Grill Me, Baby Read Online Free PDF Page B

entertainment, but he oozed too much Latin charm and hot sexuality for his own good—or hers.
    When he bent over to open the oven door, Michaela couldn’t help but notice that his jeans did justice to a tight, muscular butt. Her face flamed with embarrassment when he turned from his bent-over position and caught her ogling the seat of his pants.
    Paolo flashed a knowing grin. “Is it too warm in here? You look flushed, Maki.”
    “It’s the wine.” Michaela looked away from the devilish twinkle in those dark eyes as she opened the top two buttons of her tunic. Paolo’s gaze dropped to the hollow at her throat and her pulse tripped up. An image of him kissing her and unbuttoning the rest of her tunic came out of nowhere. He smiled slowly, the sensual invitation in his eyes sparking sweet heat that spread from her face and neck to a place deep in her belly. Flustered, she looked away and rapidly fanned herself. “Can’t wait to taste the tenderloin,” she said lamely.
    “It’s my mother’s recipe. Mamá’s family in Firenze grills a whole pork loin on their outdoor spit every Sunday afternoon. They stud it with lots of garlic and rosemary, and then baste it with red wine. The best part is the crackling rind.” He pressed his fingertips together and smacked them with a kiss. “¡Delicioso!”
    “Yes, well, it might be delicious.” She tore her gaze away from his sultry mouth and swallowed hard. “But it’s too rich to indulge in on a weekly basis.”
    “That’s silly.” Paolo’s appreciative gaze slid over her figure. “With your shape, you shouldn’t be worrying about rich food, little spaghetti. Women are supposed to have curves.” He moved his hands in an exaggerated hourglass shape.
    You certainly know all about female curves, she thought, recalling his near-naked neighbors as she headed toward the overflowing sink. What a disaster—so different from her habit of washing, drying and putting things away as she used them to avoid a messy overload at the end.
    “I’m going to clear things up a bit,” she said.
    Paolo shook his head of shaggy, black hair. “Don’t. I’ll do that later.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, the heat of his skin sending a tingle straight to her toes as he led her back to the barstool. “Sit down. We’re ready to eat.”
    There it was again, that dazzling, white-toothed smile against dark olive skin, the type of smile any sensible person would do well to ignore, Michaela thought, looking away.
    “Please refill our wine glasses while I serve the gnocchi,” he said.
    Michaela obliged and then sat back and enjoyed having Paolo serve her. She speared a tiny dumpling and tasted it. Rich and creamy, the gnocchi tasted delicious bathed in tomato basil sauce, but it had whole ricotta and egg. She could tell on the first bite. It was possible to achieve a lighter, airy gnocchi without the yolk or ricotta. She would have made it with potato instead of flour and used one egg white.
    “Very nice,” she said politely, liking the hint of nutmeg in the gnocchi.
    “ Gracias .”
    The glazed pork tenderloin emerged from the oven with a perfectly crusted outside and tender and herb-studded inside. Paolo served two thick slices beside a serving of the golden gratin and fragrant haricots verts .
    When he drizzled extra virgin olive oil over the gratin, Michaela switched her plate with his. “No oil for me.”
    “Nonsense, I insist.” Ignoring her resistance, he drizzled the olive oil over the haricots verts as well!
    Michaela made a mental note to discourage his heavy-handed use of olive oil. The additional calories were an unnecessary indulgence.
    Paolo gestured to the feast before them. “ Buen provecho , let’s eat.”
    She wanted to purr with sheer bliss after the first taste of succulent pork, but she didn’t, it would feed his ego too much . “This is lovely.” Damn. It was more than lovely—the pork was tasty and juicy—just like its creator.
    During