Tanya Michaels - Turning Up The Heat

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.