Grill Me, Baby (35 page)

Bolstered by their support, Michaela stiffened her spine and persevered. “Welcome to
The Pleasure Palate
,
Hugo
,” she said, her voice strangled as she forced the words through tightly clamped lips. 

“Hugo couldn’t be here, so I’m taking his place.” Paolo reached her side with an apologetic smile.

“Perfect,” Michaela said, her hurt turning into anger. He would not leave the set unscathed, she vowed silently. She would make a mockery of his deceit. “And what is your name?” 

“You know my name, Maki.”

“Yes, but please be courteous enough to introduce yourself. This is
my
segment and there is a nice family in the front row, the Willoughbys, who just sat down and did not see your show being taped.” From the corner of her eye, Michaela could see her family looking aghast as the drama unfolded. “Maybe there are others. Is there anyone here who does not know this man?” 

Some raised their hands, prompting Paolo to say, “My name is Paolo Santos.” And just like that Paolo’s usual self-confidence crumbled.

Michaela looked out at the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery has been solved,” she announced. “Our guest’s last name is St. Paul, which translates to Paolo Santos in Spanish. How clever of him.”

“You don’t understand. I never—” Paolo began.

Who did he think he was fooling? The fake name was too much of a coincidence. “Let’s not waste time with explanations. We have work to do.”

Paolo shook his head and whispered, “Maki, you need to know that—”

Michaela held up her hand. “Save it. Everyone is here to learn to cook light, am I right?” she asked the audience.

A round of applause answered her question.

Paolo gave her an encouraging smile. “Let’s get started then,” he said cheerfully.

Michaela strove to keep her cool, but she was dying inside. “Miami is an international hub of many different foods and my recipes are quite diverse.” She continued to force an even tone for her audience. Shawn, the director was waving at her to look at the camera, so she faced it head on. 

“Don’t keep us in the dark any longer,” Paolo said with a wink at the audience. “What are you making? I can’t wait to try it.”

He had the nerve to wink and make light of this? Couldn’t he feel her anguish and rage beneath her forced calm? Lies, blatant lies, that’s what he’d been telling her all along. Suddenly, Michaela wished she could stick an apple in the deceitful swine’s mouth and shut him up. She kept her gaze focused on the camera lens. “Chef Santos likes to cook lard-ridden foods and he probably would prefer for me to roast a pig. However, I’ll start by making crisp and tasty mahi croquettes instead.” 

“Mahi croquettes? Interesting.” 

“Mahi croquettes go beautifully served with citrus cilantro salsa.” Michaela turned away from him to face the camera. “The freshest ingredients make for delicious croquettes.” 

“They may be delicious, but how are they lo-cal?” Paolo’s brow knitted together. “What about the béchamel sauce that goes in the filling?” 

“There’s no béchamel in my recipe,” she replied with feigned patience even though she wanted to scream, “Quit interrupting me!” 

“Can’t wait to taste them. Are you going to fry the croquettes or do you have something else up your sleeve?” he inquired.

The lying hypocrite!
He actually looked interested in her recipe. Did he really think his teasing would draw her into banter? Michaela refused to look at him as she said, “I will pan fry them quickly in a skillet coated with cooking spray and then bake them in the oven.” She held up an egg. “First you must separate the yolk and only use the egg white for less calories and fat.”

“What’s wrong with a little yolk, eh, Maki? My Italian Nonna says that an egg without the yolk is like a day without sunshine. And she’s right. Is it really necessary to skimp on the yolks?” 

“I believe in moderation—a quality that is alien to your cooking,” she said through tight lips. On top of everything else, Paolo was challenging her on her own show.
Unbelievable!
 

Paolo gave a slight bow of concession. “Show us what you can create without the yolk, Chef Willoughby. I am at your mercy.” He raised his hands in defeat, drawing chuckles from the audience. 

You have no idea how much you are at my mercy,
she thought balefully
.
Mr. Show-Off was so damned cocky he was sure he could win her—and the audience—over with his charm. Well, the egomaniac traitor was in for a rude awakening. Once she finished with Paolo, he would think twice before ever playing with her emotions and elbowing in on her show.

She looked at the camera and smiled. “As I was saying, I only use the egg white in this recipe.” 

Paolo shrugged and gave the audience a bemused grin. “Good thing my Nonna isn’t here or we’d both be mincemeat.”

The audience burst into laughter. 

Enough was enough. Paolo was taking over her show…just like she feared he would. Michaela’s wrath suddenly erupted like lava, fiery and unstoppable. 

“Well, then we’ll just have to please Nonna, won’t we? Since you both love the yolk so much, here’s the whole egg!” she cried, cracking it on Paolo’s head. Her action was met by surprised gasps from the audience. Michaela relished the sight of raw egg dripping down the side of Paolo’s tightly clenched jaw. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, shocked. 

“You’ve been egging me on since you barged in on my show. Now you’re the one who’s walking out of here with egg on your face.” She gave him a snarky look. “Forget the mahi. Since you’re the biggest ham I know,
you’ll
be the filling. I’m making ham croquettes today!”

Paolo leaned down and hissed, “Stop it, Maki, we’re on TV! It’s not what you think.” 

Ted’s frantic voice thundered in her ear. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

Michaela yanked the earpiece out and flung it on the counter, ignoring Shawn as he wildly waved at her. Her chances at winning were already ruined, but she wouldn't stop until she taught Paolo a lesson he’d never forget. 

“Next some salt and pepper,” she said, throwing a handful of each over Paolo’s head. 

“Argh,” Paolo roared and started to cough. The muscles in his throat bulged as the audience laughed. 

“Let’s not forget the breadcrumbs. I use Panko. The Japanese breadcrumbs produce a lighter, crispier coating that I adore.” She grabbed a box of Panko and dumped the entire contents over Paolo’s head, drawing more loud guffaws from the audience.

Purple-faced, Paolo glared at her, but he remained rigid with self-control.

“Last of all, we cook it. Usually, ham croquettes are fried, but in this case, we will bake them. Chef Santos, will you please open the oven door?” she asked with sweet malice, clutching a wooden spatula.

When he leaned forward to open it, Michaela whacked his tight behind with the wooden spatula. Satisfied when it landed with a loud thwacking sound, she gave a malevolent laugh.

Covered in egg, salt and Panko, Paolo straightened with a cunning glint in his eyes. “Don’t think that will go unheeded, my dear,” he said in a deceptively calm voice. He slowly advanced toward her. “My name might be Santos, but we both know I am no saint, even though you’re determined to make me a martyr today.” 

Michaela ran toward the counter. In two long strides, Paolo joined her and stood directly behind her. He placed his large hands on either side of the cooking space, anchoring her before him. Michaela pushed back forcefully, trying to dislodge him, but to her growing alarm, Paolo wouldn’t budge. With dismay, she looked over her shoulder, expecting to find him glowering at her, but instead the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a triumphant smile. The cad! He was delighted he had her trapped with his big, muscular body. Michaela tried elbowing him sharply, but he was prepared already and wrapped his arms around her while his face descended and his mouth hovered close to her ear.

“Maki, I have endured a lot for you today,” he said softly, his warm breath fanning her ear. The microphone must have picked it up because the audience clapped in agreement.

“I’m not finished with you yet!” she warned, drawing lively laughter from the audience. In spite of her bravado, it was hard to act ominous when Paolo held her anchored to the counter, his body pressed against her intimately. “Didn’t you have enough airtime of your own,
Hugo
?”

“I did not write that email pretending to be Hugo,” Paolo said emphatically.

“Oh, really? Then who did, Mr. Hurly Burly?” 

“Claudia’s friend Juan wrote it, but at the last minute, he couldn’t be here. I didn’t want you to be without a contestant, so I came in his place. I did it to save your show.” 

Michaela desperately wanted to believe Paolo, but she didn’t trust him anymore—and she refused to set herself up for more heartbreak. “How chivalrous of you,” she said sarcastically. 

“I am telling you the truth,” he growled.

Someone from the audience who sounded like Dad shouted, “Shut up and kiss her, Hugo!” Wild applause followed his suggestion.

Michaela wriggled furiously, trying to dislodge Paolo’s hold on her. “Let go of me, you…you attention-hogger!”

“Not until you listen to what I have to say…all of it,” he said, holding her body snugly against his. “Today, I allowed you to turn me into a human croquette only because I understood why you did it,
querida
. But I’m surprised and disappointed that you would believe I would ever be capable of hurting you. I love you, Maki,” he said gruffly. 

Michaela froze, not knowing what to say or do as she stared at him, stunned and speechless. He had just declared his love to her in front of a rowdy audience—after she had publicly humiliated him! More than anything in the world, she wanted to believe him. 

Paolo reached into his jean’s pocket and held a big diamond ring set in an antique platinum setting in front of her face. “Will you marry me,
amor
?” 

“Say yes!” a guy bellowed from the audience, prompting several more to join him until a loud chant formed. “Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!”

Wide-eyed with awe, Michaela stared into Paolo’s soulful eyes and saw the sincerity in them. Her heart clenched with regret that she had believed the worst about him, going ballistic on him before he could explain himself. He had once told her, “
My wife and children will always come first and I’ll expect the same from the girl I marry.”
She wanted nothing more than to be that girl—his girl.

With shaky hands, she took the ring from Paolo and put it on her finger.

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly.

“Louder!” yelled someone who sounded a lot like Aunt Magda. “We can’t hear you!”

Boisterous applause erupted when Michaela yelled back, “I said yes!” before returning her undivided attention to Paolo. “Yes, yes, yes!” 

Paolo’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do you remember that I once told you I would walk through fire for you?”

Wiping at the happy tears running down her face, Michaela nodded.

“Grill me, baby,” Paolo said with such fierce love that her heart flooded with joy.

Epilogue

Three months later in Tuscany, Italy…

“Of course I said yes,” Michaela murmured, running her fingers through Paolo’s mussed-up locks as she lay tucked into his side. They had spent the whole day lounging in a nineteenth century bed in the Italian villa Paolo had rented for their honeymoon in Tuscany. Golden sunlight streamed in through the ancient window of the two-hundred-year-old stone house, warming their bodies. “How could I resist you, Hugo, when you tolerated my abuse like a stoic gladiator, letting me pelt you with food and whack you with a wooden spoon in front of all those men?”

“My ego still hasn’t forgotten that, Irina,” he said wryly, tapping her bottom. “I’m amazed that Mr. Blumenthal wanted us to do a reality show afterward. He kept saying it would be like Lucy and Ricky in the cooking ring.” Paolo flashed a sardonic grin. 

“I know, but I’m not too sure about putting Hugo and Irina together in front of a camera again.” Michaela shook her head at the memory. “Frankly, after all the anxiety I went through in the dressing room before the taping, I’d rather work on getting my cookbook published. And I also need time to develop my love bite business.” Ever since Bernice’s party for Palmentieri, Michaela had received a deluge of orders for the
macarons
. “I’ll be happy to make lots of guest appearances on
Miami Spice
and let you be top chef. You are a natural before the camera.” She started to giggle. “I can’t believe you asked me to marry you on TV, covered in egg and Panko!”

“
Sí
, and it was no gimmick. I had intended to ask you to marry me while my mother was visiting so we could all celebrate. But I knew I had to convince you.”

Michaela smiled, remembering how he’d told her about borrowing his mother’s ring. Her heart warmed at the memory of how he’d gone on her show to help her, not sabotage her efforts. “When I looked in your eyes and saw the naked truth in them, my heart melted on the spot.” She grinned up at him. “I knew where we would be headed as soon as the show was over.”

“Where was that,
querida
?” he prompted, dimples deepening.

“To your bed and into your heart—now and forever,” Michaela said, gazing into her husband’s midnight eyes. 

“Shall we get started doing what chefs do best?” he asked slyly.

“And what is that, my love?” Michaela drawled. Desire welled up inside her as Paolo’s skilled hands began a leisurely caress of her body.

“How about we put a little bun in the oven? Eh, Maki?”

“I’m game if you are.” Michaela blissfully welcomed the weight of Paolo’s strong body as he rolled on top of hers. Winding her arms around his neck, she drank in his passionate kisses and held tight to the man she loved. 

About the Author

Bestselling author Sophia Knightly loves to cook up hot romance and delicious humor in her feel-good stories. Whether it’s romantic suspense or romantic comedy, her books are fun and sexy contemporary romances. A two-time Maggie Award finalist, she believes in love-at-first sight and happy endings, and she always enjoys a good laugh. When not writing or reading, she finds pleasure in walking the beach, exploring museums, going to the theatre, enjoying good food, and watching movies. One of her favorite pastimes remains simply watching people, especially those in love!