Kiss The Cook Read online

  Kiss The Cook

  Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Between caring for her grandmother and financing her gourmet catering business, vivacious Melanie Gibson is too busy for love especially with Christopher Bishop, the gorgeous financial advisor who is evaluating her business and who is determined to win her heart.

  Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Kiss The Cook

  © 2000

  ***

  Chapter 1

  Melanie Gibson eased her beat-up, rusted-out lime-green Dodge into the circular drive of the soaring office building at One Atlanta Plaza. This was her last delivery for the night and she prayed she'd find an open parking space. She craned her neck, peered around, and sighed. Not a parking spot in sight. A solid row of cars lined both sides of the wide driveway.

  She looked at her watch. Ten past seven. If she didn't deliver the order of food in the next five minutes, the customer wouldn't have to pay for it. That was the guarantee of the Pampered Palate-Gourmet Food To Go.

  "If we don't deliver on time, it's on us," Melanie muttered under her breath. "Since I was clearly insane when I came up with that slogan, I'm making an executive decision to change it tomorrow to, 'You'll get your food when you get it, and be damn glad about it.'"

  She glanced at the large warming container of food in the backseat and made another executive decision: If she pulled around to the back of the building and parked in the lot, she'd never make it in time. Almost two hundred dollars' worth of food. She could not afford to be late. She pulled up alongside a dark blue Mercedes and double-parked.

  I'll only be upstairs for a few minutes, she rationalized, hauling the heavy red-and-white-striped warmer into her arms. Besides, whoever owns the Benz will be here 'til midnight, working overtime to afford it.

  She slammed the car door with a thrust of her hip and awkwardly maneuvered herself and her ungainly package through the revolving door. She'd certainly be glad when she got her bank loan and could buy her catering truck. Then she could use the special delivery entrances and forgo this double-parking/revolving door ordeal.

  When she entered the lobby, a blast of air-conditioning greeted her and she almost groaned with pleasure. Atlanta was into the second week of a record-breaking July heat wave and the Dodge's air-conditioning consisted of rolled-down windows.

  After scribbling her name on the security roster, she rushed into an open elevator car and pushed the button for the thirtieth floor. No way was she going to be late. No way. The elevator zoomed upward, then opened with a quiet ping. Melanie stepped out with a sigh of relief.

  Whew! Made it! She placed the box on the carpet outside the outer glass doors leading to Slickert, Cashman, and Rich, Attorneys at Law. Great name for a bunch of lawyers. Kinda like the way her gynecologist's name was Dr. Seamen. She raised her hand to ring the bell and froze. Leaning forward, she stared through the glass with disbelief. Her stomach fell to her toes.

  The digital clock on the reception desk glowed in the deserted waiting area. It read 7:40.

  She looked at her watch. It still read 7:10.

  "Damn, damn, damn!" She shook her wrist and held the timepiece up to her ear. Nothing. Zip. Nada. She slapped the watch's face. No signs of life. Like the Wicked Witch of the East, her watch was not merely dead, it was really most sincerely dead.

  But how could that be? She'd just bought the blasted thing last month-a twenty-eighth birthday present to herself. The Kmart special had just cost her two hundred dollars in food. Two hundred dollars she couldn't afford to lose.

  She glanced down at the box at her feet and suppressed an urge to kick it. Fifteen gourmet dinners, all the condiments, plates, cutlery-everything for a Pampered Palate meal. And if she announced herself to Slickert, Cashman, and Rich, Attorneys at Law, the meal would be on her.

  She eyed the food, tempted beyond all endurance to gather up the heavy box and slink away, but she knew she couldn't. If she didn't live up to her promises, her fledgling business would suffer. She'd worked too hard and too long to risk her reputation with one of her best customers. Besides, a ravenous Cashman or a starving Slickert might slap her with a lawsuit.

  Nana always said the only way to swallow a bitter pill was to do it quickly and get it over with, so Melanie took a deep breath and rang the bell. She tapped her foot, waiting, mentally cursing Mike, her delivery man. Of course it wasn't Mike's fault he was sick, but having to make this batch of deliveries herself had turned a bad day into the day from hell.

  The day had started when her alarm didn't go off and she woke up forty-five minutes late. Then there was no hot water for her shower. In her haste, she got shampoo in her eye, burned her fingers ironing her shirt, and got a run in her stockings. All before she arrived at work-an hour late.

  Speaking of late, where are these people? She rang the bell again and knocked on the glass door for good measure. Another minute went by with no response.

  Great. They'd probably given up on her and gone home. A weary sigh escaped her. Now what? She wasn't about to leave the food here in the hall. What if they'd all left? If they weren't there to get their food, she was going to bring it home. Why leave it for the mice?

  Hefting the heavy warmer into her arms, she struggled back to the bank of elevators. I'll go down to the lobby and call the lawyers. If they don't answer, I'm outta here. The elevator door shushed open and she shoved in the box with her foot. When she stepped in after it, her heel got caught in the narrow space between the doors. She gave her stuck foot a heave and the heel snapped off cleanly.

  Jeez. Calgon, take me away. Far away. Yanking the broken heel from the crack, she limped onto the elevator and jabbed the L button with her broken shoe. She sagged against the wall, closed her eyes, and wondered what she'd done to bring the wrath of God down on her head. Must be her tendency to speed in the Dodge, she decided. Or maybe the fact that she'd kicked Tony Pasqualio's shin in the third grade had finally come back to haunt her.

  But couldn't those evils be canceled out by some good stuff? She loved animals and kids, and she was kind to senior citizens. I always hold the door open for strangers, I feed stray cats, and I don't cheat on my taxes. She looked down, groaned, and squeezed her eyes back shut. Her toes were sticking out of a gaping hole in her hose. Apparently third-grade shin-kicking carried more weight with higher beings than holding doors open.

  The elevator stopped on the twenty-fifth floor. Melanie peeked her weary eyes open a crack and caught a glimpse of masculine tassel loafers stepping into the elevator. By the time she opened her eyes all the way, the man had turned his back to her and re-pushed the L button.

  Just as well. She was too exhausted to make conversation. Her eyes drifted shut, traveling down the man's back as they did so. Tall. Suit jacket flung over one arm, burgundy leather briefcase. His white dress shirt fitted across broad shoulders. Her gaze dipped lower. Charcoal gray suit pants to match the jacket. Nice butt. She inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of spicy-clean cologne. Whoever he was, he smelled great. A lot better than she did. She smelled like fried chicken and Caesar salad. Her eyes settled again on his backside. Yes, indeed, he had a really great butt.

  * * *

  Christopher Bishop stepped into the elevator, barely noting the fact that another person was in the car, and pushed L with a sigh of relief. He was tired. Bone weary. He glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five. Another fourteen-hour workday. He rolled his aching shoulders and sighed. Since he'd made partner at his accounting firm, his workload had become murderous. He couldn't wait to get home, ditch the suit and tie, get into his sweats, grab a beer, and relax. And food. Something to eat would be real nice.

  While he watched the lit numbers drop, he became aware of an aroma… a mouthwatering, drool-inducing aroma in the elevator. Fried chicken. His nostrils twitched and his stomach let loose a ferocious growl.

  He turned his head and noted the woman leaning against the back wall. Her eyes were closed and she looked about ready to drop. His gaze traveled over her, noting her disheveled reddish-brown hair, wrinkled white man-tailored blouse, short black skirt, and… one shoe? She stood lopsided, but she had great legs. Really great legs, even though her bare toes stuck out of a hole in her hose. The words PAMPERED PALATE were embroidered on the pocket of her shirt and printed in red block letters on the sides of the large box that sat at her feet. He'd obviously found the source of the tantalizing aroma.

  Pampered Palate. Now why did that sound so familiar? He'd probably ordered an eat-it-at-your-desk lunch from them. A frown scrunched his brow. No, it was something else. He searched his mind, but his exhausted brain cells refused to function. It would come to him-eventually.

  The elevator pinged and the door slid open. Almost groaning with relief, Chris hastily crossed the marble-tiled lobby.

  "Thank God it's Friday," he muttered with a weary nod to the security guard. A whole weekend to rest. Sleep late. Read the paper. Do the crossword puzzle. Fifteen minutes. He'd be home in fifteen minutes. His car was right out in front-he'd left it there when he ran back up to his office to pick up some forgotten papers. He pushed his way through the revolving doors, debating whether he wanted to watch the Braves game or a Titanic documentary. The thought had no more than entered his head when he stopped dead.

  Someone-some idiot-had double-parked and blocked him in. He strode over to the offending vehicle and peered in the window of the dilapidated Dodge.

  The car was empty.

  "Terrific. The owner probably abandoned this junk heap." He straightened and blew out a
long breath. "What else can go wrong today?" No sooner had the words passed his lips than a huge raindrop landed smack on his nose.

  Chris closed his eyes and shook his head. "I had to ask."

  * * *

  Lugging the heavy warmer, Melanie limped in one shoe across the lobby to the security desk. The guard dialed Slickert, Cashman, and Rich and handed her the phone. She let it ring twenty times. No answer. She hung up and called the Pampered Palate.

  "Pampered Palate," a gravelly voice said at the other end. "Gourmet To Go. It's on time or it's on us. May I help you?"

  "Nana, it's Melanie. I'm-"

  "Melanie! Thank goodness you called," Sylvia Gibson said. "The lawyers canceled their order not five minutes after you left."

  Melanie huffed out a breath. "Great. I'm here now. What happened?"

  "I don't know. Some emergency. They all had to leave. Looks like we'll be eating chicken for a while."

  "I guess so." Melanie blew her hair out of her eyes. "How are things going there, Nana? Is everything all right?" Melanie worried that her seventy-five-year-old grandmother would overwork herself.

  "Everything's great. Mike's brother came in to help out with the deliveries, and Wendy's manning the front register."

  "Good." She glanced at her watch, forgetting it was broken until she saw it still read 7:10. "I'm leaving now. I'll see you within half an hour."

  "Take your time, dear. All's well here. The evening rush is over."

  Melanie hung up, thanked the guard, and hefted the heavy box into her arms. She limped across the lobby, then struggled with the revolving door, maneuvered herself around, and stepped outside.

  That's when she discovered it was raining.

  Actually, rain could not describe what was coming down. It was pouring. Pouring as if to make amends for a century-long drought. Torrents of water rushed from the canopy protecting the doorway. The rain fell in a veritable sheet, large drops that splashed up a good six inches once they hit the sidewalk.

  "It figures." Of course her umbrella was in the car. Even though the Dodge was close by, Melanie knew she'd be drenched by the time she reached it. Looks like I'll be getting my bath sooner than I wanted.

  She kicked off her one unbroken shoe, tossing it and its heel-less mate into a trash can. Drawing a deep breath, she made a run for it.

  A deluge of stinging rain pelted her, soaking her before she'd taken a dozen steps. She scurried across the cement, intent on reaching the sanctuary of the Dodge. While struggling to balance the box and unlock her door, she heard a car door slam.

  "It's about time you got here," a deep voice said.

  Melanie paused and looked up. A tall man stood under a big black umbrella. He'd obviously come from the Mercedes she'd blocked in. He frowned at her over the roof of the Dodge.

  Uh-oh. Mr. Mercedes looked pretty pissed. She squinted through the wet darkness and shook her streaming hair from her eyes. No smile, bunched-up eyebrows, set jaw, possible teeth grinding. He sounded pissed, too. Hopefully he didn't harbor latent homicidal tendencies. She wished she hadn't abandoned her shoes. The only weapon she had was a fried chicken leg. Well, she'd beat him to death with it if she had to.

  She lifted her chin. "I beg your pardon? Are you speaking to me?"

  "You should beg my pardon. I've been waiting out here for almost fifteen minutes." He peered at her through the rain. "Where I come from, people who double-park run the risk of getting their tires slashed."

  "Must be a lovely neighborhood," she muttered under her breath. Realizing he had a legitimate complaint, she said, "Look, I'm really sorry. I only needed to run upstairs for a minute-"

  "Since I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, that's not really true, is it?"

  Melanie's anger flared to the surface. Well, excuuuuuse me, Mr. Mercedes. She had already apologized. Did this bozo want a blood oath?

  "Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll just get in my car and toddle on home." Suddenly wondering if Mr. Mercedes was angry enough to turn violent, she opened the car door, shoved the box of food across the seat, and slid in, quickly slamming and locking the door. She looked over and was relieved to see him get back into his car.

  Melanie stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. A weak grrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing. She thunked her forehead on the steering wheel.

  "This day has to end… this day has to end… this day has to end!" She turned the key again, but only silence met her ears.

  A tap sounded on the driver's window and Melanie yelped in fright. She looked up and saw a face peering at her from beneath a black umbrella. Touching her palm to her beating heart, she took a deep breath. Mr. Mercedes. She rolled down the window an inch.

  "I don't mean to harp on this," he said in a distinctly sarcastic tone through the crack, "but when you said you were leaving, I sort of assumed you meant sometime tonight."

  Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Mr. Mercedes was a veritable Jerry Seinfeld. Smothering a groan of annoyance, Melanie turned the knob to lower the window farther.

  The knob came off in her palm.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and mentally cursed the Dodge in six languages. Pulling herself together, she looked up at Mr. Mercedes. She couldn't see much through the crack in the window, but what she could see didn't scream serial killer. At least he didn't have CRAZED MURDERER tattooed on his forehead.

  He was just a tired businessman trying to get home from work. Of course, he seemed a tad irritated, but who could blame him? She was a bit out-of-sorts herself. Deciding her choices were to face Mr. Mercedes or rot in the Dodge, she opened the door. He backed up to give her room to get out.

  "Look," Melanie said, standing under his umbrella, trying to keep her impatience under control, "I'm really sorry about this, but now it seems that my car won't…"

  Her voice trailed off as she got her first look at Mr. Mercedes. Good grief. Melanie stared at him and her breath deserted her body in a whoosh. Must be a trick of the light, and the sheen of the rain. No man could be that gorgeous.

  He stood at least six two, and his face looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. All sculpted planes, bedroomy blue eyes, and a firm, square jaw, complete with sexy five o'clock shadow.

  A stark white dress shirt contrasted with his ebony hair and accentuated his broad shoulders. He'd loosened his conservative paisley tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. Dark gray dress pants hugged his lean hips. Her eyes traveled back up his long length. No doubt about it: The good-looks god had clearly favored this guy. He had to be married. She looked at his left hand. No ring. Probably gay.

  "Your car won't what?" he asked, bringing her thoughts back to her present problem.

  Melanie snapped her gaze back up to his face. He was staring at her, frowning, his annoyance evident. "Start," she replied. "My car won't start."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive. I don't know much about cars, but I know when one won't start. It growled at me twice, then died."

  His gaze shifted over her shoulder to look at the Dodge. "No offense, but it looks like it was time for it to go."

  Melanie took immediate umbrage. Nobody insulted her car. She drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches. "Hey, this car is a classic. It's in perfect condition. Almost. It might not be as fancy as your wheels, but it gets me where I've got to go… or at least it did until a few minutes ago."

  "Mind if I give it a try?" he asked. When she hesitated, he looked skyward. "Listen, lady, I'm not about to steal your car, okay? I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm soaked from the knees down, and I'd like to get out of here sometime before midnight. Until that piece of… er… your car gets moved, I'm stuck."

  Sheesh. What a grouch. And at least he was only wet from the knees down. She was soaked through to her skin. "Be my guest," Melanie said, sweeping her hand in a grand gesture toward the driver's seat.

  "Thanks. Here," he said, passing her the umbrella. "Hold this."