Bachelor at Her Bidding (Bachelor Auction Book 2)(11)

He tipped the glossy meringue onto the almond mixture, and folded it in with a spatula before spooning the mixture into a piping bag.

“I can’t believe how fast you are,” she said, watching him pipe circles onto baking paper. “And those circles are all perfect.”

“It comes with practice. My first ones were all over the place.” He seemed warmer again, now he was talking about food and not his workplace. Clearly this was his passion.

Passion.

Heat rose up her spine and she did her best to damp it down. This was so not appropriate. Even if he was the most attractive man she’d met in a long time, nothing was going to happen between them. She really needed to get a grip.

“I’m going to leave these for about half an hour to form a skin,” he said, “and meanwhile I’m making the ganache.”

She watched him chop dark chocolate at amazing speed while he brought cream to boil in a small pan, then poured the cream over the chocolate. His hands were so deft, so sure. Again, she thought about they’d feel against her skin, and then she became aware that he was talking to her.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” she said, and felt a guilty blush steal through her face.

“I said, when I’ve finished beating the butter into the ganache, would you like a taste?”

Her gaze met his and awareness slammed through her. She reminded herself sharply that he was talking about the chocolate filling, not his mouth. “Yes, please.” She was horribly conscious of the fact that her voice sounded husky and hoped he couldn’t guess why.

She watched his hands moving swiftly over the bowl as he finished the last stage of making the ganache.

Then he took a teaspoon, dipped it into the mixture and held it out to her – bowl-first rather than stem-first, so it was clear that he intended to feed her a taste.

This felt very, very intimate; and in turn that made her feel oddly shy. Even with Nick she’d never done anything like this.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, leaned forward and licked the spoon.

“Oh, my God. That could rival Sage’s best chocolates,” she whispered, feeling her eyes widen.

He gave her a slow, sexy smile. “More?”

Chocolate. She knew he meant chocolate. And the pictures in her head really needed to go away. Like now.

He used a clean spoon to dip into the bowl of ganache; except this time his hand moved slightly when she leaned forward, and she felt the chocolate smear against the corner of her mouth.

“Whoops – sorry.” Though he didn’t sound in the slightest bit apologetic.

And her pulse rose sharply when he scooped the ganache from the corner of her mouth with the tip of his forefinger, then placed it in his mouth to suck the chocolate off, keeping eye contact with her the whole time.

It was the sexiest thing she’d seen in her whole life.

And her common sense had clearly been bundled outside and locked out of the apartment, because she found herself dipping her forefinger into the chocolate mix and smearing it along his lower lip.

His pupils went huge.

“Rachel,” he whispered softly.

And then he pushed the bowl to one side, leaned forward and kissed her.

He tasted of chocolate and man. An unbeatable combination.

The next thing she knew, her hands were in his hair and his arms were wrapped tightly round her, and he was kissing her hard. His mouth was warm and sure against hers, coaxing her and teasing her until she opened her mouth and let him deepen the kiss. And the way he explored her mouth made her feel as if she was floating.

Crazy.

This really shouldn’t be happening.

And yet part of her was so glad that it was – that they were finally acting on the unspoken attraction between them. That his clever, capable hands were stroking her back, and even through the material of her dress his touch made every nerve-end sing with pleasure.

When he broke the kiss, they were both shaking.

“Uh. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Sorry,” he muttered.

“Me, too. It was both of us,” she whispered, wanting to be fair.

He still looked panicky. Clearly he wanted this and yet didn’t want it, which made him as mixed-up as she was. “I need to put the macarons in to bake,” he said, and pulled away.

Just as well she hadn’t been stupid enough to give in to the temptation to stroke his face and tell him that it was OK, because obviously it was very far from OK.

She shut up and let him deal with the oven.

By the time he’d finished putting the macarons in the oven, they’d both recovered a little bit, and Rachel determined to treat him as if he was one of her patients – stick to the facts, keep the emotion out of it, and be friendly but keep an appropriate distance between them.

“I’m preparing the crab cakes next,” he said. But first he made his own mayonnaise – using nothing more than a whisk and a bowl, drizzling the oil onto the egg yolks and whipping them together until the mixture was thick and cream-colored and glossy.

“That’s impressive,” she couldn’t help saying.

“Not that impressive – it really doesn’t take a lot of effort. Plus it tastes better than the stuff out of a jar,” he said with a smile. “By the way, in case you were worrying, I always use pasteurized eggs. So the home-made mayo isn’t going to make you ill with salmonella or anything.”