Marilyn did as instructed, unable to work up much excitement for the project. "Ragin' Cajun Eggnog."

The next thing she knew, Jack had a ladle in one hand and thrust it between her legs, making her jump. He gave her a slow grin. "You gotta say it with more enthusiasm than that, baby girl. Try again...see if it doesn't sound better when you jess let it roll off the tongue."

Once again, this time with feeling, she did as requested, a tingle of excitement jolting her every time he maneuvered the ladle back and forth. She cleared her throat and continued. "Approximately two jiggers of rum to a quart." She jumped again, this time as his hands found his crotch and her p.u.s.s.y at the same time and he thrust against her through their clothes.

"That feel like about a jigger to you?" he asked, his face an emotionless stare, with the exception of the crinkling of his eyes and the slight twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"Works for me." She struggled to keep her composure. "But the recipe does call for... " She paused as Jackson slid his c.o.c.k against her again. "That is, it calls for...ah...two!"

Marilyn took a deep breath and read off the next ingredients, and with each one, Jackson kissed her, deepening the kiss each time.

"Four eggs... " Mmm.

"Eight tablespoons of sugar." d.a.m.n!

"Four cups of milk." Marilyn closed her eyes as her face flushed and her c.l.i.t zipped into overdrive with its throbbing and incessant need.

"This work for you so far?" Jackson tilted her chin.

She slowly opened her eyes and gave him what she was sure was a starry-eyed stare. "That's all of the ingredients."

He licked his lips while watching her mouth and shook his head. "That's just the beginning. Now we have to heat things up." He set a pan on one of the burners and turned up the heat.

"Can't overcook something like this," he said, stirring the concoction with a wooden spoon. Then he set the spoon aside and turned to her, immediately working his fingers into her pants and slipping them as low as possible considering the restraints from her clothing.

She unb.u.t.toned the big baggy shirt she'd worn over her tank top, her eyes never leaving his. "I may have misjudged your old family recipe. Care to tell me more about it?"

"Gladly!"

Jackson hastily undid his own pants. Then to Marilyn's surprise, he whirled her around so that she had no choice but to smack her palms against his dining table. Then he yanked down her jeans.

Before she could blink, he'd slipped two fingers inside her p.u.s.s.y and spread the folds surrounding it. Within seconds, he was quickly bending over her and grabbing her a.s.s before inserting his c.o.c.k in one easy thrust.

His voice was low, slow and seductive, while his actions were quick and unrelenting. "The trick to not overcooking anything," he said, his lips brushing against her back, "is timing. Timing is important, chere. Never underestimate the heating capacity for something fluid that is just ripe for bursting with flavor."

"OmiG.o.d!" Marilyn managed to keep from gasping too loudly, but she couldn't repress the burst of energy, the craving for having him drive further and faster into her. It was as if her body was the vessel on the stove and its contents begging to boil. She leaned forward as far as possible, giving him full access to whatever he wanted from her, lifting her hips to better receive him.

He spread his hands over her a.s.s, caressing it with his palms as he pumped his c.o.c.k into her. "A good chef knows...oh, baby, yeah..." He ground himself deeper. "That persistent watch over anything tasty requires concentration. So it's best to only concentrate on one...thing...at a time, lest something boils over."

Boiled? h.e.l.l, she was about to incinerate!

After several deep thrusts, Jackson pulled out slowly, and Marilyn counted the seconds that built until he slipped back inside. When his hands on her hips reached around to stroke her c.l.i.t as he filled her with his seed, she curled her fingers and cried out his name.

Quick nookie had never appealed to her before, but now she wanted to scream when it was over, then throw him on the floor and tell him to do it again.

She collapsed against the table, breathing heavily, and Jackson pulled his pants up so that they were resting on his hips, but instead of zipping the jeans, he turned and stirred the mixture on the stovetop.

"Now what are you doing?" She peered over her shoulder and backside to watch him sprinkle something into the mixture with one hand and turn out the fire with the other.

"Sorry to leave you hangin' like that, but I don't want to burn this."

"Looks like you're the one still hanging." She indicated his c.o.c.k.

"So I am." He grinned sheepishly. "Pinch of nutmeg, a smaller pinch of ground hot chili peppers." He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vanilla extract. "Little bit of this."

Marilyn rose from the table to pull up her own pants. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Yeah." He glanced about then pointed to a hand mixer hanging on the wall. "Hand me that and get me a half-pint of whipping cream in the refrigerator, if you will."

When he was done blending the cream into the hot liquid on the stove, he found a large gla.s.s container, filled it, capped it and then set it inside the refrigerator.

Marilyn was impressed and told him so.

Jackson shrugged off her compliment with an easy grin. "Jess you wait until you get to sip it. Nothin' like it on the planet."

Marilyn eyed his dangling c.o.c.k. "How about I sip a bit right now?" She boldly walked up to him then led him to the bed with every intention of heating up another batch of nookie while their 'nog cooled.

Her lover soon lay on his back on the bed and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow, his face serious. "Have I mentioned that it's rare for this dish to be made twice in a row without a moment or two of down time?"

Jackson groaned in ecstasy. How was it that every time he had the opportunity to tell her his little secret, circ.u.mstances prevented him from doing so? After our last lovemaking, I should have told her.

He lay on his back, loving the feel of her silky hair flowing across his stomach, her hands working the muscles of his a.s.s as she went down on him, licking, sucking, her tongue in just the right place, with long strokes then quick flicks against the turgid vein on the underside of his shaft.

Tell her now and she'll bite it off, buddy. He ran tense fingers over his eyes and upward over his brow and forehead. d.a.m.n, but she felt good. Was he a b.a.s.t.a.r.d for allowing her to make love to him, knowing he'd soon p.i.s.s her off?

When had wanting her first struck him? You fell for her the minute she tossed that shiny mane of hair and peered straight into your soul when you first met. He pressed the back of his head into the pillows, wanting to relax, needing to convince himself that he hadn't done anything wrong by neglecting to tell her that he could hold his own at the contest. She'd arrived thinking the worst of him, so what did it matter what she thought of him now?

He knew immediately. Because she matters.

Jackson gasped when she took him wholly into her mouth, b.a.l.l.s and all, gently.

Lovingly.

Oh sweet Lord. When had that happened? Which one of them had issued the first fragile feeling of tenderness? How could this be happening to him?

The blood thrumming through his body lured him forward instead of backward, refusing to allow him the luxury of examining their budding relationship. All thought vanished as his body caught up with his brain and overrode whatever hesitations he had about himself, her or them. Nothing mattered except for the incredible feeling of completeness, the promise of sweet release she offered.

For the first time since he could remember, Jackson Delacroix felt a rush of unadulterated joy before a climax. He wasn't just getting his rocks off-he was fulfilling a desire to receive, not just give, pleasure.

The last thing he remembered before he came was a complex coalition of the softness of her mouth against his skin, the raspy pull of her tongue on his b.a.l.l.s and her moan of pleasure as he exploded into her with unsuppressed fulfillment.

Chapter Eleven.

Creole Tomato b.u.t.ter Ingredients: 1 stick unsalted b.u.t.ter 2 tablespoons tomato paste 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon sugar Cream b.u.t.ter, blend in tomato paste and dry ingredients. Serve cold on dinner rolls. Goes well with fried

fish.

How un-friggin'-romantic, Marilyn thought hours later, surveying the pile of dirty dishes that had acc.u.mulated during the hour and a half she and Jack had been cooped up in his tiny kitchen trying to perfect a ketchup recipe.

Then she chastised herself soundly. Jackson needed to learn his craft. He was making an attempt, which would save both their jobs if he succeeded. Sometimes there were more important things than libido-not that seeing him in jeans, T-shirt that showed off his biceps and a tiny linen ap.r.o.n that barely covered his chest-not to mention the dishtowel on one shoulder-didn't turn her on. Still, it would have been nice if he'd at least stop glaring at her as she read off instructions for him.

"Something's missing," he fussed, sniffing the spoonful of mixture from the pot on his stove.

"How can you tell?"

"Because it doesn't taste like Mimi's ketchup. Just can't see where I went wrong. Are you sure you read me the right instructions?"

Marilyn bristled. "My reading is not at issue here." Don't forget how good I was at reading the last set of ingredients for you, pal!

"Don't get testy. I was just askin'." He attempted to hide a smile.

Just then a quick series of light raps on the door alerted them that they had company. Jack set down the spoon and wiped his hands on the ap.r.o.n.

"Mimi!"

Jack bent to kiss the old woman and to punch the man behind her on the shoulder before turning to his co-conspirator in cooking.

"Marilyn, this is my baby brother. Chance, I guess this is the woman you spoke with on the phone."

Chance tipped his cowboy hat and nodded. "Pleasure, ma'am."

It wasn't difficult to smile, considering Baby Brother looked so much like Older Brother. Marilyn nodded in return. Her second impression of Jack's grandmother was the same as her first-beautiful, even at her age, with more character and glinty-eyed expressions than the best movie cinematographer could capture.

Belle Delacroix walked in and sniffed the air. "Dat your mess?" she asked Jack, pointing toward the stove.

Not waiting for a response, she went to investigate, took the wooden spoon and retrieved a small portion, tasted, pursed her lips, threw the spoon back onto the spoon rest and turned to him with a disgusted frown.

"Needs more vinegar and more tomatoes. And why de h.e.l.l is dere so much celery in dere? We're not Amish, Jackson. You wanna trow green vegetables in dere, try more jalapenos or sumpin'."

Marilyn turned away and coughed to cover a giggle that morphed into a snort coming through her nose. She didn't dare look at either brother.

"It's my first attempt. Cut me some slack."

"Tastes like it. Stew some of dose beefsteak tomatoes, trow in some more cayenne pepper and maybe you can salvage it," she said. Then she squinted and asked, "What's dis for?"

"The cooking contest. We're having hamburgers and hot dogs on Wednesday. Marilyn thinks it's going to rain."

"Mebbe she knows sumpin. If she's smart enough to get you to cook, mebbe she has some udder tricks up her sleeve." She peered back at the sauce. "Dem's a lotta burgers you gonna be fixin'. 'Course, dis is da first I heard of it."

Jack drew himself up to his full height as if bolstering himself for a new verbal onslaught from her. "I forgot to visit you this morning," he said. "Didn't I? And I forgot to call. I'm sorry."

"Yes. First time since you came back. Didn't know if you was dead or what." Belle slid Marilyn a glance. "You have sumpin to do wid dat?"

Chance interrupted quietly. "Just thought I'd tell you that the campground is booked solid. Looks like you're gonna have about two hundred guests...not all of them involved in this cook-off, but some of the other customers may pay you a call during it. That okay, or shall I spread the word that they're to keep to their campsites?"

"No...no." Jack ran his fingers through his hair. "If they want to pay their dues for it like the others...sure. Why not? But they do need to pay in advance if they're going to eat. Otherwise, we won't have enough food ordered or prepared."

"Gotcha." Chance held out a hand for their grandmother. "Mimi?"

"Jesta second." She walked over to Marilyn and peered into her eyes. "You de one gonna teach him?"

Marilyn held up the cookbook. "No, Mrs. Delacroix. I'm the one who is going to read the recipes to him and make sure he gets them right."

"You know about ketchup?" Belle asked her.

"I just know what it tastes like."

"Den I'll tell you...we didn't invent it. Al'dough a lotta white folks and Cajuns would like to lay claim to it. Was de Chinese. I read up on it once. Dey even called it tomato soy sauce. Don't suppose you knew dat, did you?"

"No." Marilyn tried to keep her composure, but the steely look from Jack's grandmother made her feel like the old woman knew everything about her, from her bikini underwear to her lack of knowledge on foods.

Mimi sniffed again and leaned back. "You don't know how to cook ei'der, huh?"

"No. But I'm an ace at dialing for delivery service." Marilyn mentally smacked herself for being rude.

But the old woman's face crinkled into a smile, and she lifted her fingers to pinch Marilyn's cheeks.

"I like dis one, Jackson. She's a real smart a.s.s... jess like you. Aren't you glad you didn't lie to her now?"

When Mimi was already out the door and on her way to Chance's truck, Chance turned back.

"One more thing, Jack. You know that horticulture cla.s.s that's coming out here next week from the university?"

"Yeah?"

"I dug up some plants just like you suggested, but I don't have anywhere to store them tonight. So I'm going to set some of them on the north side of your cabin and the rest behind Cabin Twelve. That okay?"

Jack nodded. "Sure."

"Just didn't want you messin' with 'em," Chance said with a grin before leaving.

"She doesn't pull any punches, does she?" Marilyn hid her smile as she spoke.

Jack sank into the chair opposite her at his small dining table. His face was grim, but he chuckled and shook his head with a "What can I say?" expression.

Pushing one of four small bowls of homemade ketchup at her, he said, "I think it's time to bring in the troops. Can you call Chuck and Colette and have them come over?"

"Jackson, I've already eaten a pint of this stuff. If I eat another spoonful, I'll puke. I swear."