Hot Pursuit Read Free Page A

cool gray eyes flickered over her bandaged knee again. “Sounds ugly. Sure you’re okay?”
    â€œFour stitches, but it could have been worse.” The lasagna smell was killing her, but she tried to look nonchalant while managing not to trip over her climbing bag.
    Her neighbor ran strong, calloused fingers thoughtfully down the rough plank. “Does that kind of thing happen a lot when you’re climbing?”
    â€œWhat kind of thing?”
    â€œBolts pulling out. Free fall.”
    Only dogged pride kept Taylor on her feet, as exhaustion warred with pain from the stitches. “I don’t think so. Then again, some people have a warped idea of extreme fun.” She picked up her bag. “I’d better go and let you work on your studs.” She winced. “Nuts. I mean beams. Whatever you call them. Tell whoever’s cooking that she’s got my vote for the James Beard award.”
    She was pretty sure she heard him laugh as she closed her door, but her legs began to shake and she didn’t stay around to find out.
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    An hour later, fresh from a steamy bath, Taylor padded into the kitchen and stared into her refrigerator. Optimism turned to disgust. All she had was a wilted head of lettuce and two half-eaten cartons of yogurt.
    Lasagna was her favorite food in the world, followed closely by chestnut ice cream from Berthillon’s in Paris. Unfortunately, it was a long way to Paris.
    Shaking her head, she headed down the hall to her office. In a few seconds she was deep in a scene involving two women climbers, a swift-moving bank of fog, and a sheer wall of granite.
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    Taylor lasted fifty-three minutes and four pages. The fog fled, the rocks simply evaporated. So much for being creative.
    The final straw had been the chocolate fragrance filling her apartment. She paced the living room like a rabid animal and finally threw down her notebook.
    You are a total disgrace. In fact, you have the willpower of a slug.
    But what did pride matter when bittersweet chocolate was involved? She straightened her shoulders, stalked outside, and banged on the door.
    Her neighbor answered on the fourth knock. Same stellar abs. Same Van Damme shoulders on a body that belonged in a museum.
    Taylor looked up swiftly. “I know this is rude, but is that bittersweet chocolate I keep smelling?”
    He had a towel draped over one shoulder and sawdust dotting his chest. Taylor had a wild image of her fingers brushing aside the fine powder and tracing those warm, rigid muscles.
    She managed to restrain herself.
    â€œGanache.” His mouth twitched. “Belgian chocolate.”
    â€œDark chocolate? The really good stuff?”
    â€œThe darker the better. The éclairs are almost done.”
    She smiled weakly. “Would you consider a trade? How about my firstborn child and a dozen active credit cards for one éclair?”
    His brow rose. “I didn’t hear any children at your place.”
    â€œI don’t have any—yet. I’ll get started right away if it will help.” She flushed when she realized what she’d said. “So to speak.”
    â€œSave the children.” He stepped aside and held open the door. “Take your pick of the éclairs. You want some lasagna to go with it?”
    Suck it in, O’Toole. Don’t drool.
“Lasagna?” She managed a casual laugh. “Is that what I was smelling?”
    â€œIt’s an old family recipe.” He gestured at a big living room outfitted with sawhorses, tools, and dozens of boxes. “It’s a mess in here, so be careful. Especially watch out for that saw in the corner.”
    Taylor sidestepped a hammer and nails, glancing at one of the boxes. “You seem to have a lot of equipment. How much renovation are you planning to do?”
    â€œReplace the counters. Resurface the drawers and cabinet doors. Maybe change the floor. A deep red saltillo tile would be