IF YOU CAN'T STAND THE HEAT
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Derek Dunne is a Cordon Bleu-trained food critic for the prestigious New York Monitor, whose scathing review of a popular Italian bistro has driven away all but the most loyal neighborhood patrons.
Lucrezia Serafina DiCicco is a clumsy
business school drop-out, working as a chef and scrambling to keep her family's
restaurant afloat, after her father develops diabetes and is banned from his
kitchen for his own good.
Now, with The Monitor
folding, Derek is searching for his next career path and longing to get back to
his first love—cooking—while Lu is desperate for an influx of cash to save the
struggling restaurant…even as her father puts his foot down about non-family
employees.
Derek and Lu embark on a
marriage of inconvenience to save the restaurant. But can Lu ever really trust
the man who nearly destroyed her family, once noted her initials spelled “LSD,”
and her food was like a “bad trip?”
Or will it be their hearts on
the chopping block?
EXCERPT
She brushed her hands on her apron and
straightened her shoulders as she strode toward the bar. Not in the mood. So not in the mood. As if the hunky stranger
had come here looking for a
hook-up, rather than to send back his too-salty pasta fagiole or rubbery
calamari or register some
other grievance.
She looked a fright besides.
The moon might resemble a pizza pie but amore
did not live anywhere in the restaurant anymore, except in its name. As that bastard Derek Dunne had pointed out in his review. Vicious…but
truthful, she had to admit.
As she approached the customer, she
positioned herself with her back to the mirror over the bar, so she didn’t have to gaze at her sorry reflection. At
least no one else was at the bar to gawk
at her frazzled condition.
The man swirled
a pool of condensation on the burled
wood with his index finger.
Strong hands. No rings, she noted.
Up close and personal, his looks were even more devastating, the essence of hearty masculinity
radiating raw, contained power, his body taut with muscles beneath a
finely-tailored suit that stretched across broad shoulders, his blue eyes
intense enough to put her in a near trance. She gazed at his long, blunt fingers playing restlessly
on the bar and imagined him sliding them across her heated flesh.
Making her wet. Thrusting inside
her. His thumb stroking
her clit until
it swelled, the pleasure so unbearable he had her writhing with passion, screaming for release.
Holy cannoli! What the heck was wrong
with her? Was she that desperate? Yeah, probably.
And yeah, he looked that good. Good enough to eat. With or without
whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Oh, yeah. That image
helped cool down her roaring libido. Not.
Suppressing a
shiver, she cleared her throat. “I’m Lu DiCicco. You wanted to see me?
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