Chapter One
“What the hell?” Rafe Sampogna muttered as he stepped into the dimly lit dining room of his North Beach eatery, closing the door behind him. He’d planned to work on new menu creations since he couldn’t sleep—just tossed and turned, worrying excessively about the slow decline in patronage at Sampogna’s. But something was amiss.
The modest dinner crowd he’d had that evening in his third-generation, Italian restaurant had long since departed. The staff had gone home hours ago. So what was with the loud rock-and-roll music coming from his kitchen at three o’clock in the morning?
“Didn’t know Billy Idol was in town for a concert,” he mumbled as he moved forward to investigate. The most reasonable explanation for the intrusion was that Tonio, his sous chef and cousin, also wanted time in the kitchen to work on new recipes without waking his wife and newborn twins back home. The worst-case scenario was that Rafe had entered the building during a robbery in progress.
Anger flashed through him at the idea of someone raiding or vandalizing his well-stocked and tidy kitchen. His pulse kicked up a few notches. He pulled his iPhone from the front pocket of his jeans, prepared to dial 911.
But the burglar angle didn’t sit right with him. Since the San Francisco Police Department hadn’t converged on the restaurant and he heard no sirens in the distance, he could deduce the silent security alarm had been disengaged by someone who knew the code, like Tonio. Not tripped by a robber.
Besides, would a thief really take the time to put on tunes? Doubtful.
Yet Tonio would be listening to La Bohème or Pavarotti, not classic rock. Rafe stuffed his phone back into his pocket as Option C occurred to him. Now that he thought about it, the music selection—and the decibel level—was a dead giveaway to a much more appealing explanation of who was in his kitchen.
One corner of his mouth lifted as he crossed the hardwood floor. He didn’t have to go into super-stealth mode because the cranked-up bass on the stereo absorbed the sound of his footsteps. He had a feeling he was about to foil a birthday surprise, but seeing the woman he suspected he’d find behind closed doors was too exciting a prospect to pass up.
Undetected, he reached the swinging door that led to the kitchen and peered through the small, round window to see what Jenna Scarsdale, famed restaurant makeover maven—and Rafe’s ex-wife—was up to while listening to one of her favorite performers. He assumed he’d find her whipping up a cake or some decadent pastry for a belated celebration. Yet that wasn’t at all what he discovered.
Adrenaline shot through Rafe as he took in the unexpected scene before him. The raven-haired beauty he’d never fallen out of lust or love with stood three-quarters of the way across his spacious kitchen. With her back to him, she shook her very fine ass to Billy’s hard-driving beat while she rocked the cradle of love right along with him.
Oh, so much better than cake.
Rafe whistled under his breath. His groin tightened. “Happy birthday to me.”
Clearly unaware of his presence, Jenna shimmied provocatively in nothing more than a black lace bra and matching boy-shorts, the latter of which hugged most of her enticing cheeks. The scalloped edges of the scant material left two crescents of tanned, toned and tantalizing flesh for his viewing pleasure.
And what a sight that was.
Intrigued and instantly turned-on by the private dance, Rafe pushed the door open and stepped inside, quiet enough not to disturb her. Still preoccupied, Jenna’s head whipped from side to side, causing long strands of dark hair to fly this way and that. She raised one hand in the air, tipped with French-manicured nails. The other appeared to be splayed across her bare belly. Her shapely hips gyrated to the beat of the music as she sang along with the lyrics, her sultry voice a nice complement to Billy’s raspy one.
Propping a shoulder against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest, Rafe watched as the object of his never-ending desire moved in a way that made him thankful his dark-gray, button-down shirt wasn’t tucked into his jeans. He felt an erection coming on behind the fly of his Levi’s, a typical response to Jenna in her underwear—and to the memories of her out of them, which naturally infiltrated his mind.
He really ought to alert her of his presence, so he didn’t scare the hell out of her. But Rafe couldn’t seem to find his voice—or the appropriate words—as adrenaline flooded every nook and cranny of his being. And his usually sensible brain. He couldn’t muster the good grace to put a halt to the risqué, Playboy-worthy vignette taking place before him, starring the sexy temptress he’d fantasized regularly about since the day he’d met her, five years ago on an Italian wine tour. Even the divorce hadn’t curbed his appetite for her.
When she spun around, he saw that her eyes were closed, giving him a few moments to study her beautifully sculpted face with the high cheekbones and inviting lips. His heart stammered at the sight before him. Steady beats in his chest hadn’t even returned before she shook her head and her long, lustrous h
air fell across her forehead. She had no idea she had an audience as she pulled another seductive move during the guitar solo. Bending at the knees, she twisted her way down to her haunches before she swiveled back up to a standing position.
Temptress, indeed.
She snapped her head back and her hair flew away from her face. She started to sing again, putting quite a bit of oomph behind her vocals.
Her lids opened. Her gaze landed on him. She let out a sharp gasp, audible over the music. Her eyes widened in shocked disbelief—or embarrassment—as he stood casually before her.
Jenna’s body instantly stilled. Her mouth gaped.
“Hi, there,” he said, grinning at her.
“Rafe!” she shrieked, pink tinging her cheeks. Her hand pressed to her heaving chest as though her heart pounded as erratically as his did. The other hand held the remote control to the stereo and she shut the music off. In a breathy voice, she said, “You could have warned me you were here!”
“I would have,” he told her, his own voice strained. The mere sight of her elicited myriad emotions deep within him and caused a riot of sensations in his gut and groin. “But you left me speechless, babe.”
He took her in from her tousled hair, down her scantily clad body to her sexy bare feet. Then back up. Oh, so slowly. Yeah, it was uncouth. But then again…she was half-naked in his kitchen. Didn’t that entitle him to enjoy the scintillating visual while the unexpected opportunity presented itself?
Dragging the hand from her ample chest, she wagged a finger at him. “Stop eyeing me as though I’m the Last Supper.”
“Impossible,” he said, biting back a groan. She sparked an instant craving he desperately wanted to satisfy…and caused his cock to twitch.
Down boy.
Whatever she was doing in his kitchen, Rafe suspected it had nothing to do with arousing him on purpose. Much to his extreme disappointment.
She crossed to the long, stainless-steel prep table set farther back and put aside the remote. Then she grabbed the dress draped over the corner and pressed the siren-red material to her breasts. “Well, isn’t this awkward?”
Despite her words, there was a hint of exhilaration in her tone that told him she wasn’t exactly mortified she’d been caught, literally, with her pants down. Inhibited was not a word Rafe would ever associate with his ex, and that made it easy—and enticing—to flirt with her.
Even when he knew he shouldn’t.
“What’s the big deal?” he asked. “You used to do the same thing in my loft when we’d make dinner together.” Rare occasions because she hadn’t been around much during those days, but still…
“Yes, well, the difference is that we were married back then.” She unzipped the dress, prepared to step into it.
“Hold on there,” he said as he pushed away from the doorframe, unable to keep his distance a second longer. He strode toward her, snatching the garment from her hands. “Not so fast. You’re giving me quality fantasy material to work with here.”
“Rafe.” She cocked her head to one side. With a sassy look, she demanded, “Give me the dress.”
“Sure, sure,” he said. “In a minute. First…tell me what you’re doing in my kitchen in your underwear at three o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise.” Engaged in the battle of wills, she planted her hands on her hips, just above the curve-hugging waist of her boy-shorts that showed off her flat stomach and sexy navel. “What are you doing here at three o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, I do own the joint, babe.”
Her expression turned suspicious. “No one tipped you off that I was coming in tonight?”
“Not a soul sold you out. I truly got the surprise peepshow of a lifetime.” He grinned again at the reminder of her wicked little number. “Though, I’d enjoy it more if you’d lose the bra and panties.”
Jenna’s eyes rolled before she looked away, clearly trying to hide a smile. She shook her head, as though knowing it was best not to encourage him, yet not being able to keep from flirting with him anymore than he could with her.
Returning her attention to him, she said, “My dancing isn’t your surprise.” She went for her clothes again, but he whisked his hand behind his back.
“Not yet,” he said, holding her dress hostage. “Let me be a caveman for more than five seconds. It is my birthday, after all.”