Secret Ingredient: Love

by Teresa Southwick

“Rebellion?”

  “Culinary school. My father refused to pay for it. He said that if I liked to cook, I should get married and prepare meals for one man instead of a bunch of strangers.”

  “Hmm,” was his only comment. “Where did you go to school?”

  “San Francisco.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Chalk one up for your grandmother. And you still miss her.”

  “Every day,” Fran agreed. “But that’s why I love that chair. It’s nice to have something to remind me of her.”

  “Do you want me to give you my amateur psychological take on that?”

  “Nope. And I won’t practice armchair psychology if you won’t.”

  “You already have,” he said wryly.

  “Okay. No more cracks about second-son syndrome.”

  He held out his hand. “Deal.”

  “Done,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.

  A tingle of awareness skittered through her. If she had foreseen the magnitude of disturbance caused by the warmth of his large hand, she would have kept hers to herself.

  She removed her fingers from his, hoping he didn’t notice her abruptness. It smacked of attraction. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Nothing personal. But after her disaster, she wasn’t interested in a flirtation or anything more serious with any man. Especially one in the food service industry. If only Alex didn’t look so darn cute sitting in her grandmother’s chair. What in the world had possessed her to look through that peephole in the first place? Curiosity.

  Which reminded her. She was still curious about the second reason he’d dropped by. He’d admitted he was looking for a chef, but he didn’t seem terribly impressed with her verbal credentials. There wasn’t much chance he would offer her the job. Too bad. It was a wonderful opportunity.

  But he’d said he was here for two reasons, and he’d only accounted for one. “So what’s the second whammy?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you’re here because of a double whammy. Chef search is number one. What’s number two?”

  “Matchmaking.”

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Two

  “W hy would you assume Rosie was matchmaking?” Fran asked. “Because I’m a female chef?”

  “Yes.”

  Alex didn’t miss the defensive note in her voice or the way her gaze narrowed at his response. He’d been around the restaurant business long enough to know that women who decided on this career had a tough time. Attitudes were changing, but males still dominated the kitchens in a lot of four star restaurants.

  He couldn’t resist adding, “If you were a guy, it would have been the single whammy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Chef search. No matchmaking.”

  She nodded slowly as the corners of her mouth curved in a knowing smile. “Okay. But why would your sister try to fix you up?”

  “Because she’s a hopeless romantic.”

  “I wouldn’t think a guy who looks like you would have trouble finding a woman on his own.”

  She offered the observation without embarrassment or evasiveness. A woman on the make wouldn’t be so straightforward. He found her refreshing.

  And more, he thought. Sweat broke out on his forehead as she touched a finger to her full bottom lip. He wondered how it would taste. That thought came out of nowhere. He’d never felt such a strong attraction. Not since Beth, he amended. Guilt hit him hard and fast. Followed by the pain—dull now, but still there, every time he thought about her and what they’d lost. Love like that happened only once in a lifetime. And fate, karma or whatever you wanted to call it had dumped on him in a big way. He’d found the perfect woman, but chance had stolen from him the part where they would grow old together. Fate wouldn’t get another chance to kick him in the teeth.

  “I’m not looking for a woman,” he said. With luck, in addition to being direct, Fran wasn’t inquisitive. This subject was off-limits. There was no point in discussing it.

  Her eyes glittered, as if she wanted to ask more. But all she said was, “Then that’s why Rosie is trying to fix you up. It’s a delicious challenge. I just don’t understand why she would think I was matchmaking material.”

  “There was that cute-as-a-button remark. Rosie said it, not me,” he stated, raising his hands in surrender.

  He had to admit Rosie had been right about that. Funny, he could see buttons as cute, but not sexy. And Fran Carlino had sex appeal in spades. Especially her mouth. Straight white teeth showed to perfection when she smiled, which she did often. She had full soft lips. Kissable lips.

  “I would prefer stunning or drop-dead gorgeous to cute, but at least she didn’t tell you I need to wear a bag over my head in public.”

  He blinked and forced himself to switch his focus from her mouth to the words coming out of it. “Actually, she was right about you. You’re very attractive, Fran.”

  “Be still my heart,” she said, touching a hand to her chest. “Now there’s a line to turn a woman’s head. You really are out of practice. You’re not kidding, are you—about not looking for a woman?”

  “No.” It wasn’t even a matter of looking. He’d had his shot. It hadn’t worked out. End of story.

  “Then if you suspected Rosie was matchmaking, but you’re not interested in participating, why are you here?”

  “She said I couldn’t get you. And if I wanted to know why, I had to ask you myself.”

  “Ah,” Fran said, with one emphatic nod that said she understood completely. “I get it. Brilliant strategy. And it worked like a charm.”

  “What worked?”

  “Reverse psychology.”

  “What happened to no more amateur analyzing?” he asked.

  “I forgot,” she admitted. “But this is too classic, too characteristic of reverse psychology.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Unless this is the Twilight Zone it would be pointless to deny it. But I refuse to believe strategy played a part.”

  “It’s so obvious.” She shook her head sympathetically. “Guys always want what they can’t have. If anyone knows about this it’s me. With four brothers, I’ve had lots of practice studying how the male mind works.”

  “And how is that?”

  “It has something to do with that whole prehistoric hunter-gatherer thing. Deny them, and they’ll go out with single-minded determination and intense focus to hunt it down and bring it back to the cave. So Rosie’s method worked. She said you couldn’t bag me. Now you’re here, spear in hand.” She watched him for a moment, then added, “So to speak.”

  “You’ve been reading too many of the psychology books in Rosie’s store.”

  Instead of taking offense, she laughed. “Probably. No doubt it’s nothing more than a man’s competitive nature.”

  He nodded. “I’ll go along with that. So, I’ll bite. Why can’t I get you?” That sounded way too personal. “As in why can’t I get you to work for me?”

  She set her empty teacup and saucer on the end table beside the sofa. As she leaned sideways, the lamp’s glow highlighted the flush on her cheek. She’d noticed his double entendre.

  When she didn’t answer right away, he asked, “Do you have something against Italian cuisine? Either cooking or eating?”

  She shook her head. “I love it.”

  “So your schedule is tight? You’ve got more work than you can handle? You couldn’t fit me in with a shoehorn?”

  “Nope. After the baby food contract is satisfied, I’m up for grabs.”

  Did she realize she’d lobbed a double entendre of her own? “Then you’re taking some much needed time off,” he suggested. “Haven’t had a vacation in years?”

  “Wrong again. In fact, just before you rang my doorbell, I was wondering where my next job was coming from. I had the want ads out, and marked a few things that looked promising.”

  He reached over and picked up her marked up c
lassifieds. Looking at the ads she’d circled, he read, “‘Experienced cook. Must know breakfast.”’ He lowered the newspaper and met her gaze.

  She shrugged. “I know breakfast. Never met one I didn’t like.”

  He glanced at the paper again. “‘Busy retirement resort seeks chef experienced in home-style volume production.”’

  The corners of her tantalizing mouth turned up. “I lived in a home once, and believe you me, in my house you didn’t learn anything if not cooking food in volume. The Carlino boys could put it away faster than you can say hot and hearty.”

  Another circled ad caught his eye. “‘Accepting applications for grill and taco bar positions.’ Isn’t this beneath you?”

  “It’s honest work.” Her mouth pulled tight.

  “Seems to me your family would help out if you’re strapped and between assignments for a while.”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

  “Why?” If he was in need, his family would be there for him, as Fran had said, faster than you could say hot and hearty.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He decided to leave it at that. Fran Carlino had a story and he didn’t want to hear it. Nothing personal. This was all about business. “So you’re actively looking for work,” he concluded.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  They looked at each other and said at the same time, “Definitely matchmaking.”

  “With overtones of reverse psychology,” Alex added. “And just to clarify—I could get you? To work for me, that is?”

  “Make me an offer.”

  The first offer that came to mind had nothing to do with a job and everything to do with exploring the curve and circumference of her mouth. Hello! There it was again. That weird attraction, and it didn’t seem to want to let up. The realization rocked him. It had been a while, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t reacted so strongly to a woman, not even Beth. This was different. And it was something he didn’t want to think about.

  Pushing the feelings aside, he reminded himself he was here on business. And if he knew anything about anything, it was work. He’d buried himself in it to get through every day without Beth.

  He stood up. “An offer is a little premature. I’d like to see a résumé and references. Then…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. This isn’t normally my area of expertise. My brother Joe is in charge of human resources. He’s the recruiter.”

  “So should I see him?” she offered, seeming relieved somehow.

  Alex shook his head. “I’d like to handle this. Partly because it’s my project, but mostly because my brother is getting married soon.”

  “When?”

  “Valentine’s Day.”

  “The only day of the year set aside for lovers,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “So you believe in love. You’re just not looking for it yourself.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the significance of the day for others,” he clarified. Just not himself. “You probably have a guy to Valentine with,” he guessed.

  “No. But I think it would be very romantic as a wedding day.”

  He grinned. “That from the woman who would say Joe bagged a female and is in the process of dragging her—by the hair, I might add—back to his cave.”

  She smiled at him. “There’s no keeping a steadfast hunter-gatherer down,” she said. “Apparently it doesn’t run in the family.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re not looking for a woman,” she reminded him.

  “Right.” He cleared his throat. “If I were in charge of recruiting, I would probably want to know what job experience you’ve had.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you my résumé and work history.”

  He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed her a business card. “Here’s the address.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fran stood before the reception desk at Marchetti’s Inc. the following afternoon. It was late, after five, and she’d spent much of the day debating with herself. Should she play it cool and wait a week before getting Alex Marchetti her résumé? Or appear eager and needy by doing it right away? She finally reasoned that it didn’t matter. The man had seen her want ads. He knew how needy she was.

  Stopping at the building’s information desk, she’d explained that she was there to see Alex. The woman had buzzed his office to announce her, and had listened to his response.

  “Mr. Marchetti will see you,” she’d said. “Tenth floor,” she’d added with a polite smile.

  “Thank you.”

  Remembering his deep, resonant tones, Fran wondered how the woman could listen to that wonderful voice and remain impassive. On the phone, there was no distraction to mute the full power of it. Then again, the receptionist looked to be in her late fifties. Not to mention that there were a lot of offices. She probably didn’t talk to him much.

  Shaking her head at her silly musing, Fran walked past the reception area to the elevator and took it to his floor. When the doors opened, she walked out and scanned the U-shaped desk and the woman behind it. Alex’s secretary.

  That explained it. The information lady probably only talked to his secretary. Hence her demeanor was safe and secure.

  “I’m here to see Alex Marchetti,” Fran explained to the gray-haired woman. With her cap of curls, she reminded Fran of one of the flitting fairy godmothers from the classic cartoon fairy tale.

  Fran had to conclude that if Alex had had any say in hiring his secretary and the information lady, he had deliberately surrounded himself with females unavailable to him. He wasn’t kidding about not looking for a woman. Fran couldn’t help wondering why. A hunk like him could probably have anyone he wanted, but he’d taken himself out of circulation. She wasn’t the only one with a long, yet interesting story. But she recalled the sadness in his brown eyes and had a suspicion his didn’t have a happy ending.

  “He’s expecting you,” the older woman said with a smile. “His office is down the hall to your left.”

  “Thanks,” Fran said.

  She quickly found his door, and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  There was the voice. She took a deep, bracing breath, then entered his office. Alex sat behind the desk. Today he had on a tie, a paisley print in shades of brown and gold complementing his tan shirt. The long sleeves were rolled up. She couldn’t suppress one small, appreciative sigh.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

  She clutched her portfolio briefcase tightly. “Here I am, as promised.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Anytime this week would have been fine.”

  “I thought you were anxious to get started.”

  “And I thought you were busy finishing up your current assignment.”

  “Just tying up loose ends,” she explained, struggling for perky.

  His words made her stomach fall like the sudden drop on a roller coaster. He didn’t want her. The thought flashed through her mind, and disappointment quickly followed. She couldn’t tell whether she was disturbed professionally or personally. That sent her to a whole different level of emotional confusion. She’d been involved with a guy who had dumped her after he got what he wanted. She hadn’t done anything for Alex yet. Her self-esteem would plummet to the base ment if she were jettisoned without even being on board.

  “Have a seat.” He indicated one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk.

  “Thanks.” She sat down and crossed one leg over the other, hearing the whisper of her nylons. She noticed Alex glance in that direction, but was pretty sure his desk blocked his view. And she was glad about that.

  On top of her debate about whether or not to show up at all, she’d had a hard time deciding what to wear. It was December in southern California, but unseasonably warm. Should she show up in a suit with a skirt that was businesslike yet femin
ine, or a pantsuit that was professional and didn’t draw too much attention to her as a woman? Based on their meeting the previous evening, she hadn’t been able to decide whether he was retro or progressive on that last point.

  She’d finally chosen an outfit that made her feel professional and confident. Her chocolate-brown suit filled the bill nicely. Its not-too-short skirt and the fitted jacket that hugged her hips and stopped about six inches from her hem made her feel good.

  He stared at her for several moments, then finally said, “May I see your résumé?”

  “Of course.” She quickly unzipped her briefcase and removed a folder. “I also have letters of recommendation from each of the companies I’ve worked with.”

  Alex scanned the sheets, giving her a chance to scan him. As he concentrated, frown lines appeared between his dark brows. He had a well-formed nose and a nice mouth. Very nice, she thought with a little shiver. His cheeks and jaw sported a five o’clock shadow. Incredibly male with just a hint of danger, she decided. But the wire-rimmed glasses debunked that impression pretty quickly. His wrists were wide, dusted with a masculine covering of dark hair, and his hands, with their long fingers, looked lean and strong.

  “Very impressive,” he said.

  “Yes, indeed.” She gave herself a mental shake and, with an effort, switched gears back to business. She cleared her throat. “They seemed to be happy with my work.”

  He set the last letter on top of the folder. “With a health-conscious consumer public, the fat-free muffin mix is very timely. So is the frozen vegetable stir-fry.”

  “Not to mention the recipe booklet for the dried soup mix,” she reminded him. “I included hints to cut fat and calories.”

  “I see,” he said, looking at her. Was that appreciation in his eyes?

  Maybe. But that didn’t dismiss his vague tone. She would bet her double boiler that he had mega-reservations about hiring her.

  “Why do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?” she asked.

  “You have no experience in entrées.”

  “Not as a consultant, that’s true. But as my résumé states, I was trained at a prestigious culinary school. Making entrées was part of the curriculum. I know which ingredients freeze well.”