Turning Up The Heat

“Teach me to be sexy...”

Phoebe Mars can’t believe her chef boyfriend has unceremoniously dumped her. She’s beautiful, successful, one of the city’s hottest pastry chefs...and determined to show her ex she’s worth fighting for. Notorious player Heath Jensen is just the tall stud of sexy hotness to help her win back her man!

Of course, there are a few teeny complications. For one, he’s Phoebe’s friend. For another, he’s her ex’s business partner. And when Heath volunteers to help her discover her wild side, Phoebe knows she doesn’t want her ex back. She falls for Heath’s charms, but outside the bedroom, he seems happy to just stay friends. Can Phoebe go back...especially when her heart is on the line?

“What do you see in the mirror, Phoebe?”

Phoebe saw an incredibly hot man more than capable of giving her a sexual adventure.

That’s probably not what Heath means.

With their bodies so close, could he feel the quiver that went through her? She was turned on, and the longer they stood together, the more the ache of arousal intensified.

“You have great hair and a great neck, too.” Heath trailed his knuckles across the curve of her neck. “Gives a man ideas. About doing this.”

Transfixed, she watched him lower his dark head toward her, anticipation coiling tighter until his teeth grazed an excruciatingly sensitive spot behind her jaw. The woman in the mirror was flushed, her lips parted, her hardened nipples visible through the silk of the tank top.

Her total focus was on the dual sensations of his mouth hot on her skin and the rock-hard erection pressed against her.

Phoebe might not be an experienced seductress or the type of woman who had leather in her lingerie drawer, but she’d sure as hell aroused Heath...

Dear Reader,

I live in the South, where the summers are incredibly steamy. Just when you think it can’t get any hotter, the temperature rises a little more...which I used as my inspiration for the relationship between pastry chef Phoebe Mars and sexy restaurant owner Heath Jensen.

Recently jilted by a critically acclaimed chef, Phoebe dreads running into him at a party. When Heath Jensen kisses her to help make her ex jealous, she’s stunned—especially by how hot the kiss is. Knowing that she’s playing with fire but unable to resist, she agrees with Heath’s suggestion that they pretend to be dating. Not only will it help salvage her pride and show her ex what he’s missing, she’s learning a lot about the art of seduction from Heath.

But when the three of them end up in Miami to scout a new restaurant location, Phoebe and Heath’s pretend affair becomes very real...and very hot.

Friends-to-lovers books are among my favorite to write (probably because I married my best friend!) and I’d love to hear what you think of Phoebe and Heath’s story. Drop me an email at booksbytanya@gmail.com or follow me on Twitter (@tanyamichaels) to chat about books, TV and my dog’s ongoing plot to murder me by tripping me on the staircase.

Happy reading!

Tanya

Turning Up the Heat
Tanya Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TANYA MICHAELS, a New York Times bestselling author and five-time RITA® Award nominee, has been writing love stories since middle-school algebra class (which probably explains her math grades). Her books, praised for their poignan­cy and humor, have received awards from readers and reviewers alike. Tanya is an active member of Romance Writers of America and a frequent public speaker. She lives outside Atlanta with her very supportive husband, two highly imaginative kids and a bichon frise who thinks she’s the center of the universe.

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Thank you to Trish Milburn, who has been there for me in countless ways—including brainstorming naughty books over the phone at one in the morning.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Extract

Copyright

1

“I DON’T KNOW which is the bigger betrayal—that you called my boss behind my back, or that you did it first thing in the morning.” Phoebe Mars shoved her hair out of her face to make sure her roommate got the full effect of her glare.

Completely unapologetic, Gwen sat on the edge of the queen bed and handed her the cordless phone. “I’m allowed to call him. I knew him first, remember?”

True. After Gwen had introduced her to James Falk last year, he’d joked for months about stealing Phoebe away from her pastry-chef job to design signature desserts for All the Right Notes, a tapas bar that featured live music and wine tastings. He’d been stunned when she’d actually taken him up on it three weeks ago—although, not as stunned as she’d been by what had happened after she’d changed jobs.

She cleared her throat, trying to sound awake and articulate. “Hello?”

An exuberant person, James didn’t waste time on small talk. “Why didn’t you tell me it was one of your closest friend’s birthdays?” he demanded. “I insist you take the night off and go to the party!”

Gwendolyn Yeager, you are a dead woman. Gwen knew perfectly well why Phoebe didn’t want to attend that party. “But Saturday night is our busiest,” she protested, “and—”

“Honey, I adore you—almost as much as the customers adore your desserts—but we survived for months without you. We’ll survive this one night. After what you’ve been through, you deserve some fun.”

He meant her broken heart. Perhaps Gwen had neglected to mention that Phoebe’s ex would also be at the party. Seeing him would be the opposite of fun. It had been ten days, but the breakup still felt more like a bad dream than reality.

She wasn’t ready to face him. “How about I come in for a couple of hours but don’t work my full shift?” The offer was only partially motivated by cowardice. James was a dream to work for and she didn’t want to let him down.

“Not a chance. Gwen requested prep time to help you get ready. You are going to walk into that party at your most fabulous and show that ex of yours what he’s missing.”

Ah. So James did know. They ambushed me.

“Gotta run,” James said, “but Steve and I want to hear all the details tomorrow!” The line went dead.

Dropping the phone on the pale blue comforter, Phoebe turned to her roommate. “I hate you.”

“I can live with that.”

“And I’m getting a dead bolt for my bedroom door,” she proclaimed.

“We’ll pick one up while we’re out. Now you go shower while I make coffee. We have a big day of shopping ahead of us.”

“Ugh.” Phoebe flopped backward, pulling her pillow over her face. She loved shopping for recipe ingredients and kitchen supplies, but she doubted Gwen was taking her to look at infrared candy thermometers.

Gwen poked her in the shoulder. “You remember how determined you were in high school that you were going to tutor me into passing the geometry final? That’s how determined I am now. As far as I’m concerned, how a woman looks when she runs into her ex for the first time is tied in importance with how a bride looks on her wedding day.”

Weddings—the end result of getting engaged. Behind the pillow, Phoebe’s eyes watered. In hindsight, it was hilarious how wrong she’d been about her last date with Cam.

Painfully, agonizingly hilarious.

In addition to being lovers for two years, she and Chef Cameron Pala had been colleagues, working together at Piri, the newest Atlanta hotspot. Last month, Cam had begun hinting that if they were ever going to move in together or get married, maybe it would be healthier for their relationship if they didn’t also work together. So she’d taken the job at All the Right Notes. After she’d been there a few days, Cam had taken her for a walk in Piedmont Park, where they’d met. When he’d reached for her hand, his expression unusually somber, she’d actually believed...

Gwen lifted the corner of the pillow. “In retrospect, it was insensitive of me to mention brides, but you don’t really want to get married, Pheeb. You’re only twenty-five. Settle down in your thirties. Our twenties are the perfect time for wild, sexy adventures!”

The corner of Phoebe’s mouth twitched. Gwen had held a similar philosophy during their teenage years. “We have to live life to the fullest before we turn into boring adults, Pheeb,” she’d said. Her friend had been an audacious blonde bombshell since high school; she’d also been a sanity-saving counterbalance to Phoebe’s bitter mother.

Grateful for years of Gwen’s friendship, Phoebe sat up, pledging her cooperation. “All right. Make me fabulous.” If anyone could, it was Gwen Yeager, professional makeup artist. She worked on a television show that was shot outside Atlanta and occasionally freelanced for movies that filmed in the area.

“Yes!” With a triumphant smile, Gwen scrambled off the bed. “I can’t wait to find you the perfect dress. As relieved as I was when you finally stopped wearing baggy cargo pants—”

“They were considered fashionable when we were in high school.”

“—you still hide your bod in those long-sleeved, double-breasted jackets.”

“All chefs wear them!”

“Not tonight.” Gwen’s blue eyes lit with glee. “Tonight, you are a Gwen Yeager creation. Cameron will fall to his knees and beg you to take him back.”

“You really think so?” Traitorous hope warmed her heart.

“He’s absolutely going to want you back—if not today, then soon. You’re the best thing to ever happen to him.” She frowned. “The real question is, can you forgive him for hurting you like that?”

“I don’t know.” But Phoebe desperately wanted the chance to find out.

* * *

“FINALLY, HEATH JENSEN ARRIVES! Now it’s a party.” Bobbi Barrett, the guest of honor and Heath’s favorite food blogger, greeted him with a wide grin and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Happy birthday, beautiful.” Heath scanned the room over her shoulder, impressed that Bobbi and her boyfriend had been able to cram so many people into their Buckhead condo. Guests filled the living room and kitchen and spilled out onto the balcony. A brunette he was pretty sure he’d slept with waved at him from her perch on the arm of a low-backed sofa. “Quite a crowd. Not worried the neighbors will complain?”

“Of course not. The neighbors were the first people we invited.”

“Smart. Where can I put this?” He held up the small gold box containing her birthday present.

“Ooh, I’ll take that!” She eyed the box speculatively, as if trying to guess its contents. “But you know the only gift you had to get me was a reservation. Booking a table at Piri is next to impossible. You and Cam must be thrilled.”

Heath had always believed the upscale Portuguese-fusion restaurant he’d opened with Chef Cameron Pala would be successful—he never would have invested such a significant chunk of money otherwise—but buzz had spread even faster than he’d hoped. “You don’t need a reservation. You’re welcome anytime.”

“In that case, you’re officially my favorite person. Just don’t tell everyone else.” She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Speaking of my other guests, I should warn you that the Kemp sisters have been doing shots. Brace yourself—they have a bet going on which one of them you’ll take home tonight.”

“How high are the stakes? I’d hate for anyone to lose on my account. Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do would be to invite them both back to my place.”

Bobbi smacked his arm. “You are terrible.”

“Maybe I’m just misunderstood.” He gazed into her eyes, making a halfhearted attempt to keep a straight face. “How do you know my torrid love life isn’t an attempt to comfort myself because I’m secretly pining for you and cursing that Matt met you first?”

“Did I hear my name?” Matt Grantham slid an arm around Bobbi’s waist and nuzzled her neck.

“I was just telling Bobbi that you’re the envy of all the single straight men in Atlanta,” Heath said. “She’s a hell of a woman.”

Matt nodded. “Gorgeous, smart, funny and dynamite in b—oof.” He grunted when Bobbi’s elbow connected with his rib cage.

She shot him a stern look, but the twitch of her lips showed she was fighting a smile. “That’s more than enough about me. Matt, why don’t you get Heath a drink while I mingle?”

“What’s your poison?” Matt asked, leading Heath to a bar in the corner of the living room.

Studying the selection of liquors, Heath chose a top-shelf bourbon. While Matt poured, they exchanged opinions on the baseball season. Heath was analyzing the Braves’ pitching when he caught a flash of familiar red-gold waves in his peripheral vision. Phoebe? Last time he’d talked to her, she’d said she had to work and wouldn’t be here tonight. Nonetheless, he tried to get a better look at the woman as she stepped outside through the open balcony doors. He’d never seen Phoebe wear anything as short as that glittery navy dress, yet recognition sparked through him.

His gaze dipped to her heart-shaped ass and supple legs. Definitely Phoebe. A better man might feel guilt over how well he knew her body. It wasn’t entirely appropriate that he’d memorized the curves of a friend and former employee—but Heath hadn’t earned his reputation by being appropriate.

He interrupted whatever Matt was saying. “I just saw Phoebe Mars. I should go say hi.”

“Oh, right. She worked at Piri, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. She was our pastry chef.” Until Heath’s business partner had talked her into quitting.

Selfish SOB. Cam had strung her along and cost Piri an award-winning pastry chef just because the jerk had thought it would be too awkward to work with her after they broke up. When Cam had dumped her, Heath had battled back an uncharacteristic urge to take a swing at his partner for breaking her heart. Tonight, his feelings were more conflicted. He didn’t like the idea of Phoebe hurting, yet some part of him—a dark, disloyal part—delighted in her freedom.

Heath turned his attention back to Matt. “You have vermouth and green olives back there?” A moment later, he headed outside with his own drink and a vodka martini for Phoebe.

She stood alone, or as alone as one could be on a balcony with four other people, staring at the city skyline while the breeze toyed with the ends of her hair. She had gorgeous strawberry blonde hair that fell past her shoulder blades. When she worked in the kitchen, she secured it in a tight, low bun; Heath always savored these rare occasions when it tumbled free in riotous waves.

He joined her at the railing. June in Atlanta was steamy, enveloping him in heat, but even if it had been snowing outside, Phoebe in that dress would have raised his temperature. “I don’t suppose you’d consider chugging whatever’s left in that wineglass so I can look gallant by bringing you a fresh drink?”

“Heath!” Her full lips curved in a welcoming smile.

He only had a moment to admire the cleavage displayed by the plunging neckline before she threw her arms around him in an unexpectedly fierce hug. Her lush curves pressed against his body, and, damn, she smelled delicious. Was the scent perfume or just the by-product of working each day with cinnamon and vanilla and other tantalizing ingredients? He had the fleeting impulse to drop the glasses in his hands so he could hold her close, capture her mouth with his own and find out if she tasted equally delicious.

She pulled away, her smile sheepish. “Sorry. I almost knocked you over, didn’t I?”

“You don’t hear me complaining.” He’d happily allow her to knock him flat on his back if he could convince her to join him.

“I was excited to see a friendly face.”

He raised an eyebrow. She was hardly among strangers. When Bobbi had interviewed her as part of a dessert series last year, they’d become instant friends. Phoebe probably knew half the people here.

“A single friendly face,” she added. “It’s nice not to be the only one without a date. Or are you here with someone?” She gazed past him into the condo, her whiskey-gold eyes searching.

“Nope, I’m alone.” He thanked his lucky stars that the flight attendant he’d originally asked to come with him was somewhere over the Midwest right now. “I have it on good authority that the Kemp sisters are also solo—and on the prowl. Protect me from them?”

“Oh, please. You haven’t needed anyone’s help handling women a day in your life.”

Not since college anyway. Regardless, it wasn’t either of the Kemp sisters he wanted to handle.

Phoebe set her wineglass on the patio table. “I’m not finishing that. The floral notes are overpowering, and life’s too short to drink mediocre wine. What did you bring me?”

“Vodka martini, two olives, splash of brine.” He winked at her. “I know you like it dirty.”

Color tinged her cheeks, but she grinned back at him. “Yum.” Phoebe was an interesting contrast. Although she blushed at his habitual teasing, she’d often been the first to laugh if someone made a ribald joke in the kitchen. Muffled laughter, but Heath heard it just the same.

As she took the martini glass, her fingers brushed his. A rush of desire went through him, surprising him with its intensity. When she’d worked at Piri, they’d bumped and jostled each other plenty of times in a crowded kitchen.

But she hadn’t been single then.

“You look amazing tonight.” His gaze dropped to the creamy swells of her breasts for a moment before he made himself meet her eyes again. “Different, but amazing.”

“I can’t take credit for that. It’s easy to look amazing when your roommate’s professionally trained to make people look good. Gwen is responsible for my wardrobe, my cosmetics and my hair—not to mention making me attend the party.”

“She talked you into rearranging your schedule?” He and Gwen didn’t particularly get along, not since a disastrous double date Phoebe had engineered, but he appreciated that the woman had convinced Phoebe to be here.

“More like she rearranged my schedule for me. She called James, who is the nicest boss ever. No offense.”

He grinned. “None taken.” Nice wasn’t one of the adjectives that described him.

“I’m glad they persuaded me. I would have hated to miss Bobbi’s birthday. I was just clinging to the excuse of work because—” Her eyes widened, locking on a point behind Heath. Her fair complexion paled beyond its normal ivory.

Damn. Heath didn’t need to turn around to know Cam was inside. Probably with a date, judging from Phoebe’s pained expression. It had been too much to hope that her attending the party looking like fantasy made flesh was a sign she’d moved past her feelings for the hotshot chef. They’d been together for years. She wasn’t shallow enough to put that behind her in a matter of days.

“Phoebe?” He took her drink and set both their glasses on the nearby railing. “Do you trust me?”

Her gaze snapped back to his. “Sure.”

That makes one of us. Heath knew better than to trust his own motives as he cupped the side of her face. Helping her salvage her dignity provided an excellent excuse to touch her, and being successful in business had taught him a thing or two about seizing opportunities. Tendrils of her fiery hair tickled his arm as he leaned closer. “I have a plan.”

Then he pulled her tight against him and kissed her.