Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance Read online

  Wordlessly, I stepped back, letting him in. He’d traded his suit coat for a black leather jacket, and it made him look all the more dangerous. Not a danger to my safety, but to my sanity. Callum Bryant was the most desirable man I’d ever laid eyes on and he was right here. Right now. It would be dangerous to let my mind think too far ahead.

  He set a leather bag on a counter and walked further into the kitchen, leaving me following in his wake. For a moment, it was like I didn’t exist. He was in business mode, examining the layout of the kitchen, the appliances, the freezer and storage area. This was Chef Bryant the professional, not the celebrity or the heartthrob.

  Finally he spoke. “Good setup. Good flow. A little crowded over by the freezer, but otherwise … a good, solid layout. How long have you been open?”

  “A little over three months,” I said.

  “And how’s it working out for you?”

  “You tell me,” I said, caught in his mesmerizing gaze.

  “The steak was a perfect medium rare. Good sear on it. The lobster wasn’t bad considering you’re about a thousand kilometers from the nearest bloody ocean.”

  He had a point there. He was leaning against the counter now, his hands folded across his chest. With his leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, he looked more likely to roar off on a motorcycle than to create culinary magic. Yet he was the best in the business.

  “And the desserts?” I asked. “You seemed particularly interested in those.”

  Chef Bryant shrugged. “I was curious about what kind you’d include on the menu.”

  I thought about it and realized that I’d never prepared any desserts for him before. His cooking show was more about entrees and the side dishes that went with them. “So, how’d I do?” Not that I made all the desserts personally, but I was the head chef. I was responsible for everything that left this kitchen.

  “The first one I tried was too rich for my taste,” he said. “Though maybe that’s what they like out here in the middle states.”

  Ignoring the implied dig about the tastebuds of Midwesterners, I asked, “Which one was that?” He just raised an eyebrow, turning the question back to me. Again, I had the sense that I was a student being graded by my professor. “The strawberry savarin.”

  “Exactly. But the cheesecake was excellent. Light, tart, and the cranberry-raspberry compote was well done.”

  “And the vanilla bean crème brûlée?”

  “Perfection,” he said, his eyes sweeping across my body. I’d changed into a fresh shirt, a crisp white button-down, but kept my black skirt, tights, and heels. “Tasted almost as good as you do.”

  A gasp escaped my lips as my heart forgot how to beat. Damn, that wasn’t good. After a long moment, it began again. I think. I wasn’t sure. I was only truly conscious of his sexy words echoing in my ears.

  He grinned. “Good to know that underneath the confident and competent head chef, there’s still a bit of Shy Little Cheyenne left. She was a lot of fun.”

  That made a smile steal onto my face, too. That night had been many things, but fun was at the top of the list. It had been the most incredible experience of my life. And now he was here. And even though it had been over six months since I’d seen him, suddenly it felt like no time at all.

  He held out his arm and I went to him, pressing against his side as he pulled me close. I looked up at him, and he kissed me lightly on the top of my head. “Happy Birthday, love.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “It was in your file at the show,” he said, making me wonder what else had been in my paperwork. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Food was the last thing to on my mind at the moment. But apparently not on his.

  “Let’s see what we can do about that.”.

  * * *

  Watching Chef Bryant cook a meal in my kitchen was a surreal dream come true. He’d picked me up and deposited me on the counter, my legs dangling over the edge. Being carried so easily by him brought back memories, and I had to stop myself from automatically parting my legs, which had been one of his rules the last time we’d been in a kitchen together. One of several sexy rules.

  Now he was sautéing some chicken and mushrooms, and for once my attention was not on his appearance. His every move was precise, measured, and necessary. Not a single motion was wasted. If the cooking shows I normally watched on TV were entertaining, this reached the next level. It was like culinary porn. I could have watched him all night.

  When the chicken was ready, he removed it and the bulk of the mushrooms, leaving a layer of liquid and small mushroom pieces in the pan. When he reached for a flat wooden spatula, I knew he meant to deglaze the pan. For that, he’d need cooking wine or broth.

  “Over in that cabinet is—”

  “I can find my way around any kitchen in the world, love,” he said, and I blushed. And then I shut up and let the world-famous chef cook a meal for me. Which still struck me as completely surreal, but I wasn’t complaining. Far from it.

  Crossing one leg over the other, I watched him finish up the meal, some kind of balsamic chicken dish. And when he was done, he poured the extra sauce over the chicken, mushrooms, and rice. The smell was heavenly and suddenly made me realized that I was hungry for more than just the tantalizing man in front of me.

  The first bite of chicken melted in my mouth. It was delicious. Utterly incredible. He’d divided it up into two bowls, and I had a feeling I’d eat every bit of mine. It was too damn good to let nerves get in the way. Plus, he’d poured us some wine. He hadn’t been kidding about knowing his way around any kitchen. All I’d had to do was to sit there and try not to drool as I watched him work.

  As we ate, we talked about the restaurant. I told him about my trouble getting someone who could work the fish station, and he told me about some of his new ventures. A restaurant in San Francisco he was considering buying. A new show in the works. Yet he still listened to my concerns. He had a few suggestions for how I could help Maria get up to speed.

  My memories of our night together mostly focused on his alpha male side, but I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it when he opened up. When he proved he was a real person, not just an untouchable fantasy.

  “That was wonderful. Thank you,” I said, setting my bowl down. I’d all but licked it clean.

  “I remember how exhausting it can be after a dinner service. Exhilarating but exhausting. I thought you could use a meal.”

  That’s not all I needed, I realized. But I still couldn’t quite get over the fact that he was here. “You didn’t come all this way to cook me a meal.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then why?”

  “Maybe I missed my favorite China doll,” he said, and I blushed again, reflecting on when he’d called me that during the night we’d shared.

  “Maybe,” I said, looking up at him through my lashes, hoping there was more.

  “Or maybe I thought you might need another cooking lesson. But I can see that’s not the case,” he said, and I froze, wondering what he meant by that. “You’ve done well here, so you don’t need another cooking lesson.” He eyed me speculatively before continuing. “But maybe you might want one.”

  He was standing only a foot or two away from me, but it was too far. I reached out and grasped the neckline of his dark shirt. Closing my fingers around it, I gave a little tug.

  He came forward, and my legs parted automatically, giving him space to press up against the counter between my knees. Now his tempting lips were only inches from mine. But before I could allow myself to taste them, I met his piercing eyes straight on. “Maybe I do,” I said. And this time, I didn’t need to tug, his head was already descending toward me. Closing my eyes, I felt his warm lips meet mine as I squeezed my arms and legs around him.

  It was even better than I remembered. Chef Bryant buried one hand in my hair as his mouth ravished my own, his tongue tracing my lips and pushing past them. I clung to him with ever fiber of my being
, and a moment later, he lifted me off the counter, his hand sliding underneath me.

  We didn’t once break contact, not even when I felt the wall behind my back, his hard body pressing me against it. I pulled his head in closer as he deepened the kiss. With my legs around him and my back to the wall, he no longer needed his hands to support me. He grabbed my wrists, sliding them up along the wall, pinning them above me, held in place by his forearm. His free hand smoothed my hair off my neck and his talented lips worked their way along my jawline.

  Damn it felt good. Tilting my head back, my eyes still closed, I moaned. After all this time, after six long months, he was here, and he was everywhere, his arm pinning my hands over my head, his mouth on my neck, his erection pressing against my core. I could feel the heat even through several layers of clothes.

  “Did you miss this?” he murmured, his words muffled by my throat.

  “Oh yes,” I breathed back.

  “Good. You’ll get some more after the cooking lesson.”

  “Mmm …” I moaned. Then my eyes flew open. “Wait, what?”

  He released my hands and eased back, forcing me to bring my legs down.

  “It’s time for your cooking lesson.”

  “But you said I didn’t need one.”

  “I said you might want one. And you agreed.”

  “But … but, why don’t we skip that and just go to my place. It’s about ten miles from here. Or twenty kilometers, as you would say.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe I should give you a metrics lesson instead of a cooking one.”

  “I can do cooking conversions. Just not distance,” I said, grumpy because he was no longer kissing me. “Please … I don’t want a lesson right now. I just want you.”

  “Wow. Perhaps I should stop calling you Shy Little Cheyenne. But okay, we’ll skip the lesson and go straight to the tests.”

  “Tests? What tests?” I suspected that I’d be having trouble following this conversation even if all the blood in my body hadn’t just rushed between my legs. “Why are there tests?”

  “So I’ll know if you deserve a punishment or a reward.”

  Oh god. “What’s the punishment? No wait, what’s the reward?” Was it wrong that I was equally curious about both?

  “You’ll find out,” he said. “But first, I brought something for you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  GINGERLY, I WALKED out into the kitchen wearing an apron. Wearing only an apron. The first time I’d done this, it had led to the most erotic, intimate encounter of my life. This apron was much nicer than the one at television studio. It was made of soft, frilly, lacy white fabric. It was feminine and girly, but didn’t cover very much. The top was cut low across my breasts, and the skirt, which was basically just a half circle of material, barely made it to the tops of my thighs. My backside was completely bare.

  Chef Bryant turned at the sound of my heels clicking on the concrete. His eyes swept up and down me once, then twice. He gave a low whistle. “You look even better than last time.”

  And I was more eager than last time, too. Nervous, but eager. And not an idiot. I’d checked to make sure everyone else was gone before I’d taken the package he’d given me and headed to the staff restroom to change. “Where’d you get the apron?”

  “Lingerie shop back in California. Arabella’s or something like that.”

  “It wouldn’t be very practical for cooking.”

  “It’s not supposed to be. But it sure looks fucking hot on you.”

  I blushed, but then a bizarre thought occurred to me. “Hey, since this is my kitchen this time, shouldn’t you be the one wearing only an apron?”

  He stared at me for a few seconds before throwing his head back and laughing, long and hard. When he finally regained his voice, he managed to say, “And I would, love, but I don’t have the legs for it. Trust me, you look a lot better in it than I would.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. From what I’d seen, he looked good wearing anything. And also wearing nothing. But I couldn’t help grinning at his amusement at the idea.

  “Ready for your first test?”

  “Yes, Chef Bryant.” The words rolled off my tongue so easily it was like I’d been waiting six months to say them again.

  “You remembered,” he said. “Then perhaps you also remember that you trusted me enough to blindfold you before. Do you still?”

  “Yes,” I said again. And I meant it, too, but my voice was a little fainter, a little breathier, as I wondered what he was planning.

  “Good. Hold still.” He moved off and rummaged through his bag, returning a moment later with a black blindfold.

  “No tea towel this time?” I asked, my voice unsteady from a combination of excitement and nerves.

  “This time I’m better prepared. This time you didn’t catch me off guard, stowing away in my kitchen. This time, I came to you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I said, my voice nearly a whisper as the black cloth descended over my eyes.

  He stepped behind me to tie it, and I could almost feel his gaze on my skin. Nothing was covering me back there except the white ties at my waist and my neck.

  His hand stroked up and down my upper back. With my vision obscured, I was more sensitive to his fingertips, to the warmth from his body behind me. His hand brushed lower, and lower, and finally his large palm settled on my ass.

  Leaning in, his whispered in my ear with a low, rumbly voice. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about you like this. Dressed this way. Following my orders.” He squeezed, and I gasped, shivers running up and down my spine that were as much from his sexy words as they were from his touch.

  But then he let go and moved away. When he next spoke, his voice came from in front of me. “Ready for your first test?”

  I nodded and then remembered the proper response. “Yes, Chef Bryant.”

  “Do you know why I’ve blindfolded you?”

  From somewhere deep inside, the more assertive, sexual woman I’d become the last time we were together emerged. “So you can check out my ass without me seeing?”

  He chuckled, and before I could join in, his palm landed squarely on the aforementioned body part.

  Ow! The sharp flash of pain quickly faded as he rubbed and kneaded the spot he’d just spanked. “So that you can use your other senses,” he said, humor evident in his voice. “A good chef has to use far more than her sense of sight and taste.”

  “Yes, Chef Bryant.”

  “And also so I can check out your ass without you seeing,” he said, giving me a final squeeze before moving away. “So here’s the test. I’ll present ten spices for you to identify by smell. A passing grade is seven correct.”

  I started to protest that in the U.S., sixty percent was technically a passing grade. But then I remembered the sharp smack from before and remained quiet. He moved around the kitchen and returned a moment later. “Here’s the first one.”

  He held something under my nose and I inhaled deeply. “Cardamom.”

  “Good,” he said, and he then brought out the next one. I got that one and next three right, but then they got harder.

  “Umm … pepper. No, peppercorns.”

  “What kind of peppercorns?”

  Oh crap. “Umm … white peppercorns?”

  “Nope. Green peppercorns. That’s one wrong.”

  “How can I know what color they are when I’m blindfolded?”

  “Your nose isn’t covered. They smell different. Next one.”

  Damn. I didn’t have any clue what the next one was. I didn’t even have a guess, which I reluctantly admitted to him.

  “Asafoetida powder.” He said, and I heard him snap the lid shut.

  I’d never even heard of that spice, though I had a vague notion it was Indian. “You found that in my kitchen?”

  “No, I brought it with me. That’s five right, two wrong. Three more to go.”

  I got the next one right, curry sea salt, but missed the next two, bot
h of which were completely unfamiliar to me. Six out of ten. It wasn’t fair—if we were using the American system, that’d be a D, not an F.

  “Looks like it’s a punishment then, love.” He moved up behind me, pressing himself against my bare backside. “Are you scared?” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist, leaning his head over my shoulder.

  “No,” I said. “Well, not much. I just—I hate losing.”

  “Most ambitious people do. But sometimes taking your lumps can be fun,” he said, pressing his erection into my lower back as he spoke.

  My hands moved to cover his as he held me around the waist but I said nothing, waiting to hear what the punishment would be.

  “I tell you what, I’ll give you a choice. I’m definitely spanking you, it is your birthday, after all. But you can choose the amount. You either get ten spankings, or you get five … but then you lose the apron.”

  Holy crap. What kind of choice was that? I had no idea what to choose, but I did know that his evil question made my pulse double. Did he never run out of wicked things to do in the kitchen?

  “Decide. Right now,” he said, pressing his knee against the back of my thighs and then sliding it between them. Then he lifted upward, rubbing the rough denim of his jeans against my folds. I melted against him. “Choose,” he growled.

  “Five. No, ten! Ten,” I said.

  “Five it is. And then you’ll take off the apron.”

  “No! I said ten.”

  “You said five first,” he said, amusement in his voice. Dammit, why did it turn me on that I knew he was wearing a smug grin even though I couldn’t see it? The thought of being completely nude in front of him was … well, honestly, I had mixed feelings. Hell no, my brain said. Hell yes, my body said. It was exciting. It was maddening.

  And it made me wonder—why couldn’t I be with a kind, boring man who didn’t give me tests and make me choose punishments? Oh yeah, because those men weren’t Chef Bryant. And I wanted him. I was pretty sure he’d ruined me for kind, boring men who didn’t give me tests and make me choose punishments.