"A fun read for foodies who love romance."
Reviewed by Maria Munoz
Posted May 19, 2012
Romance Contemporary
Michaela Willoughby has overcome a number of obstacles to become
Flamingo Island's premiere spa chef. She tried hard to make
her disapproving parents happy, even so far as making it
through 3 years of law school before she walked away to
pursue her own dream of becoming a chef. Having struggled
with her own weight issues, she's recognized for her tasty,
healthy, low-calorie cuisine. Now she's in the running to
host Miami Spice on the Food Network. Having her own
cooking show will allow her to pay back the money her
parents spent on law school and promote her self-published
cookbook. She won't let anything stand in the way of getting
this job, especially not her competition, even if he is
charming and sexy. Paolo Santos, playboy chef of Flamingo Island's Bella Luna,
is determined to be the host of Miami Spice. He knows how
to entertain an audience and has a passion for cooking
having been raised in his family's restaurant in Argentina.
Since the death of his father, he has carried the
responsibility for his family on his shoulders. Working for
the Food Network will give him the financial freedom to help
his mother and sisters, especially 20-year-old Claudia who
shows up at his door about to give birth and estranged from
her husband. As much as he likes Michaela (and the more he
knows her the more he really likes her), he's determined to
win. Can these two chefs see past the competition to what
they could mean to each other? GRILL ME, BABY is a fun read for foodies who love romance.
Paolo and Michaela are equals who go toe-to-toe with wit and
humor. They are each strong and independent yet
compassionate and caring. Paolo comes off a little smug and
inconsiderate at the beginning but that softens as the story
progresses and you get to know him better. At heart, the
story is a contemporary romance but Ms. Knightly artfully
weaves in the complexities of following your dreams,
unconditional love, and loving across socioeconomic and
cultural boundaries. The plot, characters, and dialogue in
GRILL ME, BABY feels very authentic. Even the Spanish
scattered throughout this story is authentic which I greatly
appreciate (one of my pet peeves is incorrect Spanish
dialogue).
SUMMARY
The heat is on… Raised among women who taught him to cook at his family’s
Buenos Aires restaurant, master chef Paolo Santos deftly
works his culinary wiles—and his gypsy charm—on posh
Flamingo Island’s female clientele. The tastiest tidbit on the island, though, is cool, elegant
Michaela Willoughby. The redhead’s slender curves are as
enticing as her rabbit-food menus are maddening. And she’s
his main competition for the chance of a lifetime. Michaela overcame her own weight issues to become Flamingo
Island’s premiere spa chef. Now she has a chance to share
her innovative recipes for healthy living on a new cooking
show—if she can somehow outshine Paolo. His sizzling,
Latin-lover looks are more heart stopping than his decadent
cooking. And she’d love nothing better than to stick a fork
in his outsized ego. When the stage lights ignite, so does the competition…and a
sexual chemistry no one—least of all Paolo and Michaela—saw
coming. Suddenly, separating business from pleasure is as
impossible as separating a scrambled egg. And the big
question isn’t whose knife cuts fastest…it’s whose heart can
take the most heat. Warning: Contains two hot chefs duking it out in a lively
showdown of sexy rivalry. Mix in family drama, luscious
recipes and spicy mischief, and there’s more than just steam
rising out of the kitchen. May cause lusty cravings for
midnight indulgences.
ExcerptGRILL ME, BABY
So this was the infamous Paolo Santos. Michaela sized up her opponent in the waiting area of the
producer's office. The seriously hot Argentine seated
across from her looked so relaxed, nobody would have
guessed he was vying against her to host the hottest new
celebrity chef TV show, Miami Spice. A confident
smile spread over Paolo's rugged face as she assessed him.
His large, muscular body was sprawled across the sofa, with
one tanned arm draped across the sofa back and long legs
stretched before him. A crisp white linen shirt revealed a
hint of hard chest beneath a tailored buff suit. He looked
like a perfectly caramelized Argentine churrasco
steak. Good enough to eat—damn him! Michaela's stomach growled so loudly that Paolo raised an
amused eyebrow. A gentleman would have acted like he hadn't
heard it and discreetly looked away. "Hungry?" he asked with a brazen grin. His deep voice and
sexy Latin accent sounded as delicious as he looked. "Maybe just a little," she replied breezily. She was trying
to relax before her meeting with the producer, but cocky
Paolo Santos was doing his best to disarm her with steady,
smoldering looks. She smiled coolly and looked away.Focus, she told
herself. In a few minutes, she would have to sell herself
to Mr. Blumenthal, the producer, in order to land the host
spot. If she did, she'd become an instant celebrity chef
and her almost finished cookbook would rack up lots of
sales. She would also be able to pay back her parents every
cent they had shelled out for her education. Her parents,
two successful partners in the same law firm, still hadn't
forgiven her for dropping out of Duke Law School in her
third year. Adding insult to injury, she had chucked it all
to become a chef. Their grimace of shame when friends asked
about Michaela's new career never failed to make her
stomach churn. At thirty years of age, it still felt awful
being a failure in their eyes. She needed to use her nervous energy to show she could hold
her own alongside celebrity chefs Paula Deen's zaniness or
Rachael Ray's perkiness or Bobby Flay's wise guy banter.
But she wasn't the only one competing. She had Santos to
contend with, and for the life of her, Michaela couldn't
help staring at his mouth. It wasn't just the pair of
deep–slashed dimples that drew her attention; it was
his full lips that were probably great at
kissing...Stop, she told herself, concentrate
on the upcoming interview. Michaela focused on the stark, modern painting on the wall
before her, but the image of Paolo's white teeth gleaming
against his bronzed olive skin invaded her
thoughts—strong teeth poised to take a bite out of
her chances for the job. From the corner of her eye, she
caught his black–as–sin eyes giving her a slow
and thorough once–over. Were all Latin men so forward? Could be a cultural thing,
but he might be trying to seduce her into losing her focus.
She had to be on her toes around this one. From the moment
he'd stepped off the airplane from Buenos Aires and burst
upon the scene at Flamingo Island, an exclusive country
club residence island, Paolo had built up quite a rep as a
player. Oh, she'd heard plenty of gossip about the
executive chef's prowess, but today was the first time
she'd seen him in action. During the past half–hour, Michaela had watched Paolo
chat and flirt with the young, blonde receptionist, and
then with the producer's middle–aged secretary,
Ellie. His sexy accent and exotic looks had captivated both
women, as he charmed them with his impressions of Miami and
its beautiful inhabitants—meaning them, of course.
They hadn't even met yet and Santos's attitude was a bit
too familiar this morning. She already knew about his
magnetic appeal, especially with the wealthy socialites of
Flamingo Island who had standing reservations at Bella
Luna. But bad boy types didn't tempt her anymore, not after
her break–up with Jeff Convers, tennis bad boy
extraordinaire. That regrettable part of her life was
behind her.Don't think about Jeff, the two–timing
player, she told herself. She took a deep breath and
forced her thoughts back to meeting Edwin Blumenthal. "Don't look so worried, Maki." One corner of Paolo's mouth
quirked up as he regarded her with interest. "Relax." "If I were any more relaxed, I'd be asleep." She gave him a
raised brow look. Usually that squelched the
over–confident types. Distance was needed with this
one. His smile alone could charm the shell off an
escargot. "My name is Michaela. Maki sounds like a girlie
cocktail, and I'm anything but." He cocked an eyebrow and she took instant note of the
twitch at the corners of his lips. Paolo had glossy,
jet–black layers cut like Keith Urban's, except he
wasn't an Aussie country star—he was a hot chef
and a major player."Michaela?" he repeated,
drawing her attention to the shrugging gesture of his
upraised hands. He gave her hair an assessing glance. "You
should have been named Penny, it suits you better. Your
hair shines like a new copper penny." "Are you a hairdresser too?" she asked, smoothing the sides
of her long hair that were pulled half up. Paolo flashed a dazzling grin. "No, just a chef." He leaned
forward and gave her a hearty handshake. "Paolo Santos."
Strong grip. Nothing wrong with that, Michaela thought as
she snatched her hand back the moment it touched his warm,
callused palm. "Nice to meet you." "Encantado, likewise." He leaned back on the sofa
looking a little too pleased with himself. "I can't wait to
tell Mr. Blumenthal about my gimmick for the show." She eyed him suspiciously. "Nobody said anything about
coming up with a gimmick. Did you just make that up?" His brow furrowed. "Why would I do that?" She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "No gimmick can
substitute for fine cooking." She had certificates from The
Culinary Institute of America and Le Cordon Bleu in Paris
to prove it. Paolo snorted. "Is that what you call your rabbit food?" He
gazed up at the ceiling with a pained expression. When he
looked back at her, his eyes twinkled with mischief. "I
can't imagine anyone feeling satisfied after eating only
birdseed." She felt like pelting him with birdseed after that comment.
Given his lean waistline and muscular physique, Paolo had
to possess a high–octane metabolism that counteracted
his rich, Italian–Argentinean cooking. Not everyone was so blessed, certainly not she. She had
been chubby until age nineteen when, to her shock and her
family's, she'd found out she had high cholesterol and high
blood pressure. She'd had to drastically modify her eating
habits and start exercising. As a bona fide foodie, she
adored food and every nuance of preparing it. After years
of experimenting, she'd found ways to prepare delicious,
healthy meals—including desserts—and she was
eager to share them with others. She was about to set Paolo
straight in defense of her spa clients who gained weight
merely by sniffing his fattening cuisine, when Ellie
interrupted her."Mr. Blumenthal will see you both now,"
Ellie said. "Please follow me." "Both of us? Together?" The last thing Michaela wanted was
to share her interview with Paolo. Ellie looked mystified by Michaela's less than enthusiastic
reaction. "Yes, he wants to see both of you—together." Michaela nodded and covered her disappointment with a
friendly smile. She stood and smoothed the skirt of her
jade green, wrap–style dress. Paolo rose beside her and it was all she could do not to
gawk at him. He looked to be about six foot three with wide
shoulders and hard muscles that tapered in to a lean
waistline. He probably sported a six–pack under his
white shirt too. She straightened to her height of five
foot seven on her three–inch high–heeled pumps,
not wanting to feel at a disadvantage beside Paolo who was
so much bigger. She watched him cross his fingers for luck
and make a comical face at Ellie. Squaring her shoulders,
Michaela blocked out the woman's delighted giggle. Paolo reached for the door and opened it with a flourish,
allowing Michaela to enter before his towering form. "Thank
you." She caught a whiff of citrus and soap and inhaled
deeply in spite of herself. Startled by her heady reaction
to his clean, masculine scent, Michaela looked at Paolo and
caught him giving her behind an admiring glance. They
locked eyes and he winked. She raised her chin and turned
her attention toward the producer. Edwin Blumenthal, a gentleman of medium height and graying
hair who appeared to be in his early sixties, stood behind
a massive, granite–topped desk. His sky–blue
golf shirt and khaki pants made him look as if he'd just
finished teeing off. Lucky man, his spacious office
overlooked beautiful Biscayne Bay, currently occupied by
massive luxury cruise ships queued up to leave port.After
introductions, Michaela and Paolo stood facing the producer
across the desk. "Please sit down." Mr. Blumenthal motioned toward the gray
leather seats before his desk. "We have a lot to cover this
morning, so I'll be brief. Although Miami Spice
will be filmed and produced locally, it will appear
nationally on the Food Network in the coveted Saturday
morning line–up." Paolo propped both thumbs up in a gesture of
enthusiasm. "Fantastic!" Mr. Blumenthal nodded. "You two are the final contenders
for the competition. Since you both work on Flamingo
Island, it would be fitting to feature your cooking talents
together in one pilot episode." "Are you looking for two chefs for the series?" Paolo
asked, giving Michaela a quick glance. "No," he replied. "The show will have only one host, with
visiting chefs from area restaurants occasionally making
appearances." "Then why do we have to go on together?" Michaela asked,
keeping her tone light. "After eliminating the rest of the competition, the
producers watched your audition tapes again and narrowed it
down to the two of you," Mr. Blumenthal said. "They'd like
you to do one episode together to see how our viewers
react. You, Miss Willoughby, have an elegant style, as
opposed to Mr. Santos's earthy approach.""¿Sí?"
Paolo's white teeth flashed happily. "Gracias. We
both thank you, right, Maki?" Michaela smiled at Mr. Blumenthal. "They could tell all
this from a videotape?" Mr. Blumenthal nodded. "We're not in this business for
nothing.""But my cooking is totally different from
Paolo's." She paused, noting that Paolo had leaned forward
in his seat. "His cooking is rich and spicy," she said,
refraining from calling it bad for you. "Mine is light and
quite innovative. I have an amazing gimmick planned," she
blurted out, avoiding eye contact with Paolo. Why had she
said that? She never used that word and now she regretted
it, especially when she saw Mr. Blumenthal's surprised
reaction. "A gimmick? Haven't heard that word in a while. Well, good
for you," he said, beaming. "Good for you." She started to panic over her fib, but she covered it up
with a confident smile. "Won't you reconsider and allow me
to present a show that focuses on delicious,
health–conscious cuisine—one which everyone in
the audience can enjoy without worrying about calories?"
she asked Mr. Blumenthal. Paolo let out a robust chuckle. "Why ruin good food by
counting calories, eh, Mr. Blumenthal? We're not here to
lecture our audience. This is supposed to be a fun show,
isn't it?" "It will be fun, just not...high in calories," she said,
trying not to let Paolo's comments annoy her. Mr. Blumenthal gave her a measured look. "I'm sorry, Miss
Willoughby, but my mind is made up. I'm sure you can come
up with a menu together to complement your individual
styles. We'll need a complete meal that you will prepare
together before the audience." "No problem," Paolo said, before Michaela could answer. "We
would be happy to, right, Maki?" "Right...Paulie," she countered. If he insisted on calling
her a nickname, she might as well do the same. "Good," Mr. Blumenthal said. "I can see you two are well
acquainted." Paolo threw his arm around Michaela's shoulders. "No, we
just met in the lobby. But I can tell we're going to be
good friends." Did he have to smell so good? Paolo's muscular arm around
her was making her feel as wobbly as one of his flan
desserts. She moved away from him and put some steel
in her backbone. "After the pilot, one of you will be
chosen to come back to make a solo tape. And may the best
man—or woman—win," Mr. Blumenthal said. "Based
on the results before the live audience, we'll make our
final decision. Any questions?"Michaela had many questions
she wanted to ask, but Paolo beat her to it. "Just one." Paolo leaned forward eagerly. "Actually, it's
not a question, but a suggestion. My gimmick is sure to be
a hit." Mr. Blumenthal looked delighted. "That's the type of
enthusiasm I'm looking for, but save the gimmicks for
later. If you're invited back, you can use it on your solo
show." Michaela wondered what Paolo's gimmick was. He was quite
the performer, with a growing fan base. She had heard from
her clients about the sexy way he wore a white shirt rolled
up at the sleeves and tucked into black jeans, with a
bandanna tied over his jet–black hair as he prepared
food behind a glass panel in full view of the Bella Luna
patrons. The showman didn't only prepare food, he did
little dance steps and sang tangos as he sliced, chopped
and flambéed. "We'll tape live before an audience next Monday morning at
ten sharp. You have a week from today to prepare," Mr.
Blumenthal said briskly. "Ellie will put you in touch with
Ted Marton, the culinary producer. He'll need the menu list
so the kitchen staff and supporting chefs can prep your
ingredients." Mr. Blumenthal stood, signaling that the meeting was over.
Raising bushy brows, he peered at them through
steel–rim glasses. "If you have further questions,
don't hesitate to call Ellie any time this week." Michaela
extended her hand. "Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting
you." "Yes, likewise, Michaela," Mr. Blumenthal replied, shaking
her hand. The ever–inappropriate Paolo gave Mr. Blumenthal a
man hug. "Great meeting you, sir. You won't be
disappointed. Maki and I will plan a menu sure to make the
audience's mouth water." Michaela's left eye began to twitch out of control. Paolo winked at her. "Let's go, Maki." He gently nudged the
small of her back with his big hand. She shrugged his hand away from her back as she strode to
the elevator. When the doors were shut, she pressed the
lobby button and turned to him. "Listen, Paolo, this is a
professional arrangement and we need to get along. You can
start by calling me Michaela, not Maki." He quirked an eyebrow. "Why were you winking at me?" "I wasn't. You winked at me!" He pointed at her eye. "Your left eyelid was moving up and
down. Don't deny it." "It twitches sometimes when I'm stressed out." She
shouldn't have admitted it. He probably thought he had the
upper hand now. "I thought you said you were relaxed. You don't act like
it, Maki." Normally she could relax, but he had the unfortunate
ability to rile her up. They rode the elevator in silence.
As soon as they descended to the lobby and the doors
opened, she rushed out. "Hey!" he called. "Slow down." Michaela didn't stop until she reached her car and her eye
had stopped twitching. "Nena," he said once he reached her. "What have I
done to upset you?" "First of all, stop calling me nena." He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Why? It is an
endearment in Spanish." Endearment? "We just met, so there's no need for
endearments. And don't call me Maki. You did it again after
I told you to call me Michaela." Paolo's roguish dimples snagged her attention. "I couldn't
help myself. I think Maki is cute—like you. It suits
you." She looked away from the seductive twinkle in his eyes.
That was a first. Nobody ever called her cute. Her sister
Tiffany was cute, but not Michaela. "Save your charms and
gimmicks for someone else, Santos. I'm on to you." Paolo laughed out loud. "Is that the worst you could come
up with?" She lifted an eyebrow. "Would you like me to curse?" He gave a casual shrug of his wide shoulders. "It works for
me when I'm mad. Let me warn you, little spaghetti—"
Paolo's genial expression turned serious, "—I don't
get angry easily or often, but when I do, you won't want to
be there. And you won't like hearing me swear in Spanish." "Ooh, I'm terrified. I don't care if you curse in Spanish
or Japanese." He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good." "We need to come up with a menu as soon as possible." "I'll leave my sous chef in charge tonight. How about we
meet at my place at seven?" His place? Uh uh. "Can't tonight. Let's meet tomorrow...at
my apartment." He chuckled. "Pretty bossy aren't you?" He surprised her by
handing her his business card. "Call me." She read his card aloud, "Paolo Santos, magnificent chef."
She chuckled. "We'll see about that." "I'm not bragging. It's true." She waved his card. "Who came up with your title?""My
immigration lawyer. I came to this country with a visa that
states I have extraordinary ability." "Oh brother." His gaze turned sharp and his smile faded. "I'm planning on
winning," he stated as if it was a done deal. "I plan to knock 'em dead," she said confidently. "I want
this job more than anything in the world." Paolo's eyes glinted like onyx stones. "Me too, and I
always win." "You hadn't met me yet," she said, poking his chest with
her pointer finger. He rubbed his offended chest. "Your cooking is more suited
to anorexic socialites. Mine is purely for pleasure." "I guess the sky's the limit when you're clogging
arteries," she retorted. "I don't only prepare Italian and Argentinean cuisine. I
can make everything and it is delicious." He kissed his
fingertips with a resounding smack. "Grilling, or
parrillada as we say in Argentina, is my
specialty. Now you're probably going to say that grilling
isn't healthy." "Scoff all you like, but my conscience is
clear. My clients eat well and feel great. Many of them
have serious conditions such as diabetes and heart
disease." "You forgot boredom and too much money," he said, with a
wry twist of his mouth. "What can you do that Weight
Watchers hasn't done?" The man was getting on her last nerve. "My cooking wins hands down," he added blithely. "Ha!" she huffed. They were getting nowhere exchanging
barbs. She spun on her heel and stalked away. Paolo caught up with her in two strides. "Until tomorrow.
Ciao, Maki. Can't wait to see your
gimmick." His dimples flashed to taunt her as he turned and
ambled toward his tomato red Alfa Romeo convertible. How
fitting that he drove that car; he was an Alpha Romeo, all
right. Michaela watched him take off his jacket and fling it on
the back seat, her gaze drawn to his broad shoulders and
wide back that tapered into a lean waistline above a
compact butt. Try as she might, she couldn't stop staring
as he got into the car and drove away. Damn the man for
looking so hot as the wind ruffled his thick hair. As Paolo exited the parking lot, he turned to wave
good–bye with a confident grin. Michaela quickly
looked away and got into her car. She glanced up at the
June sky and noticed a cluster of purple clouds closing in
on the clear blue expanse. It would be fitting if he got
caught in the downpour. Smiling to herself, she took great
pleasure in an image of Paolo, sopping wet and bedraggled
as he drove his flashy convertible back to Flamingo Island. He was so full of himself, she was itching to take him down
a few pegs and roast him over his own parrillada. Magnificent chef, indeed!
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