Hot Blooded

admit his friend was right to mock. At this rate, Bastien
would be dust before he and Mariann held hands.
    "You look pretty today," he blurted out desperately, his eyes honing
helplessly on her nape, so slim and bitable. Cursing to himself, he tried to
quash his arousal. The last thing he needed was to flash his fangs. "Your hair,
um, looks very free."
    The sound Mariann made was more snort than laugh. "'Free' is what my hair
does best."
    To his relief, when she turned to set his coffee and water on the counter,
she was smiling. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she met his eyes.
Hers were so warm and soft he could have drowned. "You know, Mr. Luce, if the
espresso is too strong for you, I can make drip."
    "No," he said, his voice gone dark, his hand moving impulsively to cover
hers. "I like the way your espresso tastes."
    In all their meetings, he had been careful not to thrall her, wanting her to
fall for him on her own. Despite his restraint, she went as still at his touch
as if he had. Her pupils swelled, her delicate, rosy lips parting for breath.
She wore no lipstick. All her colors were her own, from the flush on her cheeks
to the tiny freckles on her nose.
    I love you, he thought, force of will all that kept the sentiment inside his
head. I would do anything to make you mine.
    "It's Bastien," he corrected, some scrap of his brain still functioning. "Not
Mr. Luce."
    "Bastien," she said dazedly.
    A smile spread across his face. She might think he was a weirdo, but she was
wanning to him all the same. He could hear it in her voice. He felt himself all
of a sudden confident and masculine. "Mariann," he said, letting his accent
soften her name. "Would you like to—"
    He would never know if his invitation to dinner would have been accepted. The
outside door slammed open and a tall blonde bombshell stalked inside. Shaped
like an expensive hourglass from bust to hip, she wore a snug-fitting, ash-gray
suit, her debt to Marilyn obvious. A diamond as big as a blueberry sparkled on
her left hand. Despite her bursting in like a squall, not a hair on her head was
mussed. She was just as fresh as if it were ten in the morning instead of five.
Whoever she was, either she got up early herself, or she'd put some planning
into this entrance.
    At her appearance, Mariann yanked her hand from his.
    With one frosted pink nail, the woman pointed at his beloved. "You," she
said, "had better stop spreading lies."
    Mariann lifted her sharp little chin. "Which lies would those be? That you
stole my grandfather's recipes or that you ran off with my husband? You're
welcome to him, by the way, with my thanks."
    Bastien had tensed in preparation to protect her, but Mariann's quick retort
assured him there was no need. The other woman might have been grateful if he'd
interfered. An unhealthy shade of brick washed her sculpted cheeks.
    "You were always jealous of me," she said. "Always hoarding your little
secrets, pretending I wasn't good enough to bake your precious grandfather's
pies. But the whole world knows I'm good enough now. If you keep trying to smear
my name, the studio's lawyers will sue your stupid, no-iron pants off."
    "Really? Even if I can prove every word I say?"
    "You can't." The woman's confidence was clear as she tossed her head. "It's
your word against mine."
    "Not exactly." With a smile that would have done a Borgia proud, Mariann
brought a stained leather journal from beneath the counter. She set it on the
clean glass top of the display case next to the register. "This is my
grandfather's recipe book, which tracks the development of every signature
dessert he made, from 1940 on. I had the paper, the handwriting and the ink
authenticated by a lab. So you see, Arabella, when I spoke to that reporter at
the
Boston Globe
, I had evidence to back up my claims."
    Her breath hissing through her nose, the woman grabbed for the book. Bastien
slapped his hand on top of it before she could. She gaped at him as if he were
mad, then turned dismissively back to Mariann.
    "You're nothing," she said. "Just a small-town Betty Crocker who hasn't the
sense to hold on to anything she has. I proved it eighteen months ago when we
split and, believe me, I will again."
    She swept out as regally as she'd swept in, leaving the grounds with a squeal
of tires. Bastien broke the silence by sneezing at her perfume. Heather's
response was more deliberate.
    "So," she said, "that was the