A Billionaire for Lexi: Holiday Novella

by Ruth Cardello

  She was so riled that he was able to approach without her noticing him. He wanted to laugh as he watched her pounding on what looked like some type of dough. She had a rolling pin in one hand banging on it, and she flipped it with the other. Definitely not a technique I’ve ever seen before. When he was closer, he saw the name on the jacket, Ricco Gallo. You don’t act like a chef, and you sure as hell don’t look like a Ricco either. What’s going on here?

  “Are you Gallo?”

  He must have startled her; she held up the rolling pin as though ready to strike. “You can’t be in here. This is restricted to kitchen staff only.”

  He looked around and only saw her. “So I’ve been told from your waitress. Are you the cook?” Vincent wasn’t about to use the word chef as that would’ve meant she actually had some skill.

  “I am.”

  The expression on her face had been priceless. Her chin was up in the air, and she actually sounded as though she was proud of it. Why, he wasn’t sure. If he’d put anything on a plate that looked that horrible, he’d never cook again.

  “Then someone should warn Mrs. Barrington.”

  “About what?”

  Vincent arched a brow and said, “That her guests will have the choice of food poisoning or dying from starvation.”

  The fire in her eyes amazed him. Once again she went off rattling something in a language he couldn’t understand. He may be of Italian decent, but his family had been here for five generations, and he knew only a few words he’d pick up over the years.

  When she calmed down he said, “Want to try that in English this time?”

  “I do not know who you think you are, coming into the kitchen and complaining.”

  “I’m a person with taste buds. Obviously you don’t have any or you wouldn’t have served that garbage.” It was so bad he couldn’t even bring himself to call it food.

  “Feel free not to eat it.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t.”

  “I need you to leave my kitchen. If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to cook here.”

  He laughed. “Trying, yes. Achieving, no.”

  Vincent hadn’t meant to upset her. He was only calling it as it was, yet he could see she was flustered.

  “I’m glad you feel as though you could do better, but unless you’re here to help, I repeat, you need to leave my kitchen.” Her eyes glistened as she barked at him, yet she held her control.

  He had to give her credit, she wasn’t backing down. But that was foolish, because once the word got out about how bad the food was, they’d be out of business. None of this was his concern as he turned and walked out of the kitchen. I have my own business to run. I don’t need to worry about some resort that is mismanaged. I don’t care how charming the place appears to be; without quality food, it’s a ticking time bomb.

  As he made his way back to his table, he couldn’t get the picture of her eyes out of his mind. He wasn’t one to let tears persuade him, yet there was something about her that was pulling him to return. Mind your own business, Vincent. Enough has gone wrong already. I’m not here to fix things. Hell, I’m not even sure why I’m here anymore. This is a total fucking waste of my time.

  Before he sat down, he overheard a couple complaining about the meal. “This is outrageous. When I tell Sophie about this—”

  “Excuse my interruption. I understand you are unhappy with the meal. If you wouldn’t mind giving the chef another hour, I believe you might have a change of mind.” Vincent had no idea what possessed him to interrupt. He was committing to something he knew she couldn’t deliver. At least not without help.

  The woman at the table snorted and said, “One hour. But if it isn’t up to my standards, I most definitely will make my call.”

  Vincent turned and headed back to the kitchen. He knew she needed his help, but how he could convince her of that, was a different story.

  The last time he saw her she was standing strong and confident. Now he found her sobbing, holding her face with her hands. Everything told him to stop and turn around, yet he found himself walking up to her and wrapping her in his arms.

  He felt her tense, and she tried to pull away. “It’s okay. It’s just me again.”

  “What . . . what are you doing . . . here?” Renita asked between sobs.

  I wish I knew. “Let me help.”

  “Why are you being so nice?”

  Her beautiful brown eyes searched his face for an answer. If you find one, please share it with me. “Because I can, and because you need me to help.”

  That seemed to get her temper going all over again, and she pulled away from him with her hands now on her hips and tapping her toes on the floor.

  Vincent almost laughed. No one had ever accused him of being nice when it came to managing a kitchen. He ran a tight ship. Even his sous-chefs were the best in the business. If they couldn’t pull their weight, they were cut that same day. Second chances didn’t fly with him.

  But, as he looked at her, he saw a passion in her eyes. She might not be able to cook, but at least she had spirit. You, my dear, I might just make an exception for.

  He rolled up his sleeves, went to the sink, and scrubbed up. Looks like this is a working event after all.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving your reputation. But if we don’t get some edible food out there quickly, even I won’t be able to help you.”

  He opened the refrigerators, amazed at how well-stocked they were. Someone obviously had planned for an elaborate dining experience, but that confused him more. Why have all this and then open a can? Because if you try telling me that soup was freshly made, I’m calling BS.

  Filling his arms, he grabbed numerous fresh vegetables and laid them in front of Chef Gallo. “You chop, and I’ll cook.”

  He figured letting her attend to the veggies was safe while he searched for ingredients he could pull together quickly and taste as though it was prepared by someone who’s seen a kitchen before.

  He found salmon and the fixings for a glaze. He went to the prep station but was caught off guard when he was blown away for the second time. She was chopping the carrots as though she’d never used a knife before. How do you still have fingers?

  Vincent didn’t want to shout at her; it was scary enough just watching. Slowly he walked over to her and asked, “Can I show you how?”

  She hesitated for a moment then stepped back, nodded, and handed him the knife. It wasn’t the right knife for the job. He laid it down and grabbed a different one, holding it up so she could see the difference.

  “Watch the way I hold my hands. The knife never leaves the table.” Quickly he chopped six carrots all sized equally. He continued until they all were chopped.

  “Do you want to try the celery?”

  She looked reluctant, but she reached for his knife, and her attempt was better than the first.

  “I see you have some skill, but I really shouldn’t let you do this. I mean, you’re a guest and it’s not allowed. The health department would never allow this.”

  “If they ate what you’d served, you wouldn’t need to worry; they’d pull your license.” He hadn’t meant for the words to be quite so harsh, but he wasn’t one who normally held back either.

  “Oh, God. I wasn’t thinking of that. I only wanted to get something out I knew I could make. Do you think anyone is going to call? I mean, it wasn’t that bad, was it? I eat that all the time.”

  “Then I feel bad for you. Let me answer your first question. I bought you a bit of time to get out some real food, but if we don’t, then yes, someone will call. Second, the food was that bad. I have no idea where you were trained, but lady, you’re the worse chef I’ve ever encountered. I can’t believe Brice suggested I hire you for one of my restaurants. What did you do, threaten to poison him or something?”

  She had a puzzled look on her face and then burst out laughing. “You really believe I’m a chef?”

  “You are wearing a chef’s jacket a
nd are in the kitchen. What would you like me to believe?” He arched a brow and waited for her to answer.

  “Your taste buds.” Her smile lit up the entire room.

  Damn, you’re beautiful, whoever you are. “Then I’d guess dishwasher because your food tastes like you used sink water.”

  “Ouch. Please don’t hold back. It’s not like I have any feelings or anything.”

  She acted hurt, but somehow not surprised by his comment. “I take it you’re not Ricco Gallo.”

  “I might not be able to cook, but at least I have eyes enough to know the difference between a man and a woman.”

  Oh trust me. I know the difference. And you are definitely a woman. “Very cute. Where is Ricco?”

  “He has the flu and the rest of the staff called out for similar reasons or were unable to travel due to the weather. Even the resort owner, Mr. Prescott, wasn’t able to get here. So that left me and the little waitstaff who had come in to work early. They were here to get in some skiing before the big New Year’s Eve event. I know you might not believe this, but I was the only option.”

  He heard her sincerity when she spoke. He expected his staff to step up in a similar situation. However they would’ve been qualified to do so. “So what experience do you have?”

  “Besides my father being a world-renowned chef?”

  Ah. Ricco’s daughter. Interesting. Vincent nodded.

  “Absolutely none. I’m great at taking orders. I’m normally the hostess and supervise the waitstaff. As far as cooking, what you see is what you get.”

  I definitely like what I see. There was something about her, he couldn’t pinpoint it, but he knew he was drawn to her. But right now, he needed to stay focused on the issue at hand.

  It had been years since he’d spent any time in a kitchen, usually he was only there for inspections or to review new menu options. He built a successful business but counted on his staff to handle the day to day. He might be a bit rusty, but he knew whatever he put out was sure as hell going to be better than what she had.

  “You think you can do better than I can, because why?”

  Vincent laughed. “First of all, most people could do better. Second, I am a trained chef, unless you couldn’t tell from my cutting skills.”

  She looked him over from head to toe. He wasn’t sure if he was intrigued or insulted, but he found her boldness a turn-on.

  “You are dressed a bit too fancy to be any cook that I’ve seen, but I won’t argue. You can handle a knife. What did you say your name was?”

  “Vincent Moretti.” She didn’t seem to recognize his name. He was sure if Ricco was here, there’d be no question about his qualifications. “And you are?”

  “Renita Gallo.” She extended her tiny hand to his. He found it amazingly soft and delicate as he took it in his.

  “So how about I cook, and you watch?”

  “No way. I cook, and you help,” Renita said firmly.

  “Do you want people to eat or make that call?” He waited for her to answer.

  “Fine. But I want to help.”

  He nodded. “Okay, so tonight you learn the first rule in culinary arts.”

  “Okay, what is that?”

  “Don’t get in the way of the chef.”

  Renita grabbed the bottom of the jacket which was almost like a dress on her and curtsied. “Of course, Chef.”

  Her smile once again beamed. Maybe this week won’t be such a waste after all.

  Chapter Two

  Renita had to admit that having Vincent show up when he did had made things much easier. Although she’d felt that what she’d served yesterday was edible, once she tasted his food she was embarrassed by even the salad.

  It was still early morning, but she wanted to check on her father. Picking up her cell phone she dialed his number. The call went through, but there was still so much static on the line.

  “How are you feeling, Dad?”

  His voice sounded weak. “My fever broke last night, and Maria has been checking. She’s almost as bad as you, checking me every hour. With the roads closed, no one can get to the store for medicine to stop this cough.”

  Renita wished she could be there taking care of him, but her father had insisted she concentrate on the resort first. That didn’t prevent her from stopping at Maria’s, his neighbor, and asking her to keep an eye on him. And when she asked, Marie seemed very eager to do so. They were both the same age and their spouses had passed away. She didn’t normally believe in fate, but she wouldn’t mind one bit if her father found someone he could share his life with. Leaving him alone in Vermont with no family around was what held her there.

  “I’m glad she’s taking good care of you.”

  “How is the restaurant? Did you follow my recipes?”

  No, but don’t worry. I have this. Or maybe I should say Vincent has this. “Everything is perfect, Dad. Don’t worry about a thing. Just think about getting well.”

  “How many of my staff showed up?”

  “One.” She knew that wasn’t going to go over well, but she hadn’t planned for his response.

  “One? That’s it, I’m coming in.” She heard her father call out, “Maria, get me my clothes. I have to go to the resort.”

  She knew her father was stubborn enough to do it, even bypass the closed roads and trek through the woods if he had to. But she almost burst out laughing when she heard Maria answer him.

  “Ricco, you get back in that bed right this minute, or I’ll take all your clothes and throw them in the snow. Do you hear me?”

  Her father was swearing up a storm right before the line went dead. She resisted the urge to call back. Maria seemed to have everything under control, so she had to make sure she did the same here. If not, nothing was going to stop her father from coming in, sick or not.

  There were many things she didn’t enjoy about a chef’s life. Getting up way before dawn to prep for breakfast was one of the biggest. Renita was a morning person, but this was too much. Normally, you could find her on a slope as the sun rose, glistening on the fresh powdered snow from the night before. Until her father was well and back in the kitchen, her skis weren’t going anywhere, and neither was she.

  Even before she opened the door, she could see the lights were on in the kitchen. She was positive she’d turned them off last night. Please let it be one of the sous-chefs.

  When she opened the door, even with his back to her, she knew exactly who it was. Vincent. Really?

  He wasn’t dressed up this morning. Instead, he was wearing a T-shirt, showing his muscular back, and a pair of jeans, hugging his butt nicely. Now this is a sight worth getting up for. Might even beat the sunrise on the mountain.

  Renita felt her cheeks warm. Easy girl. This is not what you’re supposed to be doing. Dad has very strict rules about fraternization in the kitchen. A soft chuckle escaped her as she recalled neither of them were actually kitchen staff.

  Vincent heard her but didn’t even turn around. “Good morning, Renita. How about you grab the eggs and crack about four dozen for me?”

  Here she was having sweet thoughts of how sexy he looked, and he was all business. There were a couple cute remarks she was tempted to make, but she couldn’t afford to lose his help. Or my job.

  She decided not to wear her father’s jacket and grabbed one of the plain aprons as Vincent had. Once in place, she prepared the eggs as he instructed.

  “Okay, you’re going to add some milk and seasoning and whip them up so they’ll be ready for cooking. This will be one of the last things we do, so they won’t become rubbery.”

  She did as he said, but he wasn’t clear on how much or what seasoning. Renita put a couple dashes of salt then some pepper. Then she felt him standing behind her, his hand covering hers, which still held the salt.

  “Don’t be afraid of spices.” His voice was husky as he spoke.

  Her hand trembled but not from anything except the pure raw desire that filled her as she felt his rock hard body
pressed up against her back.

  “Relax. You can do this.”

  Not with you so darn close. I’m not even sure I can breathe, never mind cook. “I think I’d do better if you told me how much, and don’t be so vague.”

  “Recipes are so restrictive.”

  “No, they mean you make something, and it comes out exactly as you thought it would,” she said firmly as she tried not to think of him still behind her. He stepped back slightly but not enough for her nerves to settle.

  Vincent placed his hand on her shoulder and urged her to turn to face him. It was bad enough without looking into his honey brown eyes.

  “Not the adventurous type?”

  Oh, this is what they mean about don’t play in the kitchen cause you’re going to get burned. “Mr. Moretti, I—”

  “Vincent.”

  “Vincent, is that how they would teach me in culinary arts school?” She swallowed and hoped her answer got him to focus on what the task was. Feeding the guests.

  “They teach chemistry and how things come alive when you put the right combination together.”

  Oh, I’m coming alive. And this is not the time nor the place. “I think we should keep the chemistry lesson for another time.”

  He laughed lightly before heading back to the oven and pulling out homemade biscuits. They were golden brown and smelled heavenly. She wanted to tell him she’d be willing to sample his buns, but that was only going to get her right back where she didn’t want to be.

  Who am I kidding? It’s exactly where I want to be, just not where I should be.