadn’t he offered to help in whatever way she needed? She was, after all, one of his best friends.

“You suggested we pretend to be dating,” she said, “and I thought that while we’re spending some extra time together, maybe you could give me pointers.”

It was like the lamb asking the wolf to help make her more delicious. The noble part of him truly wanted to help her; the other 99 percent of him was preoccupied by the possibilities. For months, working alongside her, he’d been a gentleman—or, at least, his version of one. There’d been some playfully naughty banter, but he’d kept his hands to himself. And now she wanted to put herself in his hands and have him teach her about sex?

If he was a better person, he’d warn her away. “Are you free for dinner?”

“T-tonight?” The way she stumbled over the word made him wonder if she was already rethinking her request, or if she was just surprised he’d agreed.

“Yeah. I—” Reality caught up to him. He couldn’t miss work tonight. They were hosting some celebs in town to shoot a movie. He wanted to personally ensure that everything went smoothly and that service was stellar. As hard as he’d worked to make Piri successful, he had no intentions of slacking off now. They needed the extra profits to help bankroll a sister restaurant. “Wait, tonight’s no good.”

“Not for me, either. Sundays aren’t as busy as Thursday through Saturday, when we have the dueling pianos, but the weekly wine tastings are growing in popularity. I’ve got an entire dessert menu pairing chocolate and red wine.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“That could work. I go in on Mondays, but after I get the desserts prepped, I can probably leave. It’s our quietest night. Or if you want to wait a little longer, I have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off.”

No, he emphatically did not want to wait. Part of him was still tempted to talk her into calling in sick and coming over tonight. Before she came to her senses. “Then, I’ll cook you dinner tomorrow. It can be after eight if you need to help with the dinner rush.” By nature, he was a night person, and working in the restaurant industry had amplified that.

“Or you could come to my apartment and I can cook,” she offered. “I owe you. After all, you’re doing me the favor.”

Debatable. “If I come over, can you guarantee my safety? That roommate of yours would probably stab me with a salad fork the first chance she got.”

“Good point. At your place, we won’t be interrupted.”

Private seduction lessons with Phoebe.

He couldn’t have imagined a better fantasy if he’d tried. And he had a very active imagination.

* * *

“UM...” AMY HUANG, the apprentice chef, darted a nervous glance at Phoebe and then looked back at the crystallized mess that was supposed to have been caramel sauce.

Dammit. Earlier, the top of a limoncello sponge cake had collapsed, now this. Embarrassment prickled along Phoebe’s skin, and her fingers clenched around the handle of the pan. She was supposed to be teaching Amy, not demonstrating a showcase of what-not-to-dos.

“Guess everything they say about Mondays is true,” Phoebe said lightly, trying to contain the annoyance she felt over her mistakes. “Why don’t you take a quick break and I’ll clean up?”

Amy’s expression was dubious. “I don’t think James hired you to do dishes.”

“If you want to get technical, he didn’t hire me to ruin perfectly good caramel, either.”

At that, the apprentice chef laughed. “Well, I would appreciate a few minutes to call my boyfriend. He’s out of town celebrating his birthday with his brothers.”

“Go.” Phoebe waved her away, trying not to succumb to a moment of cynicism. Was Amy’s boyfriend missing her, or eyeing other prospects? Were his brothers the type of guys who would respect a commitment, or the type who would try to convince the birthday boy that what Amy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her?

Not all men were heartless liars, she reminded herself. Take Heath, for example. He might date dozens of women, but she couldn’t imagine him deceiving one. He made no secret that he liked to have a good time—but there was more to him than that. He was an ambitious worker and a devoted friend. She was still a little surprised he’d agreed to put his own love life on hiatus to help her.

Surprised and nervous.

She wasn’t sure what to expect when she had dinner with him tonight, which probably explained the atypical mistakes she was making. She’d been distracted since she got here. Who are you kidding? She’d been distracted since she’d hung up the phone with him yesterday. The way his low voice had rumbled “you are sexy” had wound its way through her, as irresistible as the aroma of apple-cinnamon cake in the oven.

“Hey, there.” James joined her at the industrial sink. Of Norwegian descent, the big blond man was a cross between a Viking and teddy bear. From the concerned look on his face, it was clear he’d heard about her mishaps. She hated to fail him after he’d campaigned so long to hire her.

Despite the many times they’d joked about him stealing her away from Piri, she’d never once thought she would have to take him up on his offer of a job. She’d believed she and Cam were a lasting team—personally and professionally. Wrong on both counts.

It would take a long time to establish the same kind of rhythm with this kitchen staff that she’d enjoyed at Piri, but she loved James’s upscale bar and his infectious enthusiasm. Besides, she needed this job. Her side business in wedding cake orders and other specialty items was growing steadily, but it was nowhere near a full-time income.

“You want to head out a little early tonight?” James offered.

“Trying to get rid of me before I burn the place down?”

“Hell, yes. You’re only supposed to resort to arson for insurance when the business isn’t turning a profit. We’re actually succeeding.”

“No surprise there,” she said fondly. “Good concept, good location, great management.” The tapas plates were wonderful, and now that Phoebe was on board, the dessert selection of tasty traditional choices, like cheesecake and peach cobbler, also featured more creative dishes inspired by sweet liqueurs and cocktails.

Throughout the week, the bar offered something for everyone—from open-mic nights to the engaging “dueling pianists,” including James’s longtime boyfriend, to last night’s wine tasting, which paired vintages with bite-size appetizers designed to highlight the notes. A newly engaged couple had come in to celebrate with friends and toast their happiness. Phoebe had rolled out a special cake for them and, after witnessing how in love they were, it had been a struggle not to cry in the crepe batter when she’d returned to the kitchen.

“Don’t beat yourself up for having an off night,” James advised. “Gwen and I shouldn’t have bullied you into seeing Cam at that birthday party. It must have been awful. If Steve and I ever—” He broke off, wincing. “I can’t even think about that.”

“Me, neither. You guys are perfect together.” Then again, what did she know? There’d been a time when she’d believed that about her and Cameron, too. The pain of getting dumped was two-tiered, like the coconut wedding cake she was baking this week. First, there was the obvious pain of rejection and loss. But beneath that was a nagging feeling of stupidity, the questioning why she hadn’t seen it coming. She was starting to second-guess her own judgment.

Any more pastry catastrophes tonight and she might start to second-guess her culinary skills, too.

She sighed. “You know what? I will leave a little bit early. I have plans later anyway.” At the thought of what those plans entailed, her face heated. Part of her still couldn’t believe she’d followed through on her impulse to ask Heath for his help. But the request had been over the phone, from a safe distance. What would it be like to actually face him tonight? Nothing embarrassed the man, so there was no telling how explicit his pointers might be.

No problem, you’ve had years of experience with Gwen’s outrageous bluntness. True, but Gwen didn’t have Heath’s green eyes, or a deep voice that was as addictive as hazelnut truffles. And Phoebe wasn’t even going to think about his mouth or the way he kissed, like he knew all a woman’s secrets.

James gave a low whistle under his breath. “Wow, these must be some very rowdy after-hours plans for you to look that guilty. I take it Gwen has schemed something to cheer you up?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to dwell on her roommate’s dire warnings. “Nothing like that. I’m just grabbing a late dinner with Heath.”

“Heath Jensen? Nice.” He bumped her shoulder with his own. “But I’m a little miffed you haven’t mentioned until now that something’s going on.”

An automatic protest sprang to her lips, but she stopped herself from assuring him that she and Heath were platonic buddies. After all, the plan was for people to think there was something between the two of them, right? “I ran into him at the party Saturday,” she said. “And our encounter took a...surprising turn. I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure what will happen yet.”

James’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “Well, go find out.”

* * *

AS THE ELEVATOR slowly made the climb to what Heath jokingly called his seventh-floor penthouse, Phoebe tried to ignore the mirrored doors. Even though she’d changed out of her kitchen uniform of double-breasted jacket, elastic-waisted dark pants and pin-striped baker’s cap, no one was going to mistake her for a femme fatale. Her face, devoid of makeup, was still flushed from hours in a hot kitchen, and her loose bun was trying to escape its confines via frizz. The black skirt with dark metallic polka dots was cute, although a conservative length that stopped just above her knees; the loose blouse she wore over a copper-colored tank top was mostly shapeless. And her flat scandals screamed sensible.

As the doors parted, panic flitted through her. A plan that had seemed almost reasonable yesterday morning suddenly seemed insane. How could anyone make her a seductress? Gwen was right. This is a huge mistake.

Embarrassment churning in her stomach, she almost turned to go. She could call Heath from her car and tell him something had come up—work, or a headache, or alien abduction. But aren’t you sick of always trying so hard to avoid mistakes?

She’d spent the better part of her adolescence feeling like she was a mistake. Her mother certainly hadn’t planned to get pregnant as a teenager. The woman’s constant dire warnings, intended to keep her daughter from repeating her bad choices, had left Phoebe terrified of doing anything wrong. Phoebe had wanted to be the perfect daughter, to atone for her existence. And hadn’t she tried to be the perfect girlfriend to Cam? That sure as hell hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Anger heated her skin, and she ripped the blouse that suddenly felt claustrophobic over her head, shoving it into her shoulder bag.

Every time she put a dessert in the oven, she hoped it would turn out perfectly. But sometimes soufflés fell and crème brûlée torches led to fire extinguishers. Was that a reason to stop cooking?

The door swung open, startling her from her thoughts. Heath stood barefoot in a pair of dark slacks, his royal blue shirt untucked and rolled up at the sleeves. “I thought I heard the elevator.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you planning to come inside?”

She lifted her chin. To hell with being afraid—maybe it was time to start making some mistakes. “You bet your ass I am.”

4

HEATH STEPPED ASIDE to let in Phoebe, assessing her mood. He’d heard the elevator in the hall ding almost five minutes ago, but no knock had followed. He’d assumed that meant Phoebe was having second thoughts, yet there wasn’t a trace of hesitation in her body language as she marched into the loft, her posture regal and her shapely arms displayed to full advantage by a silky tank top.

His apartment often impressed his dates. This would be when the oohs and aahs took place. Phoebe, however, had been here a dozen times. She didn’t gush over the skyline view through the floor-to-ceiling window or the gleaming hardwood floors or the blown-glass sculptures that added splashes of vibrant color against the white leather furniture. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—Heath couldn’t help noticing the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her top.

“Mmm. I love the smell of fresh basil.”

“Hope you like the way it tastes, too.” He led her to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a marble-topped counter. “My plan is to sear scallops and serve them alla caprese.”

Taking a seat atop one of the bar stools, she sighed happily. “It’s so decadent having someone cook for me. When you’re a chef, you’re used to doing the food preparation, not just at work but for family and friends.”

“Cam’s an executive chef. Didn’t he cook for you?” The question was an automatic response to her words, but he regretted asking. The last thing he’d intended was to bring up the guy who’d jilted her, not when she was looking so relaxed and happy.

“Frequently. But it was...” She paused, considering. “When he had me try new dishes, it was a matter of wanting my professional opinion on how to make his creation better. He called me his muse. It sounded romantic,” she said in a small voice. “But maybe it was just a glorified term for taste tester.”

For a second, Heath hated his business partner almost as much as he hated the self-doubt on Phoebe’s face. “Well, I don’t have any ‘creations’ I need to perfect. All I have is a limited culinary repertoire I use in a feeble attempt to impress women who turn me on.” He reached across the counter, tipping her chin up with his finger. “Gorgeous redheads, for instance, who kiss like pagan goddesses.”

She blinked at that, but then shook her head. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

“Have you met me? I have no shame. I do, however, have excellent taste in wine. Can I pour you some of the pinot gris I have chilled?”

“Yes, please. In a really large glass.”

“Thirsty? Or nervous?”

“Trying to drown out my roommate’s voice in my head. Gwen thinks this is a terrible idea, my asking for your help.”

“Just because you asked doesn’t mean you’re committed to accepting it. You can leave anytime.” The words scraped against his throat—he wanted her here—but he made himself voice the disclaimer. He was willing to take advantage of the situation that had presented itself, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her.

“I know.” Her eyes locked with his.

Did she feel the same blast of heat that surged through him? The cold bottle of wine was a welcome respite. He poured two glasses, obligingly filling hers almost to the rim.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not just for the wine or dinner, but for all of this. It’s not like I can make Cam jealous by myself, right?”

“So you’ve decided you definitely want to win him back?” He reached for one of the skillets hanging over the kitchen island and smacked it down on the burner.

“I don’t know. My emotions are all jumbled up. But there was a married couple who came into the bar last week to celebrate their tenth anniversary—the man had the pianists serenade his wife with a song from their wedding. When I see people like that, part of me still imagines me and Cam ten or fifteen years from now. I thought he was my future.” She sipped her wine. “I suppose you never think about the future.”

“Sure I do. All the time.” He turned on the gas burner, then poured olive oil into the skillet. “Most of my waking hours lately have been spent thinking about scouting restaurant locations in Miami.” He’d made some excellent contacts over the past few years attending the South Beach Food and Wine Festival, and he’d identified several flourishing neighborhoods that might be a good fit for his and Cam’s second venture.

“I meant a romantic future,” Phoebe said. “Do you think you’ll ever want more than hot one-night stands?”

“Some of those are hot weekends. I can go longer than a single night.”

For a change, she didn’t blush at his teasing. Instead, she wagged her finger at him. “You aren’t as shallow as you let people believe.”

“Wanna bet?”

There was a stubborn glint in her eye, but rather than argue, she took another sip of her drink. “Maybe I spend too much time trying to plan for the future. Gwen thinks I need to live in the moment and...have adventures.”

He grinned. “What kind of adventures?” Knowing her roommate, Gwen wasn’t suggesting scuba diving or hot-air-balloon rides. Sex on a hot-air balloon, maybe.

Now Phoebe did blush, a rosy stain spreading across her face. She glanced past him at the stove, where oil hissed and sizzled in the pan. “You should turn down the heat.”

He obligingly flicked the control knob before adding the scallops. “I thought our purpose was to turn up the heat. You wanted to know if you could be more seductive, right? Exciting?” Those had been her exact words. Heath had the sudden urge to offer her all the excitement she could handle. “What’s the most exciting sexual thing you’ve done?”

“Lose my virginity? Although exciting isn’t the first adjective I’d pick to describe that encounter.” Frustration pinched her expression. “People like you and Gwen don’t get it—some of us aren’t exciting. That’s why I’m here.”

If her love life hadn’t been exhilarating enough, then her sexual partners were also to blame. But he didn’t point that out, not wanting to reintroduce Cam in the conversation. “All right, what adventurous things have you thought about doing? ’Fess up. If you didn’t have a wicked streak, you wouldn’t have sought my help.”

“I guess that’s true.” After a moment’s consideration, her lips curved in a small secret smile that left him hard. It was the naughtiest expression he’d ever seen on her face, a glimpse at the mischievous Phoebe he’d known was there but who was seldom allowed to come out and play. Damn, she was sexy. If Heath’s shirt hadn’t been untucked, the situation might be embarrassing.

“Phoebe Mars. What dirty thing are you imagining?” And are you in need of a volunteer?

“When Gwen and I first moved into our apartment, back before I met Ca—back when I was single,” she amended, “we lived across from a guy who worked at a local gym. He was so toned.” She paused for a moment, appreciating the memory. “Anyway, my desk is pushed up against my bedroom window—almost blocking it, but not completely. I was searching recipes on the computer and when I glanced up, I realized his blinds were partially open. He was undressing in his room, and he was, um, erect.”

Yeah, there was a lot of that going around.

“Before he disappeared from view, I saw him reach down and grip his erection.” Her breathing was audible, her face flushed.

“And you wanted to watch him get off?”

“No—well, maybe,” she reflected. “But for a second, I thought he might have seen me through the window and my imagination ran wild. I imagined him catching me naked. Imagined what it would be like for him to watch me...touch myself.”

Working in a kitchen required being good with one’s hands. Heath had seen her knead and stir and frost countless times. Now his gaze flew to those talented hands, and he was assailed by the erotic image of her fingers cupped over the red-gold curls between her thighs, furiously working her sex. Or would she take her time with leisurely caresses, drawing out her pleasure? He’d thought he was hard before? His dick was like steel.

She bit her lip, and he tried not to imagine the scrape of her teeth across his skin. “I shocked you, didn’t I?”

Hell, yes. In the best possible way. “Of course not. This is me. I’m unshockable.”

“Really?”

“It’s not uncommon to have exhibitionist or voyeurism fantasies.” He would be having several later tonight.

Her expression brightened with so much joy that one would think she’d just been named the ACF Pastry Chef of the Year. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. But I’m not sure what I did to deserve gratitude.”

She looked down, concentrating on her wineglass rather than meeting his gaze. “My mom got pregnant as a teen, and she worked really hard to make sure that never happened to me. Most of my life, I was half convinced kissing was evil, never mind fantasies about...”

“Masturbating in front of a sexy stranger?”

The blunt words heightened the color in her cheeks, but she nodded. “You’re a relief to be around. I mean, you’re cocky and frequently a pain in the ass—”

“Guilty.”

“But you aren’t judgmental and I don’t constantly worry that I’m going to disappoint you. You’re a good friend, Heath.”

A better friend would help her win back the man she loved without picturing her naked. “No, I’m a selfish hedonist. But the benefit of having no shame is that I don’t let it bother me.”

Her lips twitched, and she raised her glass. “To shameless pleasure.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

PHOEBE LEANED BACK against the cool leather of the couch, her feet tucked beneath her while her sandals lay askew on the floor. Dinner had been yummy and their discussion hadn’t been quite as charged as she’d feared. After what she’d revealed earlier, she hadn’t known what to expect and had experienced a moment of apprehension when they sat down together.

Almost as if sensing her nerves, Heath had kicked off an innocuous conversation about how they’d tweak the Braves lineup if they had the power to trade players. Later, when she’d brought up wanting to add some new savory pastries to James’s menu, Heath had waggled his brows and teased her about experimentation. But, by Heath standards, he’d behaved. Now she was enjoying the nighttime view through the window while he washed dishes, which he’d insisted on doing himself. The city lights twinkled, combining with the two glasses of wine she’d had to make her feel utterly relaxed.

Liar.

If she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge the buzz of awareness that crackled beneath the surface of mellow contentment. When Heath’s green eyes landed on her or he moved close to refill her glass, it was not relaxing. She felt tense—not in the stressed-out, frazzled kind of way, but high-strung just the same. All her senses were on full alert, and her skin tingled. It was a reaction that had caught her off guard when she arrived earlier and continued to take her by surprise, even though one would think she’d have adjusted after the first time. But it was disorienting to react so strongly to Heath. Sure, he was attractive—maybe one of the best-looking men in Atlanta—but he always had been. They’d worked together for over a year and she’d never felt this way.

Of course, that had been before he kissed her. What had she told Gwen? That it hadn’t been a real kiss? Please. If that kiss had been any more real, you would have exploded in a fiery blaze of spontaneous combustion.

Mentally and emotionally, Phoebe was in a vulnerable place right now, and she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Physically, she was less ambivalent. Her body had responded to Heath’s kiss with a swift, primal certainty she was having trouble forgetting. She drained the last of her wine, although what she probably needed was to splash some cold water on her face.

“Want any more wine?” Heath asked from the edge of the kitchen. Finished with the dishes, he padded into the living room, moving with deceptively lazy grace. Although he projected a carefree vibe, she’d seen him hustle on busy nights and bust his ass to fix disasters.

Like your love life?

“I’d better not,” she said. “If I have a third glass, I’ll have to sleep here on your sofa.”

He sat next to her, his grin devilish. “My bed’s more comfortable.”

She kicked him in reprimand—or, more accurately, she nudged his thigh with her bare foot.

He captured her toes in his hand, and she tried to pull away, suddenly alarmed. She was so unbearably ticklish that even sitting through pedicures was torturous. After a short-lived tickle fight in college, which had ended abruptly when her shrieks had brought the RA running, she’d wondered if the reason her skin was so sensitive to touch was because she was so unaccustomed to being touched. There hadn’t been a lot of hugs and kisses in her household.

But there was nothing ticklish about the way Heath cupped her foot and applied firm pressure on the arch. He rotated his thumb with just the right force, and she nearly moaned. Her job required hours of standing, and even though she was smart enough to wear practical shoes to work, her feet still got sore. This was heaven.

“You are so good at that,” she breathed.

“Practice makes perfect.”

Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she heard the seductive smile in his voice, hinting at skills far beyond foot massage. The man’s middle name was probably Innuendo. He could talk about menu fonts and find a way to turn it into temptation.

Swinging both of her feet to the ground, she sat forward. “How do you make it sound like you’re thinking about sex all the time?”

“By thinking about sex all the time.” He grinned. “Well, and food. Sometimes I think about ways to incorporate the two.”

“I’m serious. Women throw themselves at you.” His appeal wasn’t just limited to the opposite sex. People in general were drawn into his orbit, with Gwen being the exception that proved the rule. If Heath had been a waiter instead of the restaurant’s managing partner, he’d make more tips than the rest of the staff combined. “You have—”

“Irresistible sex appeal? Raw animal magnetism?”

She rolled her eyes. “Charisma. Can that be taught?” I need a charisma coach.

He considered that. “I think it’s more something you discover than learn. But I know for a fact it can be honed. What color’s your bra?”

“Excuse me?” She crossed her arms over her chest as if he suddenly had X-ray vision.

“I’m going for a metaphor-type thing here. You want people to see you as an exciting seductress, right? The kind of woman who might wear, I don’t know, red lace. Or leather bondage gear. But do you see yourself as that woman?”

“I...” Hearing the word bondage come out of Heath’s mouth short-circuited too many neurons for her to immediately respond. Oh, the mental images! “Um. What was the question?”

He leaned close, his eyes glittering with humor and something more predatory. Her stomach clenched with the same anticipation she’d felt on every roller coaster Gwen had ever made her ride. She recognized the way her lungs tightened at the top of the hill—before the adrenaline-spiking, heart-clutching plunge over the edge.

His fingers stroked up her arm to her shoulder, the touch electric. “The question, Phoebe, was about your bra.” Hooking his index finger beneath her tank top, he tugged on the slim bra strap beneath. Then he sat back with a nod. “Black cotton. Not a bad start.”

She stood, feeling suddenly restless and defensive. “I’m sure you’ve had experience with many bras, but I don’t think you can actually tell that much about me from—”

“It has nothing to do with my opinion. No judgment, remember? It’s about your self-image. Charisma is confidence—or at least being able to fake confidence exceptionally well.” Getting to his feet, he held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“We’re not going lingerie shopping, are we?” Most stores would be closed, but there was always online retail. Besides, she’d bet next month’s rent that he could charm a female manager into keeping a store open late for him.

“No. Although, if you want an expert opinion the next time you—ow.” He made a show of rubbing his ribs where she’d jabbed him. “Was that really necessary?”

She gave him a sunny smile. “It really was.”

“Brute.” He walked to the opposite side of the room and at first she thought he was heading down the hallway. Toward his bedroom?

Her heart fluttered wildly, and she couldn’t pin down whether the reaction was panic that Heath might make a move on her, or hopeful excitement. She knew he would never try to talk her in to something she didn’t want to do. The problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted. A wicked inner voice whispered, Rebound fling. Wasn’t that a time-honored response to breakups? But flinging with a longtime friend—one who was Cam’s business partner, no less—would be fraught with complications she didn’t need.

Then she realized Heath wasn’t going into the hall. He’d stopped in front of a large oval mirror in a gold-leaf frame that hung in the corner of the living room.

She raised an eyebrow. “Full-length mirror in the living room. Narcissism?”

He laughed. “Good feng shui, supposedly. It was a gift from an interior decorator I briefly dated.”

Naturally. If Phoebe had a dollar for every woman he’d “briefly dated,” she could open her own bakery in Paris.

Motioning her closer to the mirror, he changed the subject. “Did I tell you I’m one of this year’s Over-Under honorees?”

It was an annual list of five people in the city’s restaurant industry playfully deemed “overachievers under thirty.”

“No! I can’t believe you haven’t mentioned it until now.” She was thrilled for him, but a little embarrassed they’d spent so much time on her issues that it hadn’t come up. “Congratulations, that’s fantastic news.”

He hitched one shoulder in an uncharacteristically modest shrug. “I appreciate the free publicity for Piri, but this award has always felt a bit like a popularity contest. It’s not the most valid recognition out there.”

“Of course you’re blasé about popularity contests,” she teased. “You’ve probably been winning them since kindergarten.”

“Ha! Shows what you know. I—” He frowned. His abrupt halt was unlike him. In the event that he lost his train of thought, he was usually smooth enough to cover it.

“You what?” she prompted.

He flashed a brief smile. “I’ve been winning them since preschool. Now focus.” His hands settled on her hips all too briefly as he slid her to his right so that she took up most of their shared reflection. “The reason I brought up being an honoree was because I wanted to tell you about the beautiful woman I’m asking to the awards luncheon.”

“Oh.” Disappointment left a sour taste in her mouth—so much for his being willing to curtail his romantic activities long enough to let people think they were dating.

He tapped a finger against her forehead. “You, Mars. Take a look and tell me I wouldn’t be the luckiest guy there if you went with me.”

His words melted away the disappointment, yet left a tiny kernel of guilt in its place. Despite his dismissive comment about popularity contests, the Over-Under luncheon was considered prestigious in their community. He should take a real date, not just someone trying to make an ex jealous. Her gaze flew to his. “Are you sure you—”

“How did you manage culinary school? You don’t follow instructions.” He stepped behind her, cupping her shoulders and turning her back toward the mirror. “You’re supposed to be looking there.”

“I feel silly.” That was only half true. When she concentrated on her reflection, like she was supposed to be chanting a mantra of “I’m good enough, I’m pretty enough,” she did indeed feel silly. But when she concentrated on how close Heath was standing, on how good he smelled and the warmth of his strong fingers curving over her bare skin...her pulse quickened, and longing sizzled through her.

This was more tangible than the shivery tingles she’d felt earlier; now it was a full-on craving and she couldn’t stop herself from slightly leaning into him. The movement was small, so barely perceptible he might not have even noticed. But then his eyes arrested hers in the mirror, his pupils dilated, his gaze intensified. He noticed.

His voice was a soft growl in her ear. “What do you see in the mirror, Phoebe?”

An incredibly hot man more than capable of giving her a sexual adventure.

That’s probably not what he means.

With their bodies so close, could he feel the quiver that went through her? She was turned on, and the longer they stood together, the more the ache of arousal intensified. She was tempted to shut her eyes, as if that would provide some escape, yet she couldn’t look away from the picture they presented. He was broad shouldered and tall, but not enough to loom over her—a good height for kissing without craning her neck or having to stand on her toes. His naturally tan skin was a strong contrast to her pale complexion; their bodies tangled together would be like caramel-swirled cheesecake. Not that she planned to say any of that out loud.

She gave herself a mental shake, trying to regain her composure. Heath was giving her his time and effort to help her develop sensual confidence, and whether she thought this was the way to go about it or not, she owed him her cooperation. She obediently studied her reflection. “I see an attractive—”

“Beautiful.”

Her lips twitched. “I thought this was about what I see.”

“Well, since your vision is obviously fuzzy, I’m helping. Like glasses or contact lenses. Try again.”

“I see a beautiful redhead with light brown eyes—”

“Your eyes are like antique gold, treasure capable of making men lose their minds.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered, but it was difficult not to smile at his extravagant words. Was there any truth to them, or was all of the embellishment strictly to elevate her self-image? She looked hard at the mirror, attempting to view herself the way he described, to block out the chipped nail polish on her toes and the five extra pounds she didn’t need and the way her bun had been knocked crooked from resting her head on the couch.

She reached for the rubber band that held her hair back. “I should have worn my hair down.”

He caught her fingers. “I would normally agree with you—you have great hair—but you have a graceful neck, too.” As he spoke, he trailed his knuckles across the curve of her neck. “Gives a man ideas. About doing this.”

Transfixed, she watched him lower his dark head toward her, anticipation coiling tighter until his teeth grazed an excruciatingly sensitive spot below her jaw. Her legs buckled, and his hands came to her hips, holding her steady. The woman in the mirror was flushed, her lips parted, her hardened nipples visible through the silk of the tank top. The skirt she’d judged as practically conservative earlier in the evening now seemed like a tantalizing length. She couldn’t help imagining Heath dropping his hands to the hem, inching the fabric upward so that his fingers could skate over the delicate flesh of her inner thighs. She trembled. He turned his head, his gaze momentarily meeting hers in their reflection, then he trailed openmouthed kisses down the slope of her neck, stirring pleasure inside her that was almost dizzying in its intensity.

Her eyes slid shut, her total focus on the dual sensations of his mouth hot on her skin and the rock-hard erection pressed against her. She shifted her hips, unable to resist rubbing against him. His grip on her tightened, and he sucked in a breath before nipping at her collarbone. She might not be an experienced seductress, or the type of woman who had leather in her lingerie drawer, but she’d sure as hell aroused Heath.

You and how many other women?

The unwelcome thought chilled some of her ardor. “Wait.” Her eyes opened, and she swayed forward, not quite moving out of his embrace, but no longer subtly rocking against him. It wasn’t that she disapproved of Heath’s affairs; his love life was between him and the women who’d eagerly shared it. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to become one of their number.

His hands fell to his sides, and he rested his forehead lightly on her shoulder, not meeting her gaze in the mirror. She was grateful. She felt too raw to face him just yet.

But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Wh-why did you do that?” Even though she’d asked for his help, she didn’t want those kisses to be an act of charity. “I know we’re pretending to date, but there’s no audience here.”

“The more accustomed you are to me touching you, the more comfortable you’ll be when there is an audience. That’s not the main reason I kissed you, though.”

“No?”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “Selfish hedonist, remember? You felt damn good in my arms. But I’m not so selfish that I don’t realize it’s been a long day for you.” He stepped away. “First a shift at work, then coming over here. I should let you get home to bed.”

Just hearing him say bed caused her to feel achy and overheated. She nodded hastily. “Yeah, I should probably go.” Tonight had given her a lot to think about.

“But I’ll see you Thursday?” he asked. “For lunch?”

She’d almost forgotten about his awards luncheon. Technically, she worked Thursday, but she could go in a couple of hours late. The afternoon crowd was sparse. “Of course. I can meet you there.”

“Wonderful.” He moved to the side, watching as she slid her feet back in her discarded sandals.

“Lots of people from local restaurants will be there,” he added, sounding annoyingly composed. Her senses were still rioting. “Cam will hear all about how I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You have my word, I’ll be very convincing.”

Of that, she had no doubt. For a brief, scorching moment, he’d nearly convinced her that she was the sexiest woman he’d ever held in his arms. Phoebe was beginning to think fooling others wouldn’t be the difficult part. No, the trick would be not letting herself succumb to the illusion.

5

UNDER HEATH’S INFLUENCE, Phoebe was developing a dirty mind. Was it normal for a woman to be turned on while reading a description of the salad course—arugula with goat cheese, candied pecans and honey-drizzled peaches? It was just that, sitting next to Heath, with his arm balanced on her chair and his thumb idly sweeping over the nape of her neck, she was starting to get ideas about drizzling honey over his skin and licking it off. Or sucking it off his sticky-sweet fingers.

Trying to ignore the mild pulse of arousal between her legs, she shifted in her seat and reached for her goblet of ice water. Luncheon seating inside the refurbished 1920s mill had only begun a few moments ago, and most of the chairs at their table were still empty. Heath was discussing restaurant parking issues with a man who sat across from them, and Phoebe hoped she looked politely interested and not like someone mentally undressing her lunch companion. For the awards presentation, Heath was wearing a suit and tie, the expensive material perfectly tailored to show off the muscled body beneath it. He looked powerful. Sexy. She gulped more ice water.

She’d been uncertain what to wear—it was one thing to declare your intention to become a bold seductress, but that proclamation didn’t come with a brand-new wardrobe. Besides, this was a professional daytime event; she would have looked ridiculous in a halter top and microskirt. The violet-blue sheath dress she’d chosen might not be the most daring fashion choice, but it was a flattering color. And she was pleased with her hairstyle. She’d started to leave her hair loose but, recalling the bone-melting pleasure of Heath’s kisses the other night, she’d secured a heavy cascade of curls with a jeweled clip that left one side of her face bare and the slope of her neck exposed. She’d taken care with her makeup, too. Heath’s description of her eyes—treasured antique gold—seemed to warrant more than a cursory brush of the mascara wand.

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