by Zara Chase
Après-Ski 5
Handcuffs and Hot Fudge
Ty Vaughan has gone from being a famed Bostonian Michelin-star chef to running Hadleigh’s restaurant in the sleepy European ski-resort of Nevella, which suits him just fine. Persuaded to mentor a team of amateur chefs for the annual food fayre, Ty's attention is caught by Brit Jodie Norton, whose attitude borders on hostile and elevates the temperature in Ty’s kitchen to boiling point.
Jodie is convinced Ty’s the guy who’d been dating her best friend up until the time of her brutal murder. Her suspicions intensify when she discovers that he, and all the other American ex-pats living at Hadleigh’s, are into BDSM—just as her friend had been—and even have their own dungeon on the premises.
Convinced she’s on the trail of a murderer, Jodie’s priorities become blurred when she finds it increasingly difficult to ignore the heat simmering between her and Ty. She wouldn’t be fatally attracted to a murderer, would she…
Genre: BDSM, Contemporary
Length: 50,734 words
HANDCUFFS AND HOT FUDGE
Après-Ski 5
Zara Chase
EVERLASTING CLASSIC
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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HANDCUFFS AND HOT FUDGE
Copyright © 2015 by Zara Chase
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-004-6
First E-book Publication: February 2015
Cover design by Les Byerley
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
HANDCUFFS AND HOT FUDGE
Après-Ski 5
ZARA CHASE
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
In the parking lot behind Hadleigh’s on a hot August afternoon, Tyrell and Leo gave no quarter as they fought one another for the ball, shooting hoops while they shot the breeze. Their bare torsos were bathed in sweat as their competitive natures turned their workout into a war of attrition.
“Shit!”
Leo fell on his butt as Ty shoulder charged him, got possession of the ball, leapt athletically several feet into the air, and scored a slam dunk.
“I’ll give you that one, buddy,” Leo said, laughing as Ty offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet.
“You’re getting slow, old man,” Ty replied, flopping onto the bench and toweling the sweat from his brow. “You never would have let me get past you like that back in the day.”
“I went easy on you.” Leo flashed the killer grin that regularly had the female clientele at Hadleigh’s creaming their panties. “Seeing what day it is.”
Ty grabbed a bottle of water, tipping his head back and half its contents down his throat. “Sure you were.” He pushed the soggy hair away from his eyes and looked up at the crystal-clear sky as he put the water aside and continued to towel down. “Damn, it’s gonna be a hot one.”
“Climate change ain’t hit Nevella yet.” Leo chuckled. “Tell me again who’s getting old.”
“Tell me again who just landed you on your ass.”
“Yeah, okay, point taken.”
“Since our housemates all found a better form of exercise, we’ve been short of bodies out here.” Ty grinned. “Can’t say as I blame them for preferring their indoor sports.”
“I’m surprised they’ve stuck around,” Leo said, vigorously drying himself off.
Ty shrugged. “I guess we’re family.”
Leo was the first of the six of them to migrate from America to Nevella, a sleepy ski resort set high up in the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain. Gradually five more of them, all with different skills on offer, had joined Leo and stayed. The other four now had permanent ladies in their lives, but those ladies had fit right into the pattern of things at Hadleigh’s, and the guys showed no interest in moving on.
“Now it’s just you and me again, bud, like it was in the beginning.” Ty had been the first to join Leo in Nevella. “It’s like old times, us two single guys sticking together.”
Ty nodded emphatically. “There’s safety in our diminishing numbers.”
“You’ve got that right.” Leo paused. “I’m glad for the guys, but I can’t see myself going down that route.”
“Me neither.”
“Why settle for one flavor when you can sample them all?”
Ty couldn’t agree more. “You said it, man.”
Both guys leaned against the back of the bench, regaining their breath and enj
oying the rare moment of inactivity.
“You sure you’re good with today?” Leo asked, head tilted back, eyes closed.
Am I? “Too late to back out now.”
“We could work something else out.”
“And royally piss Padron off?” Ty shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll do it, Leo. It’s not an issue.”
It was August, the month of the annual Nevella food fayre. The country was divided into five valleys, each of which was run by an old Nevellian family. There was little love lost between those families, who were, not surprisingly, highly competitive. The feuding went back generations and no one could accurately say how it started. All Ty knew was that it was deeply ingrained and showed no signs of abating.
Leo could only run his empire in Medina Valley with the co-operation of and in partnership with the powerful Pardon family. In other words, Leo did all the work, and Pardon handled the bureaucracy and took all the glory. In the five years that he’d been in Nevella, Leo had turned the valley from a dated backwater into the little country’s premier ski resort and Hadleigh’s bar into the hip après-ski joint. Thanks to Ty’s skills as a chef, it was necessary to book weeks in advance to get a table in the restaurant, even in summer.
The food fayre had been running for three years and brought in an increasing number of tourists, their numbers swollen by the amount of media interest the event attracted. Ty hadn’t wanted to know about it but Padron was getting insistent. Medina Valley would never beat the competition unless Ty got involved and Ty felt pressured to give it his best shot. So, all his regular help got to have the whole of August off while Ty took four amateurs chosen by a supposedly neutral panel who waded through the thousands of applicants and allocated them on an ad hoc basis to the five restaurateurs involved.
God help me!
All six of the Yanks living at Hadleigh’s had escaped there for reasons of their own. Only Leo knew all their secrets. Drawing attention to himself wasn’t a situation Ty relished, but Ty owed Leo big time. It would be the ultimate accolade if Medina Valley could somehow win the fayre, and Ty, for his buddy’s sake, would give it his best shot.
“I appreciate this.” Leo slapped his shoulder. “I know what it’s costing you but it’s time, don’t you think?”
Ty shot him a look. “I can’t hide forever, is what you’re saying. Except, I don’t see why not. I like it here. No one bothers me.”
“They will. You’re your own worst enemy in that your food speaks for you.”
Ty nodded. “And the more requests for interviews I turn down, the more persistent and curious the press will become. I hear you. That’s partly why I’m doing this.”
“Right. Any idea yet who your lucky victims will be?”
“Two guys and two chicks. There’s a Frenchman and a Spanish girl.”
Leo rolled his eyes, well aware that the two adjoining countries that constantly bullied little Nevella and envied its tax-free status took the food fayre very seriously. The French in particular treated everything to do with food like a religion, especially since there was a large cash incentive and national pride at stake. Ty had been told that each valley would be given a French and Spanish competitor. They would be compelled to work together rather than competing, so if they didn’t kill one another, it would be interesting to see what transpired. In spite of his misgivings about getting involved, the chef in Ty was curious to see what culinary creations surfaced at the end of the month.
“There’s a German guy and a Brit as well, which is all I know.” Ty gathered up his stuff and stood. “Best hit the shower. They’ll be here for my pep talk this afternoon.”
“Treat them gently, bud,” Leo said, laughing. “They’re probably terrified of you.”
“What, of me?” Ty spread his hands. “I’m just a big ol’ pussycat.”
“Right.” Leo sent Ty a skeptical look. “I’d best get back to it as well. I’ve got paperwork coming out my ass.”
The two friends headed back for the bar. The restaurant was closed today. His chefs already scattered for their well-deserved vacations. Although they didn’t open for lunch, it still seemed empty without them scurrying about, prepping for the evening service.
“Enjoy the peace while it lasts,” Ty muttered, heading for his own rooms on the second floor and throwing the only item of clothing he’d been wearing, a sweating pair of shorts, into the hamper.
He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water pound onto his head as he tried to convince himself he had nothing to worry about. Nobody cared about him or his past. Nobody knew who he was. This month was all about the competition. He would knock his contestants into shape, push them beyond their comfort zones and make sure they were the best they could be.
Dressed in comfortable old jeans and a black T-shirt, his long hair damp from the shower, Ty checked his watch and made his way down to the bar.
“Showtime,” he muttered.
* * * *
Jodie Norton held her breath as she took her turn at the counter in the fayre’s administration office and took an envelope detailing her assignment from a harried official. She thanked the woman in flawless Spanish and took the envelope to a quiet corner of the room, silently praying that she would have been allocated to Medina Valley. Or, more specifically, to Tyrell Vaughan’s not so tender mercies. Not that that was his name, of course, which accounted for the amount of time it had taken her to track him down.
She tossed her head as she curled her upper lip in derision, thinking that hiding behind a pseudonym summed up her opinion of the man. No, not a man but a coward. Real men faced up to their responsibilities. They didn’t run away and hide behind a fake name, leaving people scrabbling around for answers.
Her fingers trembled as she hesitated to run her thumb beneath the flap of the envelope.
“Get a grip,” she mumbled, reminding herself that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if she wasn’t allocated to Hadleigh’s. Being accepted as a contestant was the only important thing. The competition had been stiff and she was lucky to have made the cut. Whoever had the misfortune of her in their kitchen, it made no difference. She would still be thrown into contact with Vaughan and would be able to decide if he actually was who she thought he was. She’d been pretty sure she’d found him on a couple of previous occasions and knew better than to jump to conclusions, even though this time she was absolutely sure.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the envelope, pulled out her joining instructions, and punched the pair in jubilation.
“Yes!” she yelled, loud enough to draw attention to herself.
“You sound…er, happy,” said an attractive guy in a heavy French accent.
“I am,” she replied in his own language. “I’ve been allocated to Medina Valley and everyone knows that Tyrell Vaughan is the man around these parts.” Jodie wondered why the words didn’t stick in her throat.
The guy smiled. “Then we are in this together. I am there, too, and Vaughan is, as you say, the man.” He held out a hand. “Marcel Girton.”
“Oh, Jodie Norton,” she replied, shaking his hand. “It’s good to meet you.”
“And you.” He glanced at his instructions. “We have to take a bus to Medina Village and check into the Rutland Hotel.” He nodded toward the door. “Shall we go together?”
“Sure.”
“I wonder what has made Vaughan agree to be a part of this fayre this year,” Marcel mused as they waited for their bus. Jodie had been wondering the same thing. “He has refused the past two years.”
I’ll just bet he has! “You have done this before then? You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Non, I applied but was not accepted. So I came to see how it worked.” He winked at her. “To watch and to learn. It is my great ambition to be a top chef, and if I do well in this competition it can only help my chances.”
“Is it really that important?” Jodie asked. “I mean, Nevella is just a small country.”
“Ah, but
size is not everything,” Marcel replied with a mischievous smile. “Location is the key.”
She shrugged. “I suppose.”
They climbed onto the bus and were soon in Medina Valley, checking into their hotel. Jodie dumped her bags in her room, which was basic but fine for her needs. She’d been warned to expect long days in the restaurant’s kitchen, so she probably wouldn’t see much of it anyway.
She ran a brush through her unruly hair and went back down to reception, where she’d agreed to meet Marcel. He was talking to a stunning-looking girl who could only be Spanish. Her dark glossy hair, Mediterranean coloring, and fiery eyes gave her heritage away. She couldn’t have been more than five foot four, a good four inches shorter than Jodie, but everything about her was in perfect proportion, making Jodie feel ungainly by comparison. She was the sort of girl who inspired devotion and would have men scurrying to get on her good side—or into her knickers. The sort who probably even had a nice personality and made friends with women just as easily.
Jodie glanced down at her own, less than perfect body and sighed. Life was sometimes so damned unfair.
A tall blond guy formed part of the group. German, Jodie thought, priding herself on being able to guess a person’s nationality at a glance. Marcel saw her, beckoned her over, and made the introductions.
“These are our teammates, Jodie,” he said. “Hans Schmitt and Consuela Lopez.”
“A pleasure,” she said, shaking hands, having been proven correct on both counts. Hans was German and Consuela greeted Jodie with the sort of open friendliness that was impossible to fake. She really was an all-around nice person.
