A Sure Thing Read online

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  Amber Quill Press

  www.amberquill.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Brit Blaise

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Also By Brit Blaise

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  Brit Blaise

  Amber Quill's Rewards Program

  * * * *

  A SURE THING

  By

  BRIT BLAISE

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  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  Also By Brit Blaise

  The Blood Club

  Cave Creek Cowboy

  Another Cave Creek Cowboy

  Cave Creek Cowboy Christmas

  Cave Creek Cowboy In Vegas

  Cave Creek Cowboy Kama

  Cave Creek Cowboy Ménage

  Cave Creek Cowboy: Too Many Brides

  Fix This!

  Galaxy Gone Wild

  Lady In A Box

  A Lady's Lessons

  Out Of Space

  Music Man

  Slayers Inc.

  Taking It Slow

  Two Weeks In Paradise

  The Virginia Model-Logues

  Wanton Warrior

  Wild And Wanton

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER 1

  "This is orgasmic."

  Riva waved the still-warm cinnamon bread, fresh from the bread-maker under her nose, while she inhaled with exaggerated pants.

  But ... as long as they were on the subject, Cara had her very own sexual exploit to brag about. “I had phone sex last night.” She watched her friend do a comical double-take.

  "You what?” Riva dropped the steaming loaf onto the cutting board. “You're hallucinating. You haven't had any kind of sex in at least two years."

  Cara almost blurted the embarrassing truth. It had been more like three years. “I promise it wasn't my imagination. I was in bed watching an old movie and feeling horny as hell ... you know what I'm talking about. Well, maybe you don't, but a lot of women would. While I nursed my third glass of wine and thought about the vibrator in the drawer next to me, the phone rang."

  Cara took a sip of her coffee and sighed as she remembered the sound of the caller's voice. “The most incredible baritone on the other end of the line had the wrong number. I don't know why I said it, but I told him I'd go to sleep dreaming about his sexy voice."

  Riva walked around the counter to stand next to Cara. “And just like that, you had phone sex? You better not be making this up. Tell, and don't leave anything out."

  Cara chuckled at her friend's sexual enthusiasm. Riva wasn't exactly promiscuous, but she wasn't lonely either. “I don't have a clue how it's normally done, but I think Mr. Erotic Voice started it as a joke. He asked me what I was wearing. I know it was clichéd and corny, but I jumped at it. It's not like I get a chance like that every day. I had on my old terry robe and Jersey cow slippers. I told him I had nothing on but a smile, since I'd been waiting for his call."

  "You didn't.” Riva shimmied up onto the stool next to her. “My best friend and roommate, Cara Thomas, would never be so spontaneous. Never. What happened next?"

  "He told me to slow down because he needed to catch up. Then he described himself taking off his clothes. He told me he was holding his big, nine-inch cock."

  "You don't say! And he said you were fast?"

  "I said I didn't have that good an imagination since I'd only seen two up close and they probably weren't nine inches combined. Then he asked if I had any cucumbers in the refrigerator for a ménage à veggie."

  "No way! He didn't. You didn't!” Riva was beginning to look envious.

  "He was very convincing."

  "This is making me hot,” Riva exclaimed.

  Cara almost giggled as she watched her friend squirm in her chair. If she'd known it would make her feel this powerful to speak freely about a sexual encounter, she would've done it before.

  Of course, she had to have one before she could talk about it.

  "Don't stop,” Riva said putting her hand to a nipple straining against her thin silk blouse.

  Cara wondered if her friend was even conscious of the gesture. For so long Cara had envied Riva's free-spirited and casual attitude about sex. Not that Riva was easy. She just wasn't frustrated and horny all the time, like Cara.

  "Sorry, Riva. I'm already late for work. I can stay to tell you more, but it'd mean I'll miss my stupid cooking class this afternoon."

  "Oh, no, you don't.” Riva stood and moved around the island counter, shaking her head and sending her dark hair flying. “You promised your mother and me you'd take the cooking lessons she gave you for your birthday. When I learned you'd be taking lessons with Chef Mike, I knew I had the perfect solution. Mike is infamous for giving a woman a great time. And he has a thing for redheads. And when I told him about you, he was interested—very interested. Not only do you need to learn how to cook, you need to get laid, and I'm not talking about phone sex."

  "I don't know why you think I'm going to get lucky with your infamous Chef Mike. I've heard he has a harem of beautiful women at his beck and call."

  "You don't need to worry about how many women he dates. This is a sure thing. Trust me—you're finally going to get the big one ... and it won't be green."

  Cara sighed and went to turn off the coffee pot. “I can't believe I agreed to this insanity. Good grief, Riva. You're a well-known food critic. If you said jump, he probably asked, “How high?” My best friend is reduced to bribing someone to go to bed with me."

  Riva pasted a fake pout on her face. “I resent that. I didn't bribe him. Do we have any more cucumbers?” She walked to the refrigerator and then paused to glance back over her shoulder. “Who did your mystery man ask for when he called?

  "Some guy named Bubba,” Cara said.

  Riva closed the fridge and left the kitchen.

  What now? Riva had been acting so strange lately. Even for Riva that was saying a lot. But she was fun to be around, in spite of her long absences. Riva was now only in Phoenix a few weeks out of the year and thinking of a permanent move to the east coast. If Riva took the job offer in New York, Cara would miss her terribly, but who wouldn't want to be on the cutting edge of the reality show craze. Riva had been approached to host a prime-time restaurant reality show for a major network.

  Cara thought about her own career. She had nothing to be ashamed of professionally. She really didn't need the money Riva contributed as a part-time roommate, even without considering her trust fund. Her brokerage firm had enough assets under management for her to live comfortably on the commissions alone. Plus, she'd just hired two more financial advisors to lighten her load. Now, if only she could get her love life to fall in line, she'd have everything a girl could want.

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  At midday, Cara found herself trying to work up the nerve to walk into the French restaurant for her cooking lessons. The memory of the time she burned her parents’ kitchen to cinders as a teenager hau
nted her. Could it be possible her refusal to step within a mile of a stove made her an unlikely candidate for marriage? Her mother insisted it did.

  If it weren't for Riva's sure thing guarantee, no way would she be doing this. Taking a gulp of air, she locked her hand around the handle of the heavy-looking carved door and gave it a tug. The sight of wall-to-wall people in a lobby better suited to a boutique hotel than a five-star restaurant surprised her.

  Cara pushed into the crowded room and began to search for someone to give her directions. When she took a closer look at the women who surrounded her, she stopped. There were almost a dozen tall blondes in slinky black dresses, cramped together and trying to look bored.

  Could all these Vogue wannabes have come for cooking lessons?

  Cara tried to become invisible. When that failed, she stood straighter, stretching her five-foot-nine inch frame another quarter-inch and wished she'd worn her slut-city shoes, too.

  "Everyone who's here to participate in Chef Nichols’ cooking lessons, please follow me,” one of the women said. Another blonde, but this one had pizzazz. When the woman waved her hand in the air with a motion for the group to follow, a diamond solitaire, at least four carats in size, sparkled under the light of the chandelier. She made all the other women in the room look like day-old bread.

  Compared to Cara ... she didn't want to go there. The thin woman could easily fit twice into Cara's suit.

  "Are you here for Chef Mike's class?” asked an older lady standing to Cara's left.

  Cara nodded. The taste of lip gloss reminded her to quit chewing her lip. Someone might guess the idea of cooking had her rattled. And, she told herself, allowing her mother to talk her into cooking lessons didn't make her a pushover. After all, none of these anemic women could know she'd nearly burned her parents’ house to the ground while attempting to make French fries. None of these women looked like she'd even eat a French fry, let alone cook one.

  "Michael is a wonderful teacher,” the woman gushed. “This is the third time I've taken his class."

  "That's nice,” Cara said, visions of well-built firemen popping into her head. Ordinarily it would be a good thing, but cooking with a mob of too-skinny blondes redefined her perception of being out of her element.

  "Don't worry. You'll do just fine,” the woman assured.

  "Why bother to worry when you can just as easily obsess?” Cara quipped. She followed behind while the statuesque leader showed the group into the kitchen.

  "Welcome, everyone, to Chef Mike Nichols’ kitchen!” The woman gave an exuberant Vanna White sweep of her skinny arms.

  Cara had only a moment to be captivated by the sparkling white walls and gleaming metallic surfaces before she spied the cameras. Why were there TV cameras in the kitchen? Riva might want her face in front of a camera. Cara definitely did not.

  "That's not good,” she said under her breath, her feet glued to the floor while everyone else continued to file into the room. “I can't do this. I don't like to have my picture taken, let alone this,” she said to anyone who cared to listen.

  Cara's mouth started to dry. She managed multi-million-dollar portfolios and yet the thought of cooking in front of cameras reduced her to a mass of quivering green Jell-O—the only thing she could cook, once she'd coerced someone else into boiling the water.

  The sound of a dull thud penetrated her fear. Cara turned her head to see a metal tray careen toward her out of the corner of her eye and then heard the tray's contents hit the floor with a crash.

  "Shi—shoot! Please move the camera cord before someone gets killed.” The big man who had just dropped the tray stood defiantly, fists on his hips, glaring at the cameraman. Just as quickly, the frown left his face when he glanced over at Cara.

  She felt like a deer caught in the headlights surrounded by a herd of blonde heads as she looked back at the man who had to be Chef Mike. The sure thing? Her sure thing? No way!

  Cara had to remind herself to breathe as she looked at him—inch by incredible inch. There were so many hunky inches she couldn't take them in fast enough. Perhaps seventy-five of them in all, and each begged for her complete attention. Hunk with a capital “H.” She was getting hot just looking at him. Chef Mike? Could she get that lucky? This was her sure thing?

  Without warning, a picture of the two of them locked in a passionate embrace flashed before her eyes. She could envision herself as she languished on a sunny beach in Aruba, while Chef Mike, dressed only in a crisp white apron, fed her sweet coconut covered in exotic chocolate. His hard-on tented out the front of his apron. She wanted to crawl under the apron for a closer look. Heat licked at her skin and pulsated through her blood. Before she could see exactly what came next—the dreamy image made a face at her.

  "Sorry,” he said, speaking with firm, full lips that seemed to beg for a kiss. Or did her lips want to trace the texture of his mouth and feel his breath mixing with her own? Hormones she'd thought had taken a permanent leave of absence suddenly swarmed through her body like choc-aholics to a bake sale.

  "About what?” she asked, as she tried to think of something other than the striking blue color of his eyes. And Aruba. No way could she get this lucky. Holy cannelloni.

  "The oil,” he said, lowering his voice. It reverberated through her, reminding her of ... what was it? “I'm sorry about the oil."

  "Yes, the oil,” she repeated and felt as dull as a tax lawyer. She continued to stare at him, not eager to deprive her eyes of the feast in front of her. She gawked at the striking pale blue irises rimmed in a deeper shade of sapphire until she felt a tremble low in her belly.

  "I'm sorry about getting oil on you.” His deep, rumbling voice traced a path along her already popping nerve endings. The uncomfortable silence in the room erupted into an irritating mixture of giggles and guffaws from the bony blondes.

  Cara looked down to see small splotches of oil dotted down the front of her sweater. The oil didn't worry her, but the shock of seeing her nipples pointing toward Chef Mike like directional arrows made her want to bolt. “I'd love to see how all this turns out, but I guess this means I can't stay for your class,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “If you'll excuse me, I'll see myself out."

  "Nonsense,” the gorgeous chef said, his gaze still glued to her chest.

  "Don't even think about leaving. I'll get you an apron.” He placed his arm around her shoulders and propelled her to the far wall. “An apron will take care of everything."

  "I think it's a little too late for an apron,” Cara told him. In an alternate reality maybe, but in this one she needed an ironclad bra. Did they come in double D-cups?

  The striking blonde-in-charge appeared, waving an apron in her hand as if Chef Mike had snapped his fingers and said the magic words. Cara put her hand up in front of her eyes to shield them from the glare of the bright lights used for filming. If an apron could take care of everything, wouldn't she have discovered such valuable information before now?

  When he moved closer, Cara couldn't help notice he smelled like fresh mint and warm chocolate, with a subtle hint of male muskiness. She wondered how he'd taste. From the admiring looks reflected in the faces of the other women in the room, there were others wondering the same thing, and they hadn't even gotten close enough to smell him.

  Crowned by his tall chef's hat, Chef Mike reigned as the mighty king of the kitchen. And he knew it.

  "I don't mind missing the filming,” Cara said. If not for the cameras, she'd gladly stay.

  "I feel bad enough already.” He pulled his white hat from his head and held it to his chest as if he were about to make a solemn pledge. He gifted her with an irresistible grin, displaying dazzling white teeth. Perfect teeth. “If you leave, I won't be able to concentrate."

  Cara squirmed under his heated gaze and bright smile. She knew he lied to her, but while every eye in the room seemed to bore holes into her awaiting her response, she did the only thing she could. She pretended she believed him.

  "I gue
ss I can stay,” she said finally. She wouldn't mind staying if she could just sit in the corner and watch him. His thick black hair glistened in the lights as it tapered neatly to his collar. The darkness of his hair made a nice contrast to his glorious blue eyes. Intelligent and assessing eyes.

  Forget-about-burning-houses-and-french-fries-kind-of-eyes!

  He dominated the room, not just because of his delectable good looks or his impressive physique, but also because of his commanding air. Then again, as she focused on his broad, muscular chest as it strained against the fabric of his crisp white shirt, maybe it was just his sinfully sexy bod! She felt a slow burn settle low in her stomach before it traveled straight down to make her moist and ready.

  She laughed out loud.

  It felt good to cut loose and feel her hormones supercharged and ready for fun.

  "I'd like to welcome everyone today. I'm Chef Mike Nichols, and this is Felicia.” He motioned to the spectacular blonde at his side. “Felicia Campbell is my business partner here at the restaurant. For those of you who haven't met her before, Felicia efficiently runs the entire operation, while I'm content to merely cook.

  "Now, if you'll please take your places at the counter next to the placard with your name. Felicia will help if you have trouble finding your spot,” he continued. “I need to take a moment to see if I can help with this mess I've created.” Placing both hands on Cara's shoulders, he twirled her around.

  The rest of the women scurried to find their places, while Cara stood with her back to Chef Mike letting herself come down with a serious case of lust. She wondered how the scrawny women could find their places with the thick cloud of pesky pheromones buzzing around the room.

  * * * *

  "I believe this'll more than cover the spots,” Mike promised. “It's really not that bad. Most of the oil's on the floor."

  What an entrance he'd made. He tried not to frown as he attempted to help the voluptuous redhead into an apron after giving her time to dab at the oily specks with a towel. Why hadn't she yelled at him? He certainly deserved it. She didn't even appear to be angry with him.