by Joanna Shupe
She reached into her handbag and withdrew a few pieces of paper, which she slid across the small table. “Here.”
“What is this?” The papers listed various dishes and ingredients. “You came prepared. What if I’d said no?”
“Mr. Clarke said you might, in which case I should keep arguing until I wore you down.”
Preston certainly had organized this neatly. What was he up to? Kit would deal with his friend later. Holding up the paper, he asked her, “So this is the order list?”
“Yes. It’s for fifty people, which Mr. Clarke said was the number you’re expecting.”
“It is. Would next week work for you, or do you need more time?”
He half expected her to say it was too soon, but she nodded. “Of course. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday?”
“Perfect. I’ll send out the invitations.” He paused. “Part of the appeal of a supper club is who is preparing the supper. I had planned on mentioning Franconi. It would be helpful to list the chef, as well.”
“You cannot possibly think to list my name. No one would come if they saw you’d hired a woman. And an inexperienced one at that. You’d be a laughingstock.”
“You are not inexperienced.”
“You know what I mean.”
“More importantly, listing your name would ruin your reputation.”
“Yes, so let’s make up a name. Say that I am Franconi’s apprentice, which is sort of true.”
“That works. What name shall we use?”
She traced a seam on the wooden table with her fingertip, and he allowed himself to be distracted by the thought of those fingers tracing his skin. Having her here, in his space, for three days would be glorious torture. She straightened, her face alight with recognition. “Chef Lucciola.”
“Pretty. What does it mean?”
“Firefly. It’s what Angelo calls me.”
The name suited her. A small package that burned bright, shining joy and happiness to everyone around her. He wished he’d thought of it himself. “Chef Lucciola, then.”
She pushed her chair back, so Kit rose and went to help. He moved closer than he needed to, merely enjoying the sight and smell of her once more. When she was on her feet the air in the room stilled, time slowing as they both paused, inches away from each other. There were so many things he wanted to say, to ask . . . but he was tongue-tied. It was imperative that he keep his distance. She had a life to lead and so did he, and it wasn’t fair to flirt with her when his intentions were far from serious. Nevertheless, he couldn’t force himself to edge aside.
Finally, she decided for him and stepped away, her hands twisting in the fabric of her skirts, smoothing and fluffing. “I’ve written instructions for some of the items needed, such as the oysters and the lobster. You’ll buy them Friday morning from the vendors I specified.”
“Very good. Do you need me to hire any staff to assist you in the kitchen?”
“I already have someone to help me.”
Irrational jealousy streaked through his nerves to tighten his muscles. “Oh? Who?”
“You.” Spinning on her heel, she started for the door. “Until next week, Kit.”
Chapter Sixteen
Alice flipped through the pages of the Ladies’ Home Journal on Tuesday afternoon, not really seeing the words or pictures. Her mother was on the telephone to Daddy, which was the critical part of Alice’s plan. She wasn’t terribly worried, however. Mama never denied him, not when he put his foot down about something. Then Alice would be free, sort of, to help Kit and Mr. Clarke with their event.
It would require dodging her maid as well as the hotel staff at the front desk. But she could give her maid the days off and sneak out through the kitchen. No one would ever believe she was breaking the rules or lying. Alice Lusk never did anything scandalous or shocking. She played by the rules and did what she was told, end of story.
A lifetime of compliance would earn her a few days of rebellion.
She could hardly wait. She and Kit would spend three days together in the club’s kitchen and, though there could never be anything more, she was looking forward to every second.
When she thought of seeing him again, she could hardly breathe, her palms dampening with anticipation. Those intense brown eyes, his wicked smile . . . as well as his sharp wit and easygoing manner. He was the most interesting person in any room, and she could stand next to him and listen to him talk for eons.
Which could never happen, of course. But she would have him for three days, and that would be enough.
The door to her suite opened and Mama came in, her mouth pinched. Not a hair was out of place, as usual. Her mother was tightly cinched and battle-ready at all times. “You and your father are going to be the death of me,” she said sharply. “Apparently there is a problem with the staff in Boston and he refuses to handle it himself. Says I must return immediately to deal with it, and additionally there is a dinner I must attend with him on Friday.”
As her parents hardly spent any time together these days, Alice knew the interaction would be a chore for both of them. “That sounds like fun. Too bad I am not feeling well enough to travel.” She pointed at her abdomen, as if she had her monthly.
“Your father also suggested leaving you here, which makes no sense. I don’t like leaving you in a hotel by yourself. It’s not safe.”
“You’ve done it twice before, Mama. Remember? Last year, you had to return to Boston and I stayed here.”
“That’s true. But that was before that awful house party in Newport. Just by association you are a hairbreadth away from a scandal, thanks to that tennis-playing strumpet. We cannot risk any whisper of impropriety or else your chances at a good match are ruined. It’s been hard enough to marry you off with just your personality and looks to contend with. Imagine if you lost your reputation.”
The barb barely scratched the surface of Alice’s pride. After all these years she was used to comments such as this. “I promise not to leave the hotel. It’ll be just like last year.” She put her magazine down and groaned in faux agony. “Oh, I think this talking is making it worse.”
“I keep telling you laudanum will help with those monthly pains.”
“No, it’s not quite as bad as that.” Alice hated the dreamy feeling that came with opiates. “I just need to sleep.”
“I will instruct Mary to keep a close eye on you,” Mama said, referring to Alice’s maid. “In case your condition worsens.”
“Don’t worry about me. Just go and I’ll see you upon your return.”
“I shall leave first thing in the morning and return on Saturday.” She heaved a sigh. “You will learn this if you marry, Alice, but wives must sacrifice to keep their husbands happy. It’s the only way a marriage works.”
If you marry. Alice resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. “Daddy adores you,” she said, though she doubted it was true. “He’s probably missing you.”
Mama said nothing in response. Instead, she went to the door. “I’ll have Chef Franconi send dinner up to my room. Seeing as how you’re not feeling well, you’ll eat some broth and go straight to bed.”
“Of course.”
When the door closed behind her mother, Alice exhaled in relief. It almost seemed too easy, but her mother had no reason to distrust her. Other than sneaking out at the house party and the occasional trip to Franconi’s kitchen, Alice had done everything her parents had ever asked of her. She was not a rebel or a troublemaker; she attended the parties and danced the dances. She smiled and nodded, kept her thoughts and wishes to herself and never complained.
So she had more than earned a few days in a supper club kitchen.
Hard to say what excited her more—time away from her mother, acting as a proper chef in a real kitchen, or spending three days with Kit.
Don’t be silly. You know the answer.
Yes, she did—and it terrified her. Because if she were willing to go to these lengths for such a short stint with him, what would she
do to prolong it?
Kit was unpacking produce in the club’s small kitchen Wednesday morning when Preston walked in. His friend’s gaze swept the room. “Is she here yet?”
“No, not yet.” Kit slid a box of onions toward the other man. “Put that on the far counter, will you?”
Preston frowned but did as asked. “I didn’t come here to work. I came to watch you work.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot believe you actually agreed to act as her sous chef.”
Neither could Kit, but he had a hard time refusing Alice anything. Furthermore, if he said no, she might get another man in here . . . and that was unacceptable. So he could suffer through a few hours of chopping and dicing at Alice’s side. “We want Friday night to succeed, don’t we?”
“Indeed, we do.” Preston popped a grape into his mouth. “Which is why you should be focused on other things instead of hiding out in this kitchen for the next three days.”
“I will do those things when she’s not here. The supper is the most important part of a supper club.”
Preston chuckled. “God, you are so transparent. And I literally never thought I’d see the day.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, so if you’d spit it out and get on with your day, I’d appreciate it.”
“You and Miss Lusk.”
“Fuck, no,” Kit instantly said. “You are entirely wrong.”
“I’ve known you since we were boys, Kit. I’m not wrong, and Harrison confirmed it, as well. You gave her lessons.”
Damn it. Harrison had no right to share that bit of news. Unwilling to give Preston the satisfaction, he lifted a shoulder. “In exchange for recipes. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“There are hundreds of chefs out there with thousands of recipes at our disposal. You didn’t do this for the recipes. Do I seem like some sort of rube?”
Preston was so far from a rube that it was laughable. He was city bred, tough as nails and smart as a whip. Still, Kit did not want anyone to get the wrong impression. “Alice and I are friends. Nothing more. She’s on the hunt for a husband and I am focused on this.” He gestured to the kitchen.
“Then why didn’t you sleep with Lottie after the opera the other night?”
A tomato fell out of Kit’s hands and dropped to the floor. Shit. How had Preston learned that piece of information? “Perhaps I didn’t feel up to it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that was true. You definitely were not ‘up’ for it—and now I know why.”
“Do not tempt me to chuck a tomato at your head. It would be a shame to ruin your suit.”
Preston smirked. “I dare you.”
Kit cocked his arm—and the swinging door opened. Alice’s eyes darted from him to Preston. “Kit, what are you doing? That’s a perfectly good tomato.”
He straightened. “You’re right. I shouldn’t insult the tomato by throwing it at this piece of sh—”
“Kit!”
Pressing his lips together, he turned and gave the produce his attention. Preston was wrong. The recipes were necessary to the club’s success. When the invitations for Friday night were delivered, not a single guest declined. In fact, Kit had received more than a dozen requests from men not on the list begging to attend.
When they started selling memberships, Franconi’s food would be a major draw—as would the entertainment. And Kit had called in a personal favor to secure the singer for Friday night’s preview.
“Hello, Miss Lusk,” Preston said as he went over to kiss her hand. “Forgive my friend over there. He has terrible manners.”
“Good morning, Mr. Clarke.”
“Call me Preston, please,” he said in a sugary, flirtatious voice that had Kit fingering another tomato. “Mr. Clarke sounds like my father and I loathe my father.”
Ready to get down to business, Kit hoisted a crate of apples. “Alice, where should I put all these?”
“Keep those out, actually. We’re going to prepare the desserts first.” From the depths of her handbag, she withdrew a white apron and proceeded to tie it around her waist. “Are you here to help, Preston?”
“God, no. I came to laugh at Kit.”
“Which you’ve done already,” Kit said. “So run along. We wouldn’t wish to keep you from your skyscrapers.”
Preston shook his head, though his eyes danced with mirth. “This is going to be fun. I am definitely looking forward to Friday. Thank you for your help, Miss Lusk. Kit, try not to stab yourself with a knife.” He strode out of the kitchen, whistling the entire way.
“I like him,” Alice said as she inspected the crates on the counter.
“That makes one of us.”
“Oh, you’re not serious. You have been friends a long time.”
True, but Kit still wished to punch Preston every now and then.
Speaking of, the kitchen door swung open again. Preston’s expression was more serious this time. “Forgive me for interrupting, but, Kit, I forgot to tell you that Forrest is back from Chicago.”
He forgot? How could Preston have let that information slip his mind? The last time Forrest was in New York, he’d nearly drank himself to death. “Where?”
“A boardinghouse over on West Twenty-Eighth Street.”
Not a great neighborhood, then. A far cry from Forrest’s Fifth Avenue upbringing. “You have the boys on it?” he asked, referring to the guards Preston had hired to tail their friend.
“I do. Wouldn’t hurt for you to stop by and check in, though. I would, but my day is packed.”
Kit nodded. “I’ll go tonight.”
“Good—117 is the street number.” He tipped his hat at Alice. “Farewell, again.”
“Farewell,” she said.
When Kit didn’t say anything, Alice leaned forward to catch his gaze. “A friend of yours?”
“Yes. He’s not doing well, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry. Do you want to go visit him now?”
Even though there was a mountain of work to do and no one to help her but him, she was still thinking of others before herself. She was absolutely remarkable. “No, I’ll go tonight.” Rubbing his hands together, he gestured to the mountain of food on the counters and floors. “What should we do first?”
“Anything we aren’t using today needs to go into a cooler.”
“It’s back there.” He pointed to the wooden door in the far corner.
“Then let’s get busy.” Picking up a crate of Bibb lettuce, she held it out. “Here you go.”
“I see how it is.” He took the crate from her hands. “You just want me here for my muscles.”
She didn’t laugh, as he’d expected. Instead, she put her fingers on his upper arm and squeezed. “You are more than a pretty face, Christopher.”
The comment struck him as odd, but his tongue thickened all the same, his mouth suddenly cotton. He couldn’t handle the way she was looking at him, as if she understood. “You won’t be saying that after you see me in the kitchen,” he joked.
“Yes, I will. Now, get moving. I don’t have all day.”
His brows shot up, but he didn’t argue. He liked this bossy side of her. A lot.
Alice studied the menu once more. They clearly needed more hands in the kitchen. She and Kit had been busy—rolling crust, coring apples, making custard, whipping cream, and tens of other tasks—for six straight hours. And they hadn’t accomplished nearly enough.
“I am starving,” Kit said as he finished the layers on another charlotte russe. “And working with all this food is making it worse.”
“We’re almost done for the day. I must return to the hotel, so I’ll eat there.”
“John is waiting for you outside. He’ll see you safely returned.”
True to his word, Kit had hired a driver to take her to and from the hotel each day. It seemed extravagant, but she wasn’t about to argue. The luxury would save her the time of finding a hack. �
��Thank you for that, by the way.”
“You are doing us an enormous favor. It’s the least Preston and I can do.” He smoothed the top of the dessert with a frosting spatula. “How does this look?”
“Perfect. Much better than your first five attempts.”
“Why, thank you. Glad to hear I’m not completely hopeless.” He lifted the platter and headed for the cooler. “I’ll put this away and then see you off.”
Frowning, she watched his retreating back and thought about his disparaging comment. If not for his drunken ramblings that night in his bedroom, she might have laughed it off as harmless. But she knew his insecurities now, knew how he thought of himself as unintelligent.
I’m a fool. A pretty but dim bulb.
She didn’t like it. He was smart and charming, absolutely gorgeous . . . what more could anyone want in a person? Why couldn’t he recognize any of his good qualities, besides being good with women?
When he returned, she pointed to her list. “We are behind. Though we finished most of the two desserts, I had also hoped to get some work done on the vegetables, as well.”
He perused the menu and ingredients. “Shall I hire more hands?”
“Can you find some kitchen staff on such short notice?”
“Of course.” He flicked his finger over her cheek and came away with a tiny bit of custard. “I won’t let you down.” Holding his finger to his mouth, he slowly cleaned the thick cream off with his tongue.
Her reaction was instant. Tingles rippled down her legs, along her spine, while heat wrapped around her insides, stealing her breath and causing her nipples to stiffen. How did he manage it? In one second he turned her entire body liquid. “Kit,” she whispered, not even sure if she was pleading with him to stop . . . or keep going.
Suddenly, he blinked, his expression wiping clean of any passion, any teasing. It was as if the entire thing never happened. “Sorry. Old habit.” He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned against the counter. “Shall we get you in the carriage?”
She couldn’t answer, her body still buzzing. Every cell inside her remembered him and craved more. There was no pretending they hadn’t kissed, hadn’t tasted each other’s skin in Newport. They had, and she desperately wanted to again. It was practically all she could think about.
