Kiss the Cook (2 page)

She kicked off her unbroken shoe then tossed
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. As she struggled 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. "Are you speaking to me?"

"You see anyone else standing out here in the rain? I've been waiting
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. Still, she couldn’t deny the guy had a legitimate complaint."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?"

Well, ex-cuuuuuse me, Mr. Mercedes.
She’d apologized. Did this bozo want a blood oath? "Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll just get in my car and head on home." Praying Mr. Mercedes wasn’t some crazy-ass psycho—‘cause it would be exactly her luck to block in an ax murderer-- 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 heaved a sigh of relief when he got back into his car.

She
stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. A weak
grrrrrr
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 thumping heart, she sucked in 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 growl 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.

Clearly h
e was just a tired businessman trying to get home from work. Of course, he seemed 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 good look at Mr. Mercedes. Whoa.
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 and a firm, square jaw complete with sexy five o'clock shadow. She couldn’t tell exactly what color his eyes were, but even glittering with annoyance they were the sort that could reel a woman in like a fish on a hook.

A stark white dr
ess shirt contrasted with his dark hair and accentuated his broad shoulders. He'd loosened his conservative paisley tie and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, exposing muscular forearms. 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 scowling at her. "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. "
Can’t say I’m surprised. It looks like it was time for it to kick the bucket about ten thousand miles ago."

Melanie 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 hesi
tated, he looked skyward. "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."

He slid into the driver's seat and yelped in pain, pushing up his hips as high as the steering wheel would allow.

"Watch out," Melanie warned. "There're a couple of broken springs in the seat
."

He sent her a withering look. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. "You said it growled at you?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Twice. Then it died."

"Well, I'd guess that your battery is dead.
”

“Story of my life tonight,” she mumbled.

“Do you have jumper cables?"

Melanie shook her head. “
'Fraid not."

He muttered something under his breath that Melanie didn't catch, but based on the look on his face, she decided that was probably for the best.

"Maybe the person who's parked in front of you or behind you will show up," she suggested, hoping it was true.

"Based on the day I've had, they've probably gone on vacation and won't be back 'til Christmas." He took a deep br
eath. "I might as well jump you-- "

"Whoa, buddy. Hold it right there." Melanie backed up several steps. "If you touch me, I'll scream. I've got chicken legs and I'm not afraid to use them."

He stared at her as though she was an escapee from the home for the criminally insane. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"If you think I'll stand here and let
you jump me-- "

"Your
car.
I'll use my jumper cables to jump-start your car."

Melanie’s face heated
with embarrassment "Oh. Right. I knew that."

He muttered again and shook his head. "I'll just pop the hood." He slid across the seat, got one leg out of the car and stopped. Melanie stared down at him and waited. He jerked forward a few times but didn't move.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He looked up at her with an unreadable expression. "You said something about broken springs in the seat?"

Melanie nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

"It seems my pants are
snagged."

"Snagged?"

"I'm stuck."

"What do you mean?"

He sent her a potent glare. "Which word are you having trouble with--
I'm
or
stuck?"

"Sheesh. There's no need to be sarcastic."

He wiggled his butt a bit. Melanie could almost hear his teeth grinding together. "Stuck. Caught. Trapped. I can't move."

Melanie shook her head in sympathy. "Bummer. I know just how you feel.
Just last week I ruined a skirt because of those darn springs."

He stuck his hand under himself and yelped. "Jesus! Look at this! I'm bleeding!" He withdrew his hand and held up fingers smeared dark red. "I'll probably get tetanus from this rattletrap."

Melanie bent over, grabbed his hand, and peered at it in the dim interior light. Then she sniffed. "Barbecue sauce."

"Excuse me?"

"That isn't blood. It's barbecue sauce. A stray packet from a previous delivery order, no doubt. Here." She reached under the seat and handed him a wad of paper napkins.

He wipe
d his fingers and gave her a look that was surely meant to incinerate her on the spot. "So, my pants are ripped
and
stained."

"Seems so.
"

"Well that’s just perfect
."

Melanie considered pointing out to him that the barbecue sauce wasn't doing her upholstery any good, but it didn't seem like something he would appreciate hearing.
Instead she said, “I really am sorry about this.”

“
Great,” he said testily. “That’s very helpful. How about giving me a hand in getting out of here? Preferably without opening an artery.”

"Oh. Sure." Melanie rested the umbrella between the open door and the car roof and leaned in across him, trying to see where his pants were caught. "Sorry," she mumbled, pushing her way in. "
Gotta crawl over you. Passenger door doesn't open."

Chris stared down with disbelief at the woman sprawled across his lap. Her short skirt was hiked up and barely covered the essentials. Since her backside was practically in his face, he couldn't help but notice the curve of her hips. She had a great butt. At the moment, however, her long, lean legs
stuck out the open door, dangling in the rain. He prayed none of his coworkers-- or a cop-- happened by. This definitely did not look good.

Something pinched his rear and he sucked in a breath.
“What the hell are you doing to my ass?” he asked, annoyed to be placed in this awkward spot. “This isn’t the time or place to be copping a feel."

She pushed herself up and glared at him. Her head was only inches from his and wit
h the aid of the interior light Chris got his first good look at her face. Her hair was half plastered to her head, half sticking up at crazy angles. She looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electric socket

Her mascara had run, forming black moons under
big, expressive, chocolatey-brown eyes that studied him with clear exasperation. She had creamy skin, and a battalion of pale freckles marched across her straight nose. Two deep dimples winked at him from the sides of her lush mouth. Despite his annoyance, his attention lingered there for several seconds.

Forcing
his gaze away from her plump lips, he noted her shirt was soaking wet and clung to her like a second skin, clearly outlining soft curves encased in a lacy bra. The words
pampered palate
were embroidered on the pocket. Recognition clicked. The woman from the elevator. He breathed in. She smelled like fried chicken.

"Listen, you perve
rt," she said, "I was
not
copping a feel. I was trying to save your pants."

She was breathing hard, and every time she inhaled
her breasts pressed against him and before he could so much as blink his groin tingled and his heart sped up.

He shook his head.
Jesus, he must be losing his mind
.
She looked like a drowned rat and for all he knew she was a lunatic. This woman was nothing but a pain in the ass-- literally. He was simply suffering from malnutrition-induced dementia. Of course he would be affected by a woman who smelled like chicken. It had nothing to do with the curves plastered against him. Not a thing.

Wanting her away from him as soon as possible, he said, "If you'll just move, I'll save my own pants."

She scooted off him, stood and grabbed the umbrella. "Fine. But don't blame me if-- "

The sound of material ripping was unmistakable.

"Uh-oh," she said.

Gritting his teeth, Chris got out of the car. He peered inside and saw a good-sized piece of dark material on the seat. Hoping it wasn't what he suspected, he picked it up, dangling it between his fingers.