Grill Me, Baby Read Online Free PDF Page A

casually tucked into a pair of snug jeans. Glancing down at his feet, she noted he was barefoot. A little too comfy for a business meeting. His black, deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched her checking him out.
    “I can lend you a blouse if you want to change into something less stiff.” He waved his hand at her eloquently.
    She arched a brow. “Oh? You keep women’s clothes here?”
    His dimples deepened. “My mistake, querida . I translated wrong. I should have said shirt. One of my shirts.”
    Michaela’s fingers fiddled with the top button of her tunic chef’s apron. “No, thanks. I’m comfortable.” She squared her shoulders and pulled a paper out of her briefcase. This was a business meeting, nothing more. “Why don’t we get down to business? Here’s the menu that I…”
    “Put that away.” Paolo frowned at the paper she held out. “We’ll look at it later.”
    “Fine.” Michaela stuffed the paper back into her briefcase, shut it with a snap and set it on the floor. Clearly, Paolo wasn’t going to talk business until he was good and ready. The macho Argentine in him probably wanted things done his way and the Italian in him preferred to do it on a full stomach.
    Michaela took a quick inventory of his small living room. She had expected to find a bachelor pad complete with a big, flat-screen TV, black leather couches and the latest issues of Maxim magazines lying on his coffee table, featuring hot girls in bikinis.
    Instead, his apartment was kind of cozy in muted tones of ochre, accented by two brandy colored leather couches, a man-size espresso-colored recliner, and a large coffee table. The butter-colored walls were jammed with autographed photos of a grinning Paolo posing with A-list celebrities. In all the pictures, Paolo’s tanned arm was amiably slung over each celebrity’s shoulders. Michaela’s jaw dropped. Had that many superstars eaten at Ristorante Bella Luna? The Latin lover sure knew how to schmooze.
    “I’ve made a lot of friends here,” he said with a casual nod at the photos.
    “Friends?”
    He flashed a confident grin. “Of course.”
    “Of course,” she repeated, walking toward the couch competing for space beside an upright piano. She noticed the array of thriving herbs in terracotta pots on the shelf under the window. So Paolo had a green thumb and he played the piano. Interesting…
    “Nice place,” she murmured.
    “Thanks. It’s not big, but it suits my needs. Come to the kitchen. I’m making crostini .”
    Michaela followed the tempting aromas into his surprisingly large kitchen.
    “Please sit down. Salud .” He handed her a glass of chilled pinot grigio and clinked it with his. Gesturing toward the cobalt-blue tiled kitchen counter, he pulled out a barstool for her. The counter was set with square straw place mats and sleek white dishes, a clean, simple setting for his meal. Ripe figs rested in a white bowl at the end of the counter.
    Paolo followed her gaze and gestured to the bowl. “Figs are my favorite fruit.” He bared perfect white teeth in a lopsided grin. “I love to pull apart the delicate skin and devour the plump flesh inside.”
    His vivid description made Michaela’s toes curl and she sputtered her sip of wine. Their gazes locked and the smolder in his dark eyes made her sizzle like the hot skillet where he was grilling slices of Tuscan bread. After drizzling them with olive oil, he lovingly rubbed each slice with a split clove of raw garlic and topped it with a thin smear of cannellini paste, followed by chopped, ripe tomatoes. Her gaze was captivated by Paolo’s large, brown hands when he took a sprig of basil from a potted plant on the windowsill, plucked the leaves, and roughly tore them up.
    “Your herbs look so healthy. What’s your secret for growing basil?” she asked.
    “I take the leaves and pinch, pinch, pinch.” He winked. “But always on the bottom.”
    “I’m sure you’re a pro at pinching bottoms,” she