Secret Ingredient: Love

“Yes?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s what all the serial killers say,” she answered. “Or salesmen. I’ll cut to the chase, the part where I tell you I’m not interested in what you’re selling. And I don’t want to waste your time when you could be talking to someone who is interested. Goodbye,” she said, closing the door.

He stuck his foot in the way. “Wait. I’m not a salesman. I have something to give you.”

“Like I said, that’s what they all say.” She met his gaze. “Now let me close my door or I’ll—”

“I’m Alex Marchetti.”

“Good for you.” The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

In her narrowed field of vision, he held out a paper shopping bag from a well-known department store. “My sister, Rosie Schafer, asked me to return these jars.”

Rosie was her bookstore-owner friend who was test-marketing her baby food on her daughter, Stephanie. Her son, Joey, was still nursing. Rosie had mentioned her brothers, but she’d never said a word about how good-looking this one was. Fran was about to remove the chain from her door when that last thought stopped her. The phrase “beware of Greeks bearing gifts” flashed through her mind. Alex was Italian and holding baby food jars, but the same warning applied.

“You didn’t have to bring them to me,” she said. “I told Rosie I’d stop by the store to pick them up.”

“Technically, I haven’t actually given them to you. If you’ll open up, I could do that.”

“Just leave the bag in front of the door,” she said. Fran couldn’t decide whether to curse or bless her father for the years of cynicism conditioning that was now second nature to her. Her own unfortunate experience had reenforced his message, making her wary of men. “I’ll get them later.”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Yes, she thought, but not for the reason he meant.

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” she asked, stalling.

“Instead of trying to tell you, I’ll go straight for a positive ID and show you.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his driver’s license through the small opening.

The Department of Motor Vehicles picture definitely matched him, not to mention that it was better than most people took with a professional photographer. But it was hard to miss with such great raw material. The description said he was six feet two, a hundred and ninety pounds, with dark brown hair and brown eyes.

“You’re definitely Alex Marchetti.”

“So are you going to open the door and let me do my good deed? If that’s not enough to convince you, I’ve got a proposition.”

“My father warned me about stuff like that.” About a hundred million times he’d warned her. And where Leonardo Carlino left off, her four brothers began.

“I was referring to a job.”

That piqued her interest. She did remember Rosie saying that her family owned a chain of restaurants. Since she was going to be out of work soon, what did she have to lose?

“Okay. We can talk. But you have to move your foot first.” When he did, she shut the door long enough to unlatch the chain, then swung it wide. “Come in.”

“Thanks.”

“So talk to me,” she said, shutting the door behind him.

“My sister says you’re a trained chef with a flair for picking just the right ingredient to enhance a recipe,” Alex began. He set the bag of jars down next to the door. “She claims that you can even make Brussels sprouts palatable.”

“I’m proud to say that I haven’t had a baby complain yet,” she quipped.

He grinned and Fran nearly lost her balance. The wattage in his very attractive smile could put a twenty-four-hour-glow in a girl’s heart. Maybe even forty-eight, she thought, absorbing the warmth. Correction: any girl but her. But even she had to admit that he was a walking, talking poster boy for tall, dark and handsome. He made the glasses look macho—sexy, in fact. He even made his wrinkled, pinstriped slacks and rumpled white dress shirt look good. Especially because his long sleeves were rolled up, revealing wide, strong forearms sprinkled with dark hair. It was a look that she was especially vulnerable to. And Alex wore it better than any man she’d ever seen.

Because of her very powerful feminine response to him, she was about to thank him for returning the jars, then politely ask him to leave. But he hadn’t told her about the job yet. “I was just going to have some tea. Would you like a cup? Or are you a coffee kind of guy?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

He followed her through her living room to her small kitchen. The U-shaped work area included a bar. Alex stood on the other side of it while she put on the teakettle. From the corner of her eye, she watched him look around. The Marchettis owned a very successful chain of restaurants. Her small but cozy surroundings had to be a world away from wherever he hung his hat.

He put his hands in his pockets. “My sister tells me that you’re a food consultant. She says the baby food you’ve developed is great. My niece loves it.”

“I have to take her word for that. Unfortunately, I don’t get direct feedback—you’ll pardon the pun—from my little consumers.”

She met his gaze, and the wry look on his face told her he got the second play on words that she’d managed to slip in. She couldn’t help liking that about him. To dim the tractor beam of his appeal, she turned her back on him and reached up into the cupboard for her sugar container. “What else did Rosie tell you?”

Behind her, Alex cleared his throat. “That you have good taste.”

“How nice of her.” Fran turned around in time to see his lowered gaze size her up from top to bottom. That and the appreciative look in his eyes made her wonder if brother and sister had been discussing food at the time. It also made her heart skip into an escalated rhythm. Setting her sugar on the counter, she said, “Do you concur?”

“I haven’t tasted your cooking,” he said, his voice husky. “But your apartment is charming.”

“Thank you,” she answered, annoyed at the breathless quality that had crept into her own voice without warning. “I tried to give it touches that reflect myself. Why do I get the feeling that Rosie wasn’t talking about food or furnishings when she said I had good taste?”

One dark eyebrow rose. “She didn’t mention how perceptive you are. As a matter of fact, she launched into a Fran Carlino monologue, including that you’re five feet two, but no eyes of blue. Instead they’re…” he met her gaze “…cocoa-brown. Rosie said they’re big and gorgeous, and I’d have to concur. She also said you’re concise, and curvy and cute as a—”

“If you say button, I’m going to have to throw you out,” Fran interrupted.

“Okay. Although she did, and that was when I asked what all of that had to do with your cooking.”

“So she did actually tell you about my cooking.”

He nodded. “She said that the baby food you’re developing is simple and pure, for children prone to allergies. I was just wondering if you’d done anything else?”

“I worked on a line of fat-free muffins. After that I developed recipes for dry soup mix. I also did some frozen vegetable stir-fry, just add beef or chicken.”

“What about preservatives in the baby food?”

“It’s pretty easy to prepare without additives, then freeze. To test-market, I gave it to Rosie in jars, but we’re working on the packaging this week. So far the advance reports are good. The secret is simplicity. I don’t get too free with spices that might be disaster to their immature systems.”

“Sounds like a smart move. Too many sleepless nights with a baby battling indigestion could generate some pretty negative publicity.”

Fran put a cup and saucer on the counter, then added a tea bag. “Do you know a lot about publicity?”

He nodded. “I’m vice president in charge of marketing as well as R and D for Marchetti’s Inc.”

“Research and development,” she said, feeling an “aha” moment coming on. “So there is an actual job? And Rosie really did send you over?”