Teresa Southwick - Secret Ingredient - Love

He blinked and looked at Fran with a dazed expression. “I thought we were pulling it off rather well.” His breathing was ragged and fast.

“Way too well,” she agreed, stepping out of the circle of his arms. “But we have to forget this ever happened. This is a recipe for disaster. Mixing business with—”

“Pleasure is the word you’re looking for,” he supplied.

“Whatever you want to call it, we’re asking for trouble if we don’t stop. We’ve already established that you’re not looking for love and neither am I.”

Finally he said, “I suppose you’re right. This isn’t a good idea.”

Fran felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart. Surely it was for the best? But since when did being right, or doing what was for the best, hurt so much?

www.millsandboon.co.uk

is a native Californian who has recently moved to Texas. Living with her husband of twenty-five years and two handsome sons, she is surrounded by heroes. Reading has been her passion since she was a girl. She couldn’t be more delighted that her dream of writing full-time has come true. Her favorite things include: holding a baby, the fragrance of jasmine, walks on the beach, the patter of rain on the roof and, above all, happy endings. Teresa also writes historical romance novels under the same name.

12 oz lasagna noodles—wide

2 tbsp salad oil

1 ½ tsp salt

¼ tsp pepper

20 oz frozen broccoli (or spinach)

1 lb creamed cottage cheese

¼ cup sour cream

2-3 cups tomato sauce

12 oz mozzarella cheese, grated

Cook noodles according to directions on package. Drain, then toss with oil, salt and pepper until well coated. Cook broccoli according to package directions. Drain. Combine cottage cheese and sour cream and set aside. Arrange enough noodles to cover bottom of an 8"x12" baking dish. Cover with half the broccoli and some tomato sauce, then a layer of mozzarella cheese. Add another layer of noodles, topped with broccoli, tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese, and then add all of the cottage cheese mixture. Top with remaining noodles and a final layer of tomato sauce to cover. Sprinkle with remaining mozzarella cheese. In a preheated 350°F oven, bake for 30 minutes, until cheese melts and is golden on top.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

As she finished cleaning her kitchen, Fran Carlino thought about the nightly phone call and her mother’s final irritating words. Fran wasn’t looking for the way to a man’s heart. She wasn’t looking for a man. Period.

She turned the light out before flopping in her favorite worn chair in her apartment living room. She was tired. It had been a long day. A trained chef, she was finishing up her contract to develop natural baby food for a national company. That was good. Except it meant that she had to line up something else. Soon. She liked what she did, but freelancing was unstable and insecure—especially when it was time to pay bills.

Consulting was only a temporary divergence, a choice she’d made because she’d learned the hard way how tough the food service business was on a woman. In cooking school, she’d been flattered when the best looking guy picked her to romance. But it turned out that he’d been using her to further his career. He’d only wanted the secret ingredient to a recipe of hers that had impressed the teachers. One bruised, battered and filleted heart later, she had vowed that love was an ingredient that had no place in any kitchen. Or in her life.

Her ultimate goal was a restaurant of her own, where she called the shots.

Pulling out the Sunday classifieds, she flipped through, then stopped at the restaurant listings. After spreading the sheets out on the ottoman in front of her, she grabbed her red pen from the glass-topped table beside her. She started marking the want ads, although nothing very exciting was available.

“That’s okay,” she said to herself. “Something will turn up.”

The doorbell rang, startling her. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She stood and hurried to the front door, pulling over her step stool to see out the peephole. The man was tall, dark-haired and carrying no weapons that she could see. Must be a salesman. She decided to answer, because it felt rude to ignore someone even if she wasn’t buying what he was selling. And—her father would have used this as an example of why she needed a man to take care of her—he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses.

She got off her stool and opened the door as wide as the latched chain would let her. In spite of what her father thought, she wasn’t a complete airhead just by virtue of being a woman. “Yes?”

“Fran Carlino?” the stranger asked.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s what all the serial killers say,” she answered. “Or salesmen. I’ll cut to the chase, the part where I tell you I’m not interested in what you’re selling. And I don’t want to waste your time when you could be talking to someone who is interested. Goodbye,” she said, closing the door.

He stuck his foot in the way. “Wait. I’m not a salesman. I have something to give you.”

“Like I said, that’s what they all say.” She met his gaze. “Now let me close my door or I’ll—”

“I’m Alex Marchetti.”

“Good for you.” The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

In her narrowed field of vision, he held out a paper shopping bag from a well-known department store. “My sister, Rosie Schafer, asked me to return these jars.”

Rosie was her bookstore-owner friend who was test-marketing her baby food on her daughter, Stephanie. Her son, Joey, was still nursing. Rosie had mentioned her brothers, but she’d never said a word about how good-looking this one was. Fran was about to remove the chain from her door when that last thought stopped her. The phrase “beware of Greeks bearing gifts” flashed through her mind. Alex was Italian and holding baby food jars, but the same warning applied.

“You didn’t have to bring them to me,” she said. “I told Rosie I’d stop by the store to pick them up.”

“Technically, I haven’t actually given them to you. If you’ll open up, I could do that.”

“Just leave the bag in front of the door,” she said. Fran couldn’t decide whether to curse or bless her father for the years of cynicism conditioning that was now second nature to her. Her own unfortunate experience had reenforced his message, making her wary of men. “I’ll get them later.”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Yes, she thought, but not for the reason he meant.

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” she asked, stalling.

“Instead of trying to tell you, I’ll go straight for a positive ID and show you.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his driver’s license through the small opening.

The Department of Motor Vehicles picture definitely matched him, not to mention that it was better than most people took with a professional photographer. But it was hard to miss with such great raw material. The description said he was six feet two, a hundred and ninety pounds, with dark brown hair and brown eyes.