Turn Up the Heat

Turn Up the Heat

by Kimberly Kincaid

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback)

View All Available Formats & Editions
Members save with free shipping everyday! 
See details


"It's not you."

There are only so many times a girl can hear those words before she believes that it is, in fact, very much her. Unexpectedly jilted by her locally famous boyfriend and haunted by a boss who makes Attila the Hun look like a lap dog, Bellamy Blake does what any self-respecting girl in her shoes would do. She rounds up her two best girlfriends and makes plans to get the hell out of Dodge. . .

But Bellamy's escape plan takes a nose dive on the side of rural route 164 when her transmission self-destructs, leaving her in the middle of a cell phone dead zone with nothing but her wits. Oh, and Shane Griffin, the hottest mechanic who's ever checked under her hood.

Yet this small-town man isn't all he seems. Can Shane and Bellamy prove that sometimes the most unlikely ingredients make the most deliciously sexy mix?

"Smart, fun, and heartwarming." --Jill Shalvis

"Kimberly Kincaid knows how to whip up a delicious love story." --Susan Donovan

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781420132830
Publisher: Kensington
Publication date: 03/04/2014
Series: Pine Mountain Series , #1
Pages: 352
Product dimensions: 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.10(d)
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Kimberly Kincaid writes contemporary romance that splits the difference between sexy and sweet. When she's not sitting crosslegged in an ancient desk chair known as "The Pleather Bomber," she can be found practicing obscene amounts of yoga, whipping up anything from enchiladas to éclairs in her kitchen, or curled up with her nose in a book. Kimberly is a 2011 RWA Golden Heart® finalist who lives (and writes!) by the mantra that food is love. She resides in northern Virginia with her wildly patient husband and their three daughters.

Read an Excerpt

Turn Up the Heat



Copyright © 2014 Kimberly Kincaid
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3284-7


The contract on Bellamy Blake's desk was a doorstop waiting to happen. She flipped through the pages absently, rolling her eyes at the legalese. Hell, it could be Portuguese as far as she was concerned. Being a real estate analyst for the second largest bank in Philadelphia had sounded so much better when she'd started, fresh out of graduate school. After three years, an endless supply of doorstops and a boss who made Attila the Hun look like a lapdog, the whole thing had lost most of its luster.

Bellamy sank back in her sleek leather desk chair and stared at the waste of foliage that was her current contract, trying to ignore the headache forming behind her eyes. Still, the doorstop-slash-contract wasn't going to negotiate itself. It was time to buck up and take one for Team Paycheck, headache be damned.

Bellamy had no sooner waded to her knees in fine print when the phone on her desk rang. She was so grateful for the distraction that she didn't even check the caller ID before she scooped the phone to her ear. Maybe it would be a cheesy office supply salesman with a well-rehearsed spiel on the virtues of buying toner cartridges in bulk. That would be good for at least twenty minutes of distraction.

This had to be an all-time low.

"Bellamy Blake," she murmured, pushing her blond curls over her shoulder to tuck the phone to her ear.

"I cannot believe you didn't tell us you're moving to San Diego, you hideous bitch!"

Bellamy sat back, unfazed at her best friend Holly's theatrics, and grinned. This was even better than the toner guy. "Slow down there, Encyclopedia Dramatica. What are you talking about?" she laughed. "And by the way, hello is usually customary for the whole phone-greeting thing. Just so you know."

"Screw hello! You're moving?! If you told Jenna and the two of you kept it from me because you knew I'd freak out, I'm killing you both!" Holly wailed. Man, her flair for the old melodrama was on fire today.

"Are you out of your mind? I just re-upped the lease on my condo. Why would I ... oh! Hold on, my cell phone is ringing." Bellamy paused to dig through her purse. "You know how my boss is. If I let her go to voice mail even once, she'll light that thing up like Times Square on New Year's Eve until I answer."

"Boss, schmoss! For once, the Wicked Witch can wait!"

The caller ID made Bellamy sag with relief. "Oh, it's Jenna! Hang on." She slid her cell phone under her other ear and tipped her head toward it.

"Hey, Jenna, let me call you back. I've got Holly on the other line, and she's ranting about —"

"California? God, Bellamy! Did Derek propose or something to get you to go? Why didn't you say anything?"

Did anyone stick with a good old-fashioned hello anymore? And what was with the idea of her moving across the country?

"Okay, remind me not to sample whatever Kool-Aid you and Holly have obviously been sharing. I'm not moving to California, and I'm definitely not getting married. What the hell is going on?" If her friends wanted to pull one over on her in the practical joke department, they needed to work on their skills, big-time.

"You're getting married?" Holly's screech from the forgotten office phone rivaled that of a tornado warning going full bore, grabbing Bellamy's attention.

She fumbled as she scooped the other receiver back to her ear. "No! Jeez, Holly. I just said I'm not getting married!" Bellamy huffed, starting to get exasperated.

"I'm Jenna, not Holly," her other best friend replied from the cell phone, confused.

Bellamy released a heavy sigh. "Holly's on my office phone, and I've got one of you on each ear, even though you're both insane. Look, if this is some kind of sick candid camera thing that you guys are planning to throw on YouTube, so help me ..."

"Bellamy, are you watching Derek's newscast?"

Whoa. What was with Jenna's talking-down-a-suicide-jumper voice? She only reserved that for Holly when she was going full-tilt, so something must really be up. Bellamy paused.

"Just because he's my boyfriend doesn't mean I watch all of his newscasts, Jenna. I'm at work, and my boss just dropped a couple hundred pages' worth of contract on my desk." Bellamy's stomach shifted uncomfortably. "Why?"

"Oh my freaking God. You don't know," Holly breathed.

Bellamy pressed her office phone to her ear, feeling like a human Ping-Pong ball. "Don't know what, Holly? Come on, you guys. What's going on?"

"Derek's moving to San Diego," they replied, in stereo.

Bellamy's brows knit together in confusion, and her first impulse was to laugh, although it came out more like a nervous croak. "That's impossible. I think he'd have told me if he was moving across the country." It wasn't as if San Diego was a hop, skip, and jump from Derek's upscale Philadelphia brownstone. It was on another coast, for God's sake.

"Uh, sweetie, maybe you should call him," Holly offered.

The croak made a repeat performance. "Okay, first of all, that's going to be kind of hard seeing as how both of my phones are tied up at the moment. Secondly, he's clearly on the air right now, saying something that's making the two of you lose your marbles." Ugh, what was that tightness in her chest? Who'd have thought turkey and Swiss could give a girl heartburn like this.

"Google him, or grab the live stream from the Internet or something," Holly tried again. "Because I'm telling you, I'm not making this up."

Far be it for Bellamy to be a spoilsport, especially if it would put an end to this weird little charade. "You want me to Google my boyfriend to prove that you're playing a practical joke on me? Okay, fine. Whatever blows your skirt up," she laughed.

Bellamy no sooner had her hands over her keyboard than Jenna's panicked voice cut through the phone line attached to Bellamy's other ear. "Wait, did Holly tell you to ... wait! Bellamy, don't ..."

Too late.

Bellamy's heart did the pitter-patter-holy-shit in her chest as her eyes focused on Channel Eight's home page. The headline Anchorman Derek Patterson Bids Philadelphia A Fond Farewell was splashed over a handsome headshot that was all too familiar.

Her boyfriend was moving to California, and he hadn't told her a damned thing.

There weren't a whole lot of places Shane Griffin would rather be than up to his elbows in an engine block. He swiped a flannel-clad forearm past his eyes in an effort to relocate the swath of black hair that had fallen into them.

No luck. He needed a haircut like nobody's business.

The side door to the garage swung open, bringing with it a nasty wind and a soft, steady footfall that Shane could recognize from a coma. He straightened up from the frame of the 1969 Mustang Mach 1 in front of him, wincing.

"Damn, Grady! You're bringing some nasty weather with you," Shane called out, tipping his head in the old man's direction.

Grady gave up a gravelly chuckle. "We're in the Blue Ridge, son. That weather's part of the territory now that it's winter. And I ain't bringin' it with me. Somethin's comin' down the pike all on its own. Feels like a doozy, too."

Shane shook his head and laughed, flexing his stiff fingers. "Whatever you say. I don't go for that superstitious crap." Man, Grady bought into all of that stuff, right down to using the twinge in his knee to predict the snowfall. Like the whole warm-front-meets-cold-front thing had nothing to do with it.

Come to think of it, Grady's accuracy was kinda freaky, though.

"You're young. You'll figure it out eventually," Grady quipped in his gruff voice. "You still messin' with that Mustang?"

"Yup. I finished Mrs. Teasdale's Lincoln, so I figured you wouldn't mind. You know that thing's older than I am," Shane grumbled.

"So's the car you're workin' on," Grady said.

Hell if he didn't have a point.

"Yeah, but the Mach 1 is a classic. Mrs. Teasdale's Continental is more of an antique." Shane eyed the Lincoln through the filmy windows of the garage. The thing was built like a Sherman tank and was about as pretty.

"Gets her from point A to point B just fine." Grady leaned against the rickety wooden workbench that ran the length of the far wall, blowing into the cup of coffee he'd just poured.

"It does now," Shane corrected with a smirk. It had taken him the better part of yesterday to get that carburetor straight, but right about now, the car could do everything short of sing show tunes. Thing ran like the day it rolled off the lot.

In 1979.

Grady eyed him, his demeanor changing slightly. "Listen, kid. You got another call from that loan office. Something about your payment going up. I left the message on the machine in the back room. Thought you'd wanna know."

Great. As if the promise of bad weather wasn't bad enough to wreck Shane's day.

"Thanks, Grady. I'll figure something out." Okay, now Shane was just plain talking out of his ass. A hundred and fifty grand wasn't exactly something you just figured out. He scrubbed a hand down his face, tempted to tell his five o'clock shadow that it was only ten in the morning.

Guess that was yesterday's fiver. Oh well. It wasn't like Shane had anybody to impress.

"I'd pay you more if I could, Shane. You're worth every damn penny."

Shane's head snapped up just in time to catch the conflicted look on Grady's weathered face.

"You pay me just fine, Grady. You know this is something I've got to work out on my own." He let his eyes rest on the Mustang, his gut flickering with unease. "If it comes down to it, I can sell the car." The words tasted like a battery acid lollipop as they came from his lips.

"Shane," the old man started, but Shane waved him off.

"I'm going to return Mrs. Teasdale's car, then go for a run on my way back. Unless you need me for something here?" The look he gave Grady said the conversation was over.

Grady nodded slowly. "You know you're gonna freeze your ass off, don't you?"

Shane tipped his dark head at Grady and went to grab the spare set of running gear he always kept in the office. "I'll be fine."

Sure. As long as money grew on trees, he'd be freaking stellar.

"Let me get this straight. You took a job in San Diego and you're starting next week?"

Well. Didn't Bellamy just put the sucker in sucker punched?

Derek cleared his throat and looked largely uncomfortable. "That's putting a rather fine point on it, but, yes." He smoothed a hand over his perfectly arranged hair and looked down at her with an equal mixture of sympathy and guilt.

She should've known better than to trust a man who was prettier than she was.

Bellamy watched the waiter place their lunches in front of them and let him depart before she replied in disbelief. "Were you going to, I don't know, tell me at any point?" She wanted nothing more than to be angry, to deliver the words with the sassy-girl malice she knew she should be feeling right now at his lack of candor.

Somehow, though, she just couldn't work it up.

"It's, ah, a little more complicated than that." Derek leafed through his spinach salad with quick, nervous stabs, refusing to meet her eyes.

Bellamy's brows popped. "It didn't seem complicated when you told your entire viewership about it a couple hours ago." Okay. Maybe she could drum up a little attitude. He'd practically dumped her in front of a bazillion people, after all! A girl had her pride.

"Look, Bellamy." He shifted his crystal blue eyes around the room. "It's not you, okay? I got this great job opportunity, and I couldn't pass it up. My career is very important. People depend on me, you know."

A hot prickle of irritation filled her chest. He was an anchorman, for God's sake. It wasn't like he was going to give Mother Teresa a run for her money or anything.

Derek smiled and patted her hand. "And, let's face it, the long-distance thing just never works out. You understand, don't you?"

Bellamy couldn't handle another nanosecond of delaying the inevitable, and the whole thing sent her stomach into a quick churn. "Frankly, I don't. You couldn't have told me this when it was all coming about? Jeez, Derek. Did you think I'd flip out or something?"

He cleared his throat ever so softly. "Well, I am a public figure. I didn't think a scene would be in either of our best interests. Like I said, it's really nothing personal."

Wow. She could admit to maybe being a little bit starstruck in the beginning, but how had she missed the fact that this guy was sporting an ego the size of Mount McKinley? Her intuitive skills needed one hell of an overhaul. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind when the last six months flashed over her with startling clarity.

There really wasn't anything personal about it at all. Kind of like their entire relationship.

"You know what, Derek? You're absolutely right." Bellamy's pride overrode the sting of Derek's words, and she gathered her purse in a swift grab while offering up a saccharine smile. "Although I've got to say, for someone with such a prominent position in the field of communications, your one-on-one skills suck. Good luck in San Diego."

Before she could even register that her legs had shifted to accommodate the weight of her body, Bellamy had turned on her heel to stride out of the restaurant.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Griffin. There's really nothing I can do."

Shane had known the words were coming, but his gut sank anyway. "Look, my payments have always been on time up until now. Isn't there some way we can put off the increase just a little longer?"

Way to work that last-ditch effort, my man.

"We've already deferred the increase longer than we should have," the woman apologized.

Right. He'd been trying to block out the phone call he'd made to them three months earlier. Shit.

"Okay, well, thanks for your time." Shane hung up the phone and leaned back in the ancient desk chair that served as the only place to sit in the entire garage. For the first time since arriving at Pine Mountain a little over a year ago, he was flooded with unease. Short of an unexpected windfall or an angel to illuminate some unknown path out of this mess, there was no alternative but the obvious. A debt was a debt, and as much as he hated it, his had to be paid.

The thought of his Mustang going to that smarmy dealer in Bealetown, or worse yet some chop shop for parts, made his stomach do the up-and-at-'em against his ribs. That car had been the only thing of value that Shane had brought with him to the mountains, the only thing he'd ever worked for and earned himself, no strings attached.

But selling it was the only way out.

Shane shuffled through the papers on the desk until he came up with his checkbook, not pausing to glance at the "balance" column. He knew damn well there were far too few numbers left of the decimal, and to see it written out in front of him conjured up images of how well the words insult and injury could go together given the right frame of mind.

Shane stuffed a check into a pre-printed envelope and sealed the sucker up tight, knowing that by sending it he'd all but bleed his bank account dry. His careworn running shoes crunched over the loose gravel of the drive as he walked his last thirty days of freedom over to the mailbox, letting the wind cut through him on his way back inside. Letting out a long sigh, he returned to the office and punched a couple of digits into the phone before he lost his nerve.

"Information? Yeah, I need the number for Louie's Auto Traders in Bealetown. Yeah. I can hold."


After the tenth time her phone rang like the Liberty Bell, Bellamy buried it deep in the bottom of her purse. Everyone from her sister to her dental hygienist (okay, so they'd been friends since college, but still) had called to find out if she was moving to the Golden State, and she was sick to death of rattling off the same answer.

A big, fat, resounding hell no.

Although she wasn't proud of it, Bellamy had taken the cheater's way out and called her boss's desk phone ten minutes after the weekly management meeting for their department began. One fake gynecologist's appointment later, Bellamy was out of the office, more than ready to block out the contract on her desk and the freshly minted ex who had left her for greener pastures.

She did a mental tally of the ingredients in her pantry. It had been at least a month since she'd gone on a baking binge — something that always made her feel worlds better when she was having a craptastic day. Spending the afternoon in her kitchen, hand-mixing pastry dough from scratch sounded like pure, uncut heaven right about now. Bellamy guided her feet toward the postage stamp–sized parking lot at the end of the block where her car lay in wait, but stopped short at the glitzy department store between her and her destination.


Excerpted from Turn Up the Heat by KIMBERLY KINCAID. Copyright © 2014 Kimberly Kincaid. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Customer Reviews