Kiss the Cook Read Free Page B

curves encased in a lacy bra. The words pampered palate were embroidered on the pocket. Recognition clicked. The woman from the elevator. He breathed in. She smelled like fried chicken.
    "Listen, you perve rt," she said, "I was not copping a feel. I was trying to save your pants."
    She was breathing hard, and every time she inhaled her breasts pressed against him and before he could so much as blink his groin tingled and his heart sped up.
    He shook his head. Jesus, he must be losing his mind . She looked like a drowned rat and for all he knew she was a lunatic. This woman was nothing but a pain in the ass-- literally. He was simply suffering from malnutrition-induced dementia. Of course he would be affected by a woman who smelled like chicken. It had nothing to do with the curves plastered against him. Not a thing.
    Wanting her away from him as soon as possible, he said, "If you'll just move, I'll save my own pants."
    She scooted off him, stood and grabbed the umbrella. "Fine. But don't blame me if-- "
    The sound of material ripping was unmistakable.
    "Uh-oh," she said.
    Gritting his teeth, Chris got out of the car. He peered inside and saw a good-sized piece of dark material on the seat. Hoping it wasn't what he suspected, he picked it up, dangling it between his fingers.
    Dark wool.
    Like from a man's suit . His suit. His brand-new suit.
    "Oh, boy. That doesn't look good," she said . "Looks just like my skirt did." She peered around at his backside, then straightened. "Hmmm. I see you're a boxer man."
    Chris mentally counted to ten. The sooner he jumped her car, the sooner she'd be on her way, and the sooner he could get home. Wit hout a word, he popped her hood then walked to his car to get the jumper cables. He left the umbrella with her. There wasn't any point in bothering with it—his suit was already ruined. And the rain was tapering off a bit anyway.
    She stood under the umbrella and waited while he attached the cables.
    "Okay," he said. "Turn the key."
    She slid into the car, turned the ignition, and the engine coughed to life. Chris almost jumped for joy. He quickly disconnected the wires from both cars and replaced the cables in his trunk.
    "I think that should do it," he said, slamming the Dodge's hood.
    "Yes. Thank you very much. I really appreciate the help." She smiled, and those two deep dimples winked at him. "My name's Melanie. Melanie Gibson. But everyone calls me Mel."
    His brows shot up . "Your name's Mel Gibson?"
    A sheepish g rin touched her lips. “Crazy, huh?  Since I wasn’t born a boy and couldn’t be named Melvin after my mother’s dad, they gave me Melanie. But just like Grandpa, I’ve always been called Mel. How’s that for luck?”
    He couldn’t help but grin in return. “Melanie’s better than Melvin.”
    “I suppose. Especially since I’m a girl.”
    “So, how’s that name workin’ out for you?”
    She laughed. “It wasn’t too bad when the other Mel Gibson was a hot Hollywood commodity, but after he went off the deep end, it was pretty much a pain in the butt . What’s your name?”
    He couldn't believe he was standing in the rain talking to a lunatic woman named Mel Gibson. "I'm Peter Pan."
    She looked him up and down then shook her head. "I don't think so. Peter Pan wore green tights.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, Groucho-style. "I already know you're wearing white boxer briefs."
    In spite of himself, Chris felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. He quickly smothered it. Why the hell did he feel like laughin g? He was angry. Inconvenienced. Wet. Hungry. His suit was ruined; probably his shoes, too. Clearly he was deranged from lack of food.
    "So, are you going to tell me your name?" she asked. "Don't be shy. Believe me, it can't be worse than mine. No matter how hard I try, no one will call me Melanie."
    He held out his hand. "Christopher Bishop. Call me Chris."
    She shook his hand, and to his surprise a warm tingle zoomed through him. This woman was so completely not