LITMIR.BIZ

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      No lie. She closed her eyes, carrying herself off to an erotic place. The red hot pepper steam was seeping into her pores, making her burn everywhere. Suddenly his broad shoulders seemed the full breadth of the tight alley in which they stood. Time and space were squeezed short.

      It took a lot of nerve to raise her gaze to his with cool smoothness. To keep her hand on his arm even as he glanced at it with some surprise. But Grace managed. What she lacked in culinary skills, she made up for in nerve.

      A thread of sexual tension pulled tight between them. She could almost feel him wince from the imaginary tug.

      “Care to join me for a taste?” he asked flirtatiously.

      “All right.”

      He rooted through the cutlery drawer with a low unexpected whistle, pulling out a tablespoon. He held the curved scoop end flush against her nose, as a magician might doing a spoon trick. “You realize you don’t even have eight full place settings?”

      “I do so have them,” she spouted, swatting the arm she’d just caressed.

      “Not a matched set,” he persisted.

      “See if I care.”

      “A challenge I just may accept.” Cupping one hand on her chin, he used the other to dip the spoon into the chili, guide it to her mouth.

      “Blow.”

      “Huh?”

      “Gently,” he encouraged. “On the chili. Don’t want to burn your tongue.”

      Trembling with awareness, she allowed him to guide the spoon between her lips. The chili proved thick and satisfying, though a bit spicier than she was accustomed to. A trace line of perspiration quickly formed on her brow.

      So much for playing it cool.

      He’d set the spoon on the stove top, in no hurry to move his face or hand away from her. “This is a lot of fun,” he murmured, “tormenting you all over again.”

      “You and Michael never did play fair with me,” she complained. “The endless teasing about my hair, my clothes…”

      “You make us sound awful.”

      “Precisely!”

      He massaged her chin with his roughened palm. “Well, shouldn’t hurt to give you a hint. In a way, I’m Michael’s birthday present to you.”

      His tone was unmistakably provocative. If he thought she was still harmless fun, though, he was in for a big surprise himself. She touched his collarbone, skimming a flame tipped fingernail along his throat. Kissing Kyle full on the mouth, without the old excuse of mistletoe was growing just too tempting. “Well, happy birthday to me,” she said huskily. Moving her hand to his neck and she began to pull him down. Their lips brushed in a featherlight fencing.

      Then the back screen door slammed.

      “Grace, what the hell are you doing to him?”

      The pair broke free at the sound of Michael North’s boom.

      Grace turned slowly to confront her brother saucily. “Once you give a birthday present, you have no control over how it’s handled.”

      Michael broke into a wide attractive grin, which greatly resembled his sister’s. They also shared the same sparkling green eyes and reddish brown hair. He was huskier though, and about a foot taller than she. They also parted company in choice of day wear. While Grace dressed the part of the free spirited artist, Michael dressed formally, befitting his position at the family’s accounting firm. Today it was a navy gabardine suit.

      “He wasn’t supposed to tell you anything, brat,” Michael complained. “I wanted the pleasure.”

      “Mike,” Kyle broke in urgently, his eyes darting the room. “What about—”

      Michael gave a glance out the screen. “Right out here on the stoop.”

      Kyle sighed in relief.

      “What’s out on the stoop?” Grace asked coyly.

      “Never you mind.” Michael kept watch out the door, primed to keep his sister at bay. “We’re playing a game.”

      Grace inhaled in anticipation. She had an idea of what could be out there. The gift she’d asked for!

      “So, you give the whole show away?” Michael demanded of his pal.

      “Not yet. But she was just about to pry the answers right out of me. With her wiles. When did Gracie get wiles, Mike?”

      Grace tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. “Fellas, my patience is running thin.”

      “You’re gonna love this, sis. Kyle’s the gift for the girl who has everything.”

      Her heart tripped dangerously. “Meaning?”

      “I’ve hired him to supply you with some sorely needed nutrition, to make sense of this topsy-turvy kitchen.”

      “What?” she asked lethally.

      “That’s right. Kyle’s your personal chef—for three whole months. He came today to give you a sample of his wares.”

      “But I’m rarin’ to start for real immediately,” Kyle said. “It would be best if I came two or three days during the work week. That’ll give me time to shop, prep enough meals to see you through.”

      Michael knew Grace well enough to read disappointment behind her placid expression. “You know you eat poorly. Your fridge rarely has more than a bag of apples and assorted yogurts. And who can even speculate as to what lurks in some of your cupboards. Outdated packages full of MSG, saccharine and assorted dyes.”

      Kyle was here only because Michael hired him.

      Deep inside Grace was mortified, sinking from tempting vamp to an incompetent squirt with much of her personal laundry out to dry.

      Doubtless, they’d mulled over her shortcomings in detail. No court in the land would convict her of killing them both—with the thump of a frying pan!

      But what had she expected? A burst of passion? Admission of a blunder in choosing Libby over her? She scorned her own romantic foolishness.

      “I eat just fine, thanks,” she asserted frostily, thrusting a finger at the fridge. “Right now, there happens to be a large carton of Chinese take-away at the ready! Bet you anything!”

      Michael raked a hand through his thick hair, regretful. “That’s way too impulsive a bet. You’re always too impulsive.”

      “Why would I lie about fried rice?”

      “Sure, the fried rice was there. But I ate it for breakfast, while Kyle got his bearings.”

      “You did that to me, on my birthday?” she asked hollowly.

      Michael cringed. “Sorry.”

      “I think you’ll enjoy the meals once you get used to them—to me,” Kyle inserted hesitantly.

      Was she to be his new source of income, his new career choice? Last Grace heard, Kyle was managing some fancy restaurant in downtown Chicago. What had happened to that job? To his dream of one day owning his own eatery?

      “Is this what you really want to do for a living?” she couldn’t help asking.

      “Don’t be silly,” Michael scoffed, embarrassed.

      Kyle remained polite. “It’s only a sideline I started up in Chicago—”

      “He’s got huge plans,” Michael cut in with cheery faith, again peeking out to the stoop. “He’s back in town at Amelia Anderson’s invite. She’s opened up her home and is offering him a whack at reopening Amelia’s Bistro.”

      “How nice.” Grace sized Kyle up with a pasted smile

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