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publicity they’ll get from What are you cooking tomorrow?” Miami Spice .
    “Mahi mahi.” That was all she would tell him about her menu.
    The corners of his mouth curved upward. “Can’t wait to sink my teeth into the firm, white flesh.”
    There was no mistaking the glimmer in his black eyes, especially since he was looking at her white flesh. Oh, he was a devil, naturally charming and hot enough to melt her composure. Feeling a bit unhinged, Michaela rose from the sofa. She needed to get out of his apartment.
    Paolo shot to his feet and was beside her in a moment. “Why are you leaving so soon?”
    Before she could respond, his cell phone rang and he answered it.
    “Hello?” His genial expression turned serious and his body stiffened with alertness as he listened to the caller. Before Michaela’s eyes, Paolo’s face blanched under his tan. “Hold on a sec.” He covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to Michaela. “I have to take this in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.”
    Michaela sat back down and waited, wondering what was so urgent that Paolo had to rush out of the room. Just as he shut the bedroom door, the front door opened again. This time a dark-haired older woman strutted inside, resembling a plump partridge stuffed into a coral Lululemon athletic warm up suit. 
    “Paolo, honey, I need you to feed me, pronto! ” she wailed plaintively. “I’ve just come back from the spa and I’m starving. My trainer forced me to eat another boring salad with no carbs again!” She stopped abruptly when she noticed it was Michaela, not Paolo, in the living room. “Where’s Paolo?” she demanded.
    “He’s in the other room on a phone call.” Michaela was not thrilled at hearing one of her spa salads described as boring—the ultimate insult to a chef. “What was wrong with the salad you ate?”
    “Ugh, too much healthy stuff mandated by the spa’s Food Nazi, Michaela Willoughby.” She grimaced and made a dismissive gesture, her diamond tennis bracelet twinkling on her tanned wrist. “I’d rather eat pasta any day!”
    “Why didn’t you try one of the spa’s pasta creations? They’re delicious,” Michaela said, horrified that anyone would refer to her as the Food Nazi.
    “Says who?” Bernice challenged.
    “Me. They’re nutritious and low cal too,” Michaela said.
    “I’d rather eat Paolo’s cooking, calories or not.” The woman’s heavily made up green eyes scrutinized Michaela with a haughty, up and down motion. “May I ask what you are doing in Paolo’s apartment?”
    This loud, pushy woman was just about the rudest person Michaela had met in a long time. “That is none of your concern.”
    The matron pressed together her coral glossed lips and drew back, offended by Michaela’s retort. Her double chin quivered with high indignation. “Just who are you?”
    “I’m who you just referred to as the Food Nazi,” Michaela said smugly. The crass woman would regret having trash-talked Michaela’s cooking to her face. “Who are you ?”
    The woman was not the least bit put off. Her attitude implied Michaela was the intruder and not vice versa. “Bernice Blumenthal,” she announced imperially, as if she were the queen of England and expected Michaela to curtsy.
    Great. Michaela groaned inwardly. Bernice Blumenthal—the producer’s wife!
    Bernice’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one competing with Paolo for Miami Spice ?”
    Michaela’s heart sank as the realization hit her full force. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped for a miracle to erase the last few minutes. But when she reopened them, Bernice was glaring at her with unconcealed dislike.
    Michaela was doomed!
    The bedroom door suddenly swung open and Paolo emerged looking grim. He absently accepted the two noisy kisses Bernice bestowed on his cheeks, but he didn’t react with his usual sexy charisma.
    Bernice fluttered her fake lashes. “Paolo, darling, I came to discuss my little soiree and the menu you’ll be