Island Heat. Sarah Mayberry

he said, shrugging again.

      She reached out and snatched the rolling pin from the top drawer before he could close it. “A little common courtesy wouldn’t go astray,” she said. “I have been working in this kitchen for two days, you know.”

      “Who’s the guest chef here, you or me?” he asked, turning to face her.

      God, he wanted her to fight back, he suddenly realized. He wanted her to say something so incendiary, so provocative that he’d have every excuse in the world to tap into the bellyful of anger that had been growing inside him ever since Danique dropped her bomb.

      “We’re supposed to work together, share this kitchen,” she said, sidestepping his question.

      “I repeat, who is the guest chef?” he asked.

      She glared at him. He waited for her to pick up the gauntlet that he’d thrown down.

      “You always were an arrogant jerk,” she said.

      He felt a fierce surge of satisfaction. At last, something he could sink his teeth into.

      “I’m arrogant? That’s pretty rich, coming from the Ice Queen,” he said.

      The hot retort he’d been expecting from her never came. Instead she paled, and he saw that she clenched her hands into fists.

      “Don’t call me that,” she said with quiet intensity, her voice wavering.

      It threw him utterly. He wanted to fight, but she’d just thrown him a curveball. He’d been called a lot of things in his time—insensitive, irresponsible, childish—but no one had ever accused him of being deliberately cruel. He had the sudden sense that if he pushed any harder, Tory might burst into tears.

      It was so removed from his memories of the self-contained, coolly poised young woman he’d trained with that he was forced to look away.

      But it didn’t mean he was going to concede the battle. Tory hadn’t changed that much; if he gave her an inch, she’d take charge and start throwing her weight around as though she owned the place. Working methodically, he began to rearrange the drawers once again. After a few seconds, Tory made a small disgusted sound in the back of her throat, then she elbowed her way past him and pulled open the bottom drawer, dumping the rolling pin back in it. Shoving the drawer shut with her foot, she crossed her arms over her chest and challenged him with her eyes.

      “I’ll just move it later,” he said.

      “Try it.”

      “Oh, I will,” he assured her.

      Her eyes narrowed, and her cheeks puffed out as if she were holding in a few choice words of four letters.

      He found himself fixating on her mouth, on the full rosebud of her lips. For a long second he couldn’t take his eyes off them.

      “If I could have, I would have said no to this—you know that,” she finally said.

      “Then I guess we’re both going to have to suck it up.”

      She turned away without another word, and he stared at her back for a long beat. It hadn’t been anything like the first meeting he’d anticipated. He’d expected the conflict but not her vulnerability, and he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Frowning, he got down to work.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE TERMBUTT-HEADHAD been expressly invented for Ben Cooper, Tory decided as she forced another smile onto her stiff lips. They’d nearly finished their afternoon cooking demonstration, and if she had a voodoo doll made in his image, she’d twist its head off and throw it in the rubbish disposal.

      She bristled all over again as she remembered the way he’d walked in as though he owned the place and started rearranging the kitchen. He was exactly the way she’d remembered him, only more so. More confident. More cocky. More charismatic.

      God, how she hated admitting that to herself, especially after what he’d said to her. But it was the truth. Age had not wearied him. Age had in fact been damned kind to him. His body was stronger, more muscular, his face more attractive with its laugh lines and the hint of roguish crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.

      The thing that really got her goat—apart from his born-to-rule mentality in their shared kitchen—was that he patently thought he was God’s gift to womankind. It was no wonder, of course, given the way the women in the audience responded to him. It almost made her ashamed of her sex. Word had clearly spread since their morning session, and the number of women seated in the theater had doubled for this afternoon’s lecture. And it wasn’t because they wanted to hear more from Tory. She had no illusions there. They had come to ogle and flirt with Ben—and, worse, he was encouraging it.

      For starters, there was his chef’s uniform. Every chef she knew wore a white or black jacket with checked pants. It was traditional, professional. Ben, however, wore a pair of dark indigo wrinkled linen trousers paired with a navy singlet worn beneath his open white chef’s coat, the ensemble casually revealing his well-sculpted chest and long, strong legs to all comers. She’d stared outright when he’d come back into the cuisine center after changing.

      “You’re not going to do up your jacket?” she’d asked him incredulously when he’d started preparing food for their demonstration.

      “Nope. Cooler this way.”

      “No doubt, but I would have thought that safety might rate a little higher than your groove factor,” she’d said.

      Chef’s coats were designed to protect the wearer’s torso and arms and be easily removed in case of hot spills. She’d escaped many a burn over the years thanks to her chef’s whites.

      He’d laughed briefly to himself. “Man, you are so uptight. I’d forgotten that. I meant it’s less hot this way, not more fashionable. And I won’t be working with hot oil, so the risk factor is low. Unless you think this coconut salad is going to leap up and attack me?”

      She’d ignored him, just as she’d tried to ignore everything else about him, from his low laugh to the deep timbre of his voice to the fresh, crisp aftershave he wore. It was hard to ignore his skill in the kitchen, however.

      She’d opened both sessions, talking about spices in general in the first, then jerk mixes more specifically in the second, explaining, among other things, how many of the strong spices in Caribbean foods had originally been employed to cover the lack of refrigeration in the region and that jerk pork had been brought to the islands by the Cormantee slaves from West Africa in the 1600s. Once she’d finished her spiel, Ben had stepped up and immediately upstaged her with his humor, his stupid exposed chest and his show-off cooking skills.

      The audience had oohed at his speed with a knife. They’d aahed when he’d dramatically flambéed some bananas in the pan. They’d laughed when he’d juggled mangoes for them.

      And she’d stood on the sidelines and known that her own presentation had been about as interesting as a stale bottle of beer by comparison. Now, watching him invite the audience up to taste-test the meals he’d just demonstrated, she thought of her carefully prepared lectures, all her local information, all the images she’d sourced and organized for each lecture. She’d have to stay up late tonight to revamp it all if she wasn’t going to wind up looking like a theology lecturer by comparison for the rest of the cruise.

      Which brought her back to why Ben Cooper was a butt-head. He was funnier than her. He oozed charisma. And he was sexy. How was she supposed to compete with that?

      And it was a competition, she had no doubt about that. She’d caught him watching her out of the corners of his eyes a few times, enjoying her growing awareness that his portion of their dual presentation was a hit and that hers was most definitely a flop.

      But the worst thing—the absolute very, very worst thing—was that she wasn’t immune to his flashy charms, either. She’d tried with every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep her