Wicked Games
“Screw you, Neville. It’s just dinner.” Though Doug almost had trouble convincing himself that Kinsey didn’t have more on her mind. When he’d picked up his voice mail on the way to the airport earlier today, he’d been surprised to hear her message.
And even more surprised at the invitation.
Her tone and the words she’d chosen made him think she wasn’t just wanting to put food in his stomach. He couldn’t help but remember that breakfast-time kiss they’d shared while vacationing last year on Coconut Caye.
Not to mention the tabletop pole dance he’d watched a very tipsy Kinsey perform, her head thrown back, her blond hair swinging down to the red thong bikini bottom that bared her fantastic ass.
Then there was that night on the veranda when they’d both had too much to drink. A night neither of them had spoken of again. A night he wished he could better recall because he had a feeling he’d forgotten a hell of a lot he needed to know—though the most important part he did remember.
Oh, yeah. He remembered.
He cleared his throat, slumped lower where he sat. “It’s just dinner.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, I’m just making sure you heard me.”
Anton leaned to the side, shifting his weight onto one elbow. “You sure you’re not trying to convince yourself instead?”
“Of what? The fact that Kinsey and I are only friends?” Doug snorted and picked a loose string off the knee of his khaki Dockers. “She knows I don’t want a relationship.”
“Just dinner and…dessert?”
“Dinner.” He shrugged. “Dessert’s up to her.”
“Right. It’s not like you’re on a Kinsey-free diet or anything.”
Doug didn’t say anything because he didn’t know what to say. He liked Kinsey a lot. If he’d been the type to settle down with one woman, she’d be there at the top of his list. Correction. She’d be his list. But he just didn’t see himself ever giving up the freedom that let him live his life without baggage or…honey-do lists.
“Does she know about Denver?” Anton asked.
Doug shook his head. “Dunno. I plan to tell her Sunday night.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean, and then what? Then I go home and sleep for six hours or so, get up and pack.” That was the routine he’d settled into of late. “I’m flying out again first thing Monday morning.”
Anton narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to have to decide about Reuben buying you out, you know. Especially considering how he bailed you out with Media West this afternoon. We can’t afford to screw up this remodeling job.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Doug hated that his late flight had cost him the Media West meeting, hated even more that he would’ve been on time if he hadn’t rescheduled to make one more contact in Denver. A contact that had been a big waste of time.
“Hey. Don’t blow this off,” Anton barked. “You’re lucky Reuben runs with Marcus West’s boys or you’d be eating crow for a very long time to come.”
“As a matter of fact, Reuben and I have tickets to tomorrow night’s Rockets game. A few beers and it’ll all be good.” This decision was the hardest one Doug faced. Not the beer or the basketball, but the firm. He was no closer to making a decision tonight than he had been a month ago.
He and Anton had made their original Neville and Storey plans while at the University of Houston’s College of Architecture, nearly ten years back. The move to Denver felt like an upward move on the career ladder. Doug had been wooed by the biggest boys on the block, and that was something that came along only once in a lifetime.
It was just that selling his share of their architectural firm made him feel as if he were giving up on a dream, as well as selling out and betraying his very best friend. He’d thought the change would bring a sense of calm to his restlessness of late. He’d been wrong.
And that was what was keeping him from signing on the Denver group’s bottom line.
“You’ve got time,” Anton said, pensively studying the leather arm of his chair. “And I’d rather you take it than do the wrong thing.” He pushed to his feet then, shaking off what seemed to be a remnant melancholy. “Now, me? My time’s up. Lauren’s waiting.”
Doug slapped his palms to his thighs and forced himself to follow. “Yeah, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”
“And all I’ve got is a honey to do.”
“POE, I THINK you’re the only one here who doesn’t know Isabel Leighton, a friend from further back than I care to admit. Izzy, this is Annabel Lee, known fondly around the office as Poe.” Sydney made the only introduction necessary, then turned and gave Kinsey a grin of devious proportions. “Kinsey, who everyone knows, is the reason we’re here.”
Where they were was in the kitchen of the suburban home Sydney shared with Ray Coffey. Sydney, Lauren, Izzy and Poe had all come to help Kinsey put together a meal guaranteed to make Doug weep. And weep in a good way, not because her cooking sucked. Since her woefully understocked kitchen sucked, as well, Sydney’s state-of-the-art setup made for a much better classroom.
It was definitely good to see Izzy again. Though Kinsey had lost touch with the other woman once both were busy in school, the two of them had been fast friends as young girls. They’d spent hours running wild at Kinsey’s parents’ home where, for almost twenty years now, Izzy’s uncle Leonard had worked magic with the Grays’ lawn and tropical garden.
“You know this is hopeless, don’t you?” Kinsey really wanted to smack whoever had started the rumor that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. “I burn microwave popcorn. I add too much water to packets of instant cocoa. Carryout was invented for a reason, hello. Doug is not going to want to eat anything that comes out of my kitchen.”
“It won’t be coming out of your kitchen.” Lauren climbed onto the bar stool behind the cooking island. “It’ll be coming out of Sydney’s.”
“With too many cooks spoiling the broth, it looks like,” Kinsey grumbled, glancing at the latest batch of hovering fairy godmothers. Calm. Collected. Ohhmmm. Why had she let herself be talked into such a ridiculous idea?
Now it was too late to back out.
She’d canceled the regular Sunday morning breakfast she shared with her parents to get in this quick cooking lesson before tonight’s date. She’d left Doug a message Friday afternoon after the infamous planning luncheon; he’d left her one last night on his way to a basketball game.
But a phone tag relationship was not what she’d been hoping to explore.
“So, what’s on the menu?” Wearing a royal-blue headband to hold back her short chunky dreadlocks bronzed with highlights, Izzy pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. “And do not tell me you’re thinking to fix up anything low or reduced or light. You will not win a man with a woman’s diet. Just ask my Gramma Fred. A man’s hunger has to be fed and fed right.”
Sitting beside Poe on a third bar stool, Kinsey buried her face in her hands. “Why do I sense a disaster rather than a home-cooked meal in the making?”
“Have a little faith here, Kinsey.” Sydney joined Izzy at the refrigerator’s open door. “You know full well Izzy grew up in her grandmother’s restaurant. And Ray hasn’t exactly wasted away since I’ve taken over the cooking, though Patrick’s been doing a lot of it since he’s been home.”
Kinsey sighed, then glanced over at Poe, who shrugged and said, “I’m only here for the show.”
One less pair of hands in the mix, anyway. And since Kinsey planned to do nothing but take notes…“Okay, then. Where do we start?”
“Hmm.” Sydney examined the labels on several packages of butcher-wrapped meat. “I bought pork and lamb and chicken and beef. Whatever you don’t use for Doug, I’ll freeze for Ray. I guess the first thing is to decide what you’re in the mood for, since you’ll be eating it, too.”
“If I’m supposed to eat my own cooking, then the deciding factor is what’s the easiest to fix and the hardest to screw up?” Sad, but true.
“No. The deciding factor is what you want your cooking to say.” At the sound of Patrick Coffey’s voice, five pairs of female eyes turned toward the doorway where he stood.
His hands hooked into the frame overhead, he leaned forward, his long, lanky body covered by nothing but a pair of low-rise jeans and a ribbed white tank-style T-shirt that showed off an intricately woven tattoo ringing the bulge of his right biceps.
His hair hung in dark twisted strands to his shoulders, hiding much of his face in the shadows. At least until he pushed away from the door frame and entered the room, raking all that hair back into a ponytail he secured haphazardly with a thick red rubber band.
Kinsey released the breath she’d been holding, heard Poe do the same at her side. Having seen him off and on now for over a year, Kinsey still remained clueless how the man managed to inspire equal parts lust and trepidation. But he did.
She supposed it was a normal reaction to his circumstances. After all, how many guys returned home after being held hostage for three years by Caribbean pirates?
Naturally, her heart pitter-pattered in a fan-to-movie-star response—one no more meaningful than the patter inspired by Brad Pitt, or the pitter brought on by George Clooney.
Now the trepidation…that part was real. That pirate thing was too bizarre to let go.
Totally unaffected by Patrick’s arrival, Sydney moved away from the refrigerator with a chicken in her hand. She tossed it to Patrick, who caught it without even looking her way.
“Believe it or not, ladies,” Sydney began, “here is the member of the Coffey household best suited to showing Kinsey how to turn a meal into magic.”
2
KINSEY TOOK THE CHICKEN from the oven and moved the golden-skinned bird from roasting pan to platter. She whisked butter along with half the papaya glaze she’d prepared earlier into the drippings, the way Patrick had instructed her to do.
He’d sent her home after this morning’s cooking lesson with the chicken marinating in orange juice, shallots and brown sugar. All she’d had to do was strain the marinade into the food processor she’d borrowed from Sydney, add the Dijon mustard, papaya, garlic and additional seasonings Patrick had measured out, and baste the bird as it cooked.
So far, so good. Nothing burned, nothing broken, nothing blown to bits. Her kitchen had never smelled this mouthwateringly yummy. If the food tasted half as good, well, she’d have to confess to Doug that she was really a terrible cook and tonight’s dinner was a fluke.
Or, she supposed, such a confession could wait.
Sydney had even offered Kinsey use of the baking and serving dishes. Expert cook that she was not, she’d had nothing appropriate in which to roast and serve Patrick’s Caribbean Chicken with Orange Papaya Glaze.
Her cooking instructor had been equally as generous as his soon-to-be sister-in-law. He’d proposed he come do the cooking for her. Kinsey had declined. Cooking for one man while using another’s recipe was bad enough.
But cooking for one man while another worked to seduce her didn’t seem exactly copacetic.
Patrick’s equal-opportunity flirtation was flattering, but meaningless ten minutes later—a fact to which both Izzy and Poe could attest. Both women had fallen victim to his mercurial moods this morning, one that had him walking out of the kitchen in the middle of a lively conversation.
Still, Kinsey had left the Coffey home feeling much more competent than she had when she’d let her girlfriends talk her into this plan for entrapment. Okay, she admitted, she hadn’t actually been talked into anything. She’d pretty much been her own ringleader.
And now the circus was coming to town…no, wait. That was ringmaster. Whatever.
The wine was chilled, the salad freshly tossed, the chicken warm and ready to serve, and the table set with dishes, flatware and linen that actually were her very own. She might not be able to cook, but she knew how to dress a table as well as she knew how to dress herself.
Tonight she wore a brand-new outfit, one she’d just added to the gROWL gIRL partywear line—a pair of low-rise leisure pants with a fold-over waistband and a matching knit camisole covered with a fluttery chiffon top.
Both the pants and the cami were white, a brave decision if she did say so herself, but the red-and-zebra stripes of the sheer topper made it too much fun to resist. And besides, she looked damn good in the black, white and red combination.
Or so said her fashion diva’s sixth sense.
Now, as long as she didn’t start blabbering incessantly, or throw up due to the unexpected nerves turning her stomach inside out, and as long as Doug arrived before the chicken cooled completely, leaving her with too much leftover food for one person to eat in a lifetime—
The doorbell chimed.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, looked up again…and realized she had totally forgotten dessert. Oh, yes. Definitely the start of a great impression. She should’ve gone with her original instinct not to mess with what was a really good friendship. This trap-setting idea was going to backfire with all sorts of regrets.
The doorbell chimed again, and Kinsey found herself wearing a wry smile. Doug never rang twice; he simply walked in with a loud “Yo!” and called out her name. That told her he shared her expectant sense of this evening being different than any they’d spent together in the past.
And since that was causing butterfly fountains to bubble in her stomach, she gave up worrying that a lack of dessert meant she’d flubbed the entire evening, and reached for calm, cool and collected. Ohhmmm.
But when she opened her front door and saw him standing in the porch’s yellowed light, she didn’t know how to react, because the idea of never seeing him again hit her like a blow to the center of her chest.
When had he become so integral to her life, and when had she started taking him for granted?
She released the lock on the glass storm door and pushed it open, nearly breathless when she said, “Hi.”
The smile he’d originally given her deepened, his eyes going wide and his brows coming down as he took her in from head to toe. “Wow. And hi yourself.”
His “wow” made all the effort she’d taken with her appearance worth every minute of the tweaking spent on hair and makeup. “Back atcha.” Back atcha in a very big way.
He looked better than she remembered, and she had to wonder if she’d really ever noticed him before, or if she was simply caught up in the moment.
He wore charcoal-gray trousers and a heather-green sweater over a pale yellow dress shirt. He walked into her living room, and she turned to close the door, leaning back against it and thinking she’d never seen a guy’s backside look better than Doug Storey’s did in gray wool.
He stopped, one hand shoved into a pocket, the other holding a bottle of wine, and turned back, smiling. “It smells great in here. You should’ve told me you cooked. I would’ve been over more often.”
She thought about telling him the truth regarding her culinary skills, but went with a different truth instead. “You would’ve been welcome. You are welcome. Anytime. I just need advance warning if you expect food.”
He laughed at that. “Why’s that?”
“Well, actually, I don’t cook.” She considered the fit of his clothes one last time, then pushed away from the door and led him into the kitchen, her slides clicking from hardwood floor to rich Italian tile. “I don’t cook at all.”
“Hmm. Not sure if I should be honored here or worried.” His chuckle followed close on her heels.
The thrill of the chase was on. “Honored, of course. No need to worry. This recipe came straight from Sydney’s kitchen.”
Doug set the bottle of pinot noir on the kitchen island, leaned a hip on the edge and crossed his arms. “Now that you mention it, I have noticed Ray getting a little pudgy around the middle. I guess that’s a good sign.”
Kinsey decided it was best not to let him know who exactly was cooking these days in the Coffey household. She handed him the corkscrew she’d rummaged in her utensil drawer earlier to find. “Like I said. No worries. I happen to have this meal totally under control.”
One of Doug’s brows lifted sharply as he opened the wine and poured them each a glass. He drank, his eyes never leaving hers even after he’d returned the stemware to the island’s tiled surface. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, darlin’, but I’m wondering if you might need to check whatever it is boiling away in that pot.”
“Oh, shoot.” Kinsey cut off the gas flame, took up the wooden spoon and stirred furiously. The glaze still smelled incredible, thank goodness. She sighed deeply, glanced back at Doug. “Thanks. You saved the day.”
He shrugged, winked. “Saved dinner, at least.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” But she did want to be sure the glaze hadn’t burned before she served it with the chicken. She dipped the tip of a clean spoon into the sweet sauce, blew across the surface to cool it down, then taste-tested.
“Mmm.” She smacked her lips, then did so again, knowing Doug watched. “Okay. You’re right. You saved dinner.”
“Well, then?” Doug tapped his lower lip, signaling that he wanted a taste, too. “How ’bout a little hero respect here?”
Rolling her eyes, Kinsey grabbed another spoon. “I guess this goes to prove that cooking is probably one thing I should learn to do.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, then added, “Other than the obvious need to avoid burning down the house,” as she offered him the tip of the spoon, and he took hold of her wrist.
His hand was so large around her much smaller one, and he never broke eye contact as he opened his mouth. Watching his lips close over the spoon, watching his tongue flick at a smudge of glaze left on his lips, she remembered the intimacy of the kisses they’d shared during last summer’s vacation.
She wondered if she’d be able to find her voice to answer his question. “Oh, something about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach,” she finally said.
He licked his lips and murmured his approval of the orange and papaya, breaking into a grin that pulled deeply at the dimples in his cheeks. His smile grew wider as he carefully timed his reply. “You’re catering to the wrong organ, darlin’. Trust me on that one.”
And with that, he kissed her. Still holding her wrist, he moved his other hand to the small of her back and pulled her into his body. He tasted of sweet citrus and the even sweeter promise of sex, and Kinsey melted.
She felt the beat of her pulse in the grasp of Doug’s fingers, felt the beat of his heart beneath the palm she’d pressed to the center of his chest. His lips parted and she opened her mouth, smiling as his tongue slipped deftly inside.
So warm, so demanding, so confident. So sure of what he wanted, and of being able to give her all that her body desired. When he slid his hand up her spine, when he threaded his fingers into her hair, when he cupped the back of her head to hold her still, she chuckled because she couldn’t help it.
He felt so good. He made her feel so good, even when way too soon he began to slow what had started as a fast and furious and very sudden need to connect. Damn the man for having the restraint she was struggling to find.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked when he finally put enough space between their mouths to talk.
“Nothing.” She shook her head but found it hard to push him away. She had to, for the food and for her plan to have time to come together. “Just a happy laugh. You make me feel nice.”
“You make me feel even better, especially since you’re not laughing at my technique.” He shoved a hand through his hair, which had grown overly long and rakish. “A guy can take only so much rejection in one day.”
He let go of her wrist and stepped back, his dejection replacing the thrill of seconds before. But just as quickly, the emotion was gone, and Kinsey wondered if she’d imagined it all along. “Why? What happened?”
He leaned against the countertop and snitched a piece of carrot from her chopping block. “A late flight and a missed meeting earned me a hell of a reaming from Anton, not to mention a butt-chewing by my client.”
“A late flight is hardly your fault,” she said with a frown, feeling strangely protective instincts kick in. As if Doug needed her to watch his back.
“No, but I cut it too close. I knew what time I needed to be back here and…” He shrugged, grabbed another slice of carrot from the bowl she held. “I got greedy, I guess. Trying to make one more contact in Denver while I was there.”
Kinsey paused to consider the best answer to give, not knowing if he was looking for support or censure. “So you’ve got a go-getter sort of work ethic. You can hardly be faulted for that.”
Doug grimaced as he finished the carrot. “Except there are times it seems more of a fault than an asset.”
“Like now?” she asked, sensing he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have made what he considered an error in judgment.
He nodded. “Reuben Bettis, one of the junior execs…Reuben covered my ass on this end, but it’s really bad career karma to forget where you came from. Or the people who helped get you to where you are.”
She handed him the salad bowl and the cruet of dressing, wondering if this Reuben Bettis was the one wanting to buy out Doug’s part of the architectural firm. “But that isn’t what you were doing.”
Doug took both to the table, giving her a smile on his return. “When you say that it sounds much more convincing than when I tell myself the same thing.”
“So you were forgetting?” she asked, offering him a fork and carving knife.
“I don’t want to think so.” He set about cutting off thin slices from the chicken breast and arranging them on the platter. “Media West is one of my original clients. I guess having Marcus West, not to mention Anton, question my commitment and loyalty doesn’t sit well.”
Lifting her wineglass, Kinsey swirled the liquid inside. How real was the possibility that Doug was actually more torn about this move and the impending sale of his investment in Neville and Storey than she’d been led to believe?
Lauren had made it seem as if Doug was only waiting to sign, seal and deliver the deal. But now…now Kinsey wasn’t so sure the other woman knew what she was talking about.
Kinsey sipped her wine, looking over the upraised glass at Doug, wondering what facets of his personality she might have missed during the time they’d spent together. Commitment and loyalty had never been an issue. She was surprised anyone who knew him would question either, especially Anton, who knew Doug so well.
“What’re you looking at?” he asked, refilling both their glasses once she’d set hers beside his on the island.
“Just thinking, wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“What it will be like not to have you around.”
A look of guilty relief crossed his face. “How did you find out?”
“From Lauren.”
“I was planning to tell you tonight.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously. I was.” She could hear the guilt again, this time with added regret. “It’s just tough breaking that sort of news to good friends.”
Friends. Well, that was all they were, wasn’t it? So she shouldn’t be feeling the sadness that had her eyes welling. “It’s tougher having to hear it. Especially secondhand.”
“I am sorry, Kinsey.”
“For what? Not telling me yourself? Or for going off and leaving me?” When he didn’t say anything, she decided to let it go. She didn’t want to spend their time together in an inconsolable, emotional state. And something in his pained expression told her she wouldn’t like hearing what it was he had to say.
Blinking away the threat of tears, she carried her wine and the platter of chicken to the table. When she returned for the glaze, she found Doug pouring it into the gravy boat she’d borrowed from Sydney, and her heart tripped at how at home in her kitchen he seemed.