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the rest of the meal, she encouraged Paolo to share his recipes, but he was casual about instructions and measurements. When they cooked together, she would insist on the exact recipe and not “a little of this and a pinch of that”.
    He served small white cups of strong espresso with first-rate crema and a rich mascarpone and dark chocolate-laced tiramisu.
    “Just a tiny piece for me,” she said weakly.
    For once, Paolo complied. One taste of the luscious, Sambuca-infused layers made her wish he had cut a bigger piece, but she had to be moderate or she wouldn’t be camera ready next week. Everyone said TV added at least ten pounds to your figure.
    Michaela took another sip of espresso and gazed around, savoring the combination of creamy tiramisu and strong coffee on her palate. There wasn’t one inch of clear counter space and the sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Empty dessert plate in hand, she headed toward the sink and turned on the faucet, only to have Paolo’s warm hand cover hers and shut off the water supply. She peered into his deep-set, inky eyes and a shiver teased the length of her spine. She needed space from him, especially when his long fingers lightly squeezed her hand and her body reacted pleasurably, against her will.
    He led her out of the kitchen. “Come into the living room for a little vin santo ,” he said, sounding like a wolf luring the lamb. You are not his lambie, she reminded herself.
    Michaela removed her hand from his and perched on the edge of his couch. “Everything was great, but I would have cut each portion to a third of what you served me and eliminated most of the olive oil.”
    Paolo gave a derisive snort. “That’s not eating, that’s dieting! No wonder the women on Flamingo Island don’t look feminine, more like dried-up little breadsticks.”
    She stared at him with a flash of annoyance. “So now I’m a dried-up little breadstick?”
    “Not you, Maki. You are round in all the right places. For my taste, that is,” he added with a devilish grin.
    “We’re not here to discuss my figure or your taste.”
    “Hey, it was a compliment.”
    “Thanks, but I don’t appreciate your remarks about my clients. They work hard to be healthy and fit.”
    “It’s one man’s humble opinion,” he said with a not-so-humble smile. “Thanks to your bullying, most of the women on Flamingo Island look like they’re starving.”
    Blood rushed to her face. “I do not bully and they’re not starving!”
    He shrugged. “Perhaps…but they don’t look like real women should.”
    “That’s your macho opinion.” Too late, she heard his robust guffaws. “Oh, shut up. You’re impossible.” She headed toward her briefcase in the living room. Returning to sit beside him, she pulled out the menu list she had prepared this morning and handed it to him. “Here, please look this over.”
    “I don’t need to. We just sampled the menu for the show.” He tried to hand her back the list, but she refused to take it.
    “No, we have not.” She articulated each word to get through his dense head. “Don’t assume that I’ll blindly go along with anything you say.” She shoved her list back at him. “We are going to showcase both our cuisines and cooking styles—equally. I’ll cook the meal tomorrow. Then, we come to an agreement,” she said decisively.
    Paolo sat back and studied her with a grin. “Are you always this bossy?” Somehow, this seemed to amuse him. “And you say that you don’t bully.”
    She ignored his bait and took a business card out of her wallet. “Can you arrange to be at the spa restaurant tomorrow around six?”
    He paused for a moment and read the card. “Executive chef. How long have you worked at Sublime?” 
    “Two years. Can you make it tomorrow at six?” she prodded.
    “Sure, why not?” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Gil will cover for me. The restaurant owners are bending over backward to accommodate me. They’re very excited at the