Wicked Appetite - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,19

You’re big. You take up too much space.”

Plus, he made it hard for me to keep my mind on my cupcakes. When he got close, his heat was contagious, warming my skin, seeping into my chest and, against my best efforts, working its way south.

“I like watching you,” Diesel said, sliding onto a stool.

“Yes, but you’re distracting, and I really need to fix my muffin recipe, so go away.”

“No.”

“No? That’s it? No? Criminy, you are so aggravating. I can’t make you do anything. I have no control over you.”

Diesel sat with one foot on the floor and one on the lower rung of the stool. “You have more control than you realize.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, the more I like you, the more vulnerable I become.”

Whoa. That caught me by surprise. I put my hands flat on the island to steady myself and looked at him. “You don’t seem like you would ever be vulnerable to anything.”

“The list is short.”

I didn’t know what to say. Under normal circumstances, this would lead to romance, but there was nothing normal about any of this.

“No need to panic,” Diesel said. “There are limits to how far I can go with you.”

I should have asked about the limits, but I was too distracted by the possibility that he couldn’t read my mind after all. If he’d been reading my mind, he would have known I was mush inside. I wasn’t feeling panic. I was feeling gut-twisting attraction. The knowledge that Diesel liked me enough to be vulnerable had me in a knot.

“Probably, I should get on with my muffins,” I said.

All right, I know it was lame, but it was all I could manage. For my entire life, I’ve eased myself over crisis situations and disastrous, embarrassing moments by making muffins and cupcakes.

I hauled a bag of flour out of the cabinet and opened my notebook to the recipe for gingerbread muffins.

“What’s wrong with the recipe you already have?” Diesel asked.

“It’s okay, but I think I can make it better. I’d like to punch up the flavor and improve the texture.”

I lined my muffin pan with three different-colored wrappers and whipped up the base batter. I fiddled with three variations, poured them into the muffin tin, and slid the tin into the oven. I changed the recipe on the base batter and repeated the process. By the time the first batch of muffins was ready to come out of the oven, the entire house smelled like cloves and ginger.

I slid the second batch into the oven and set the first on a wire rack to cool.

“You can be my guinea pig,” I said to Diesel. “Tell me which muffin you like the best.”

By the time Diesel was done, he’d eaten six muffins, and Cat had eaten one. Cat sat back and groomed himself. Diesel stood and scratched his stomach. “Ahhhhh,” he said.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Which muffin was best?”

“They were all great. What happens when you get all your recipes together?”

“I hope by then I’ll have sold the book, and the publisher will take over.”

“Have you sent it out to anyone yet?”

“I’ve been sending a query letter with a sample chapter. So far, there haven’t been any takers, but some of the rejection letters have been encouraging.” I pulled a shoe box from under the counter and opened it. It was crammed with responses from editors and agents.

Diesel picked a letter off the top and read aloud. “This is a great idea, but it won’t fit into our publishing program at this time.” He chose another. “This is not for us, but we wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere.” He pawed through the rest of the box. “Here’s one written in crayon on a cocktail napkin.”

I knew that one by heart. All it said was NO! I closed the box up and put it away.

“The important thing is that I stay positive,” I told Diesel. “I read a book about getting published, and it said persistence would pay off.”

Diesel grabbed me and kissed me on the top of my head. “Works for me.” His phone buzzed, and he opened the connection. “Yeah?” He stood and listened for a couple minutes, staring down at his shoe. He glanced over at me, not looking happy. He nodded in silent confirmation to whatever the caller was telling him. “I’m on it,” Diesel said. And he disconnected.

“Bad news?” I asked him.

“When Wulf feels the need to kill, he uses an ancient Chinese technique called Dragon Claw. To my