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so, he grabbed the bottle and reached to add more. His hand brushed mine with an electric shock. The muscles in his jaw clenched—he felt it too. Man, I so did not need this. Teddie had my heart, but my body had clearly missed the memo.
    He poured the wine with a studiousness the act didn’t deserve, and replaced the bottle before answering. “Not only is food nourishment, it is also pleasure—a feast for the senses. Like love, it does not need to be complex or exotic to be satisfying. Simple, direct, rich, and spiced with the flavors of passion, it feeds the body as well as the soul.”
    Enraptured, I was holding my breath as the chef captured me like a snake charmer weaves a spell over a cobra. I let my breath out in a whoosh and shook my head slightly, trying to break the spell. “And the complex and exotic?”
    “Feed the ego.”
     
    * * *
     
    I still felt as if I had filled my lungs with helium or something as I pushed through my office doors—a couple of hours with the chef, sharing dinner in his lair, was enough to do that to any female. “Crisis averted. Harmony in the universe has been restored.” I didn’t sound like Pee Wee Herman so the whole helium thing had been a figment of my imagination. One small thing to be thankful for. That fact that I appeared to be in lust with our new chef was not on that list. Usually, meaningful sex was an antidote to libido overdrive. I wondered why it wasn’t working this time. With no answer, I abandoned that line of self-interrogation as being a threat to the status quo.
    Miss P, holding the handset to her phone in one hand, looked at me over the top of her cheaters. “Alert the media. How are you coming on the world peace problem?”
    “I’ve added it to my Christmas list along with a plea for superpowers. That’s the best I can do.” I picked up a pile of messages in her outbox—my inbox—and waved them at her. “Any of these important?”
    “I guess that depends on your point of view.”
    I gave her a glare, but I think my grin sort of killed the effect. I plopped down in a chair across from her, my legs stuck out in front of me. “Your job is to prioritize. Give me the top five, then we delegate.”
    Being at the top of the food chain had its disadvantages—I drew the short straw every time. “A wife mix-up?” I read from the message on top. “What is this about?”
    “Bungalow Five.” Miss P couldn’t hide her grin. “Mr. Handy?”
    “The brawny half of Couple Number Three?”
    “His wife is looking for him and she’s not happy.”
     
    * * *
     
    T he door to Bungalow Five was standing open when I skidded to a halt in front of it, short of breath and ideas. “Hello?” I knocked on the doorjamb as I peeked inside. The living room was empty. “Anybody here?”
    Angry voices emanated from the direction of the master bedroom. “I told you not to come. You’ll ruin everything.” A male voice. Guy Handy. I still couldn’t get my mind around the fact that with that name and that body, he wasn’t in a male revue or stripping somewhere.
    Throwing protocol to the wind, I charged inside and headed for the escalating argument.
    “But, honey, I know we agreed to let this play out.” Female voice. Mrs. Handy, perhaps? Without even a hint of ice, the voice clearly didn’t belong to Vera.
    “You have to leave. Now. Before the bitch shows up. She’ll have a capillary.”
    I stuck my head in the room in time to see a petite brunette put a hand in Mr. Handy’s chest and say, “Coronary.”
    Guy wrinkled his brow, but the word obviously took his mind of the issue at hand. “What?”
    “She’ll have a coronary. A heart attack,” the brunette explained, with staggering composure. “A capillary is . . .”
    Since no one seemed to be brandishing a weapon, I felt brave enough to step into the room and make my presence known. “Excuse me?”
    They both whirled, and then seeing it was me, sagged in relief.
    Mr. Handy was the first to find his