Secret Ingredient: Love

by Teresa Southwick

  Darn it, she wanted this job; she was a good chef. She needed to get Alex’s attention. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she’d have it nailed. The job, not the man, she amended.

  “I prepared a variety of dishes, so you could see the range of my skills,” she said, opening her refrigerator.

  She pulled out a bowl of antipasto salad lavish with greens, cheese and black olives, and a more artsy arrangement of fresh spinach, asparagus and artichoke topped with alfalfa sprouts. Over the first she ladled a combination of spiced aromatic oil and estragon vinegar. She vigorously tossed the mixture, venting some of her nervous energy on the poor, innocent vegetables before placing a portion on a salad plate. On the other she spooned a delicate blend of light olive oil, garlic vinegar and her favorite combination of salad seasonings.

  She set the two choices in front of him, along with a basket of fresh baked rolls wrapped in white linen to keep them warm.

  “Enjoy,” she said in her best professional voice. It would have been more businesslike without the husky quality, which made her sound like a call girl showcasing her attributes.

  “This looks wonderful,” he said, taking the salad fork and testing first one, then the other. He chewed thoughtfully. “It tastes as good as it looks. Both of them.”

  “Good.” She went back into her work space. “I’ve got more courses, so save some room.”

  “Are you sure you can’t sit down and eat some of this?”

  “I’m not hungry. I’ve been tasting everything. A good chef does, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Bald-faced lies, except statement number three. A good chef was supposed to taste as she went along. Unfortunately, Fran had a knot in her stomach the size of Los Angeles and couldn’t get anything down. If she aced this interview, it would be because her instincts were in tip-top shape and she really and truly was an outstanding chef.

  From the oven she removed a baking sheet and placed the contents on a serving platter. Then she put the next course in the oven for heating. Rounding the bar, she set the platter on the table, then put one of the appetizers it held on his plate.

  “Portobello mushrooms,” she announced.

  He sniffed, then tasted. “Excellent,” he commented. “I don’t think I’ve ever had better.” He finished the whole thing.

  “I’m glad you like it. Entrées will be ready in about ten minutes. I’ll open some wine,” she said, starting to turn away.

  He stood up. “I’ll do it. If you’ll show me the way to the corkscrew.”

  Uh-oh. Red alert. He was changing the rules already. This was her kitchen and he was making himself at home. Familiarity breeds contempt. Down with friendly. Fie on familiar. Cool and distant. Up with professional and businesslike, and what had happened to that, anyway?

  She looked up at him—way up. Clearing her throat, she said, “Do you always open the wine in a competitor’s restaurant, Mr. Marchetti?”

  “Since when are you a competitor? I thought we were on the same team.”

  “I’m trying out for a spot on the team. Remember?”

  “Yeah. And I seem to recall you calling me Alex. What happened to that?”

  “I’m being formal, putting my best professional foot forward. I just need a chance to show you what I can do.”

  There it was again. That breathless quality to her voice. Along with her call girl tone she was tossing double entendres like an antipasto salad. As her cheeks burned with embarrassment, she hoped he wouldn’t at tach a personal meaning to what she’d said. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” had never rung more true. And she’d been face-to-face with the saying more than once since she’d decided on a male-dominated career.

  “Okay. You open the wine,” he said. But he didn’t sit down.

  From one of her kitchen drawers, she removed a foil cutter and corkscrew. The first worked like a charm. Unfortunately, the second was inexpensive, antiquated, and only penetrated the cork. It didn’t have handles on the sides to propel the stopper upward. She tried to pull it out, but didn’t have the strength. Then she attempted to wiggle it loose, without luck.

  Finally, Alex gently took the bottle from her. With only enough effort to cause a slight tightening in the tendons of his wide forearm, he removed the cork. “Voilà.”

  “I feel like a gymnast waiting to see how much the judges will deduct for a fall off the balance beam.”

  “Strength and manual dexterity are not the benchmarks of a good chef. I only deduct points for an entrée that triggers the gag reflex or food poisoning.”

  “You’re joking, but this is very serious to me.”

  “In a restaurant setting the waiter or wine steward would wrestle with this bottle. Any muscle-bound moron can do it. It’s not a failure.”

  “It’s not a win, either.”

  “Lighten up. If your cooking tastes as good as it smells, you’ve hooked me.”

  “Whatever you say.” How she wished she could believe him. She took the opened bottle from him and poured some into the wineglass already on the table.

  Before he could respond to her remark, the timer sounded. “The entrées are ready,” she said. “If you’ll resume your seat, I’ll continue to serve.”

  “Deal.”

  Fran took the food from the oven. She arranged it on two plates resting on a warming tray. Then she slipped on pot holders before she went back around the bar and set the servings on the table in front of him.

  With one gloved hand she indicated the first plate. “This is veal parmigiana.” Pointing to the other, she said, “Stuffed chicken breast with mushrooms and vegetables. Enjoy your meal.”

  Anxiously, she stood over him and watched while he picked up the fork and sampled everything on each plate. He took a sip of wine, and continued to eat. After finishing the veal, he tasted the chicken again and nodded. Hesitantly, he cut through the green vegetable with his fork and scooped up a small taste. The serious expression on his face told her nothing useful. Curiosity killed the cat and it was about to snuff her, too. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Well?” she asked, struggling for nonchalance. “What do you think? How do you like it?”

  “Are you fishing for a compliment?” His mouth twitched slightly.

  “I want your honest opinion. An objective, yet sincere critique of my work.”

  “I have to make sure.” He took several more bites. “If I’m going to be honest, fair, yet sincere, I need to sample enough product.” He scooped up another mouthful.

  “Well?” she asked again.

  “Just a little more.” He picked up his knife, sliced off a bite of the stuffed chicken breast and popped it into his mouth.

  “Do you have enough data yet?” she demanded wryly.

  “No.” He finished off the vegetable and dove into the chicken.

  When there were only a couple bites remaining, he put his utensils down and took another sip of wine. “You want my straightforward, unreserved opinion?”

  “Don’t torture me, Alex.”

  “Do you really believe I would do that?” His brown eyes sparkled with humor.

  “I don’t want to believe it. But the evidence is mounting. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s good.”

  Her heart fell. “Good? You hate it, don’t you?”

  “I said it’s good.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You want me to embellish?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Elaborate, exaggerate, enhance. Adjectives, on the double. And the more the better. But only if you liked it.”

  “This is, without a doubt, one of the best meals I’ve ever had.” He grinned. “I liked everything, including the vegetable. I suspect a conspiracy. Rosie told you, didn’t she?”

  “I put in a call to her to stack the deck in my favor. Brussels sprouts was showing off,” she said, unable to suppress her smile. “Because to quote your sister, quoting you, I wouldn’t eat Brussels sprouts i
f Wolfgang Puck teamed with Julia Child and won every cooking award from here to New York.”

  “Well, I guess I have egg on my face.”

  No, she wanted to say. Just a lovely masculine five o’clock shadow. To cover her reaction, she said, “I did them with honey mustard, mustard seeds lightly toasted, and vinaigrette. They were boiled with the lid off the pot for the best color, I might add.” She was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. She was nervous, but she also wanted to impress him with her knowledge. “Nutritional analysis—sixty-eight calories, three grams of fat, ten grams of carbohydrates, two grams of protein, no cholesterol, seventy-five milligrams of sodium, thirty percent of calories from fat.”

  “Carbohydrates? Who knew Brussels sprouts had that?”

  “I did.”

  “Who knew they could taste so good?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  “I guess I owe my sister an apology.”

  “What did you do to Rosie?”

  “I scoffed. She told me that Frannie Carlino—”

  Fran shook her head. “She called me Frannie?”

  “Yes.”

  “She knows how I hate that name. I’m going to have to have a talk with your sister.”

  “Me first. I’ve got to eat crow, then humble pie, with a generous helping of I-told-you-so for good measure.”

  “Why?”

  “She said she had the right woman for me. She said you could make Brussels sprouts taste good and she was right. I would be a fool to lose you. I’d like to offer—”

  “Wait.” She held up her hand. “You haven’t had dessert.”

  “Fran,” he groaned. “I don’t think I could eat another bite. You’ve convinced me. You know your way around a spice rack. Let’s discuss—”

  “Tiramisu.” She lifted one eyebrow.

  “That’s not fair,” he groaned.

  “All’s fair in love and war.” She shrugged. “Thank Rosie. She told me tiramisu would be the icing on your cake, so to speak.”

  He sighed deeply. “The temptations just keep on coming.”

  My sentiments exactly, she thought, noting his broad chest and wide shoulders, which did his white cotton shirt proud. If this were a date, they would probably move to the couch in front of the TV. The next course would be exploratory kisses that would escalate to passionate and demanding. Then, in an apartment as small as hers, it was only a hop, skip and a jump to the bedroom. If Alex decided to focus his considerable charm and attention on her, Fran wasn’t certain she’d have the willpower to put on the brakes.

  She had no reason to think he would do that. He’d given her no indication that he even found her attractive. But she felt enough attraction for both of them. And it brought out a peppering of caution. Damn the jerk who had used her and destroyed her trust. But it had happened, and now she couldn’t bring herself to ignore the warning signals.

  Fran was fairly certain that Alex had been about to offer her the job. She was this close to what she had worked so hard to achieve. But she couldn’t ignore her reservations about a close working relationship with him. She had hoped her acute attraction to him was a fluke. This was the third time she’d seen him and it most definitely was not the charm. She wanted the job, but she was afraid her feelings would interfere. All she had to do was figure out a way to broach the subject diplomatically.

  “No meal is complete without dessert. Afterward, we can talk business.” She watched while he digested her suggestion.

  He nodded slowly. “On one condition.”

  How she hated conditions. Why couldn’t he just do it her way? “What?” she asked.

  “That you fix yourself a plate and sit down and relax.”

  “I am relaxed,” she said defensively.

  He laughed. “Yeah. And I play ukulele for the Los Angeles Philharmonic.”

  “I sense that you don’t believe me.”

  “It wasn’t a criticism, Fran. Just an observation. I’d be skeptical if you weren’t nervous. You said yourself that this is a job interview.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “We can put off business talk. Or you can fix yourself a plate. I’ll have dessert. And we can discuss your reservations while we eat.”

  “This isn’t negotiable?” she asked.

  “Only whether or not you pick up your fork before you listen to my offer.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy grin. “I don’t want to be accused of being the boss from hell.”

  “Not likely,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Not like me to pass up food,” she amended. “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips. A digital scale should be a staple in every chef’s kitchen.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your figure,” he commented.

  “Thank you.” It was hardly even a compliment, but he’d put a smile in her heart.

  As she lifted a plate from the cupboard, she mentally threw flame retardant chemicals on the internal glow his words produced. Had he really noticed her shape? Did he like what he saw? Was she his type? Did he have a type? She struggled to put away her curiosity as she took small portions of each entrée and salad that she’d prepared. Then she placed his dessert in front of him. Finally, she took her food and sat down across the table. Suddenly, the forty-two inch diameter didn’t seem nearly wide enough.

  She took a bite or two before realizing that she was starved. She’d been running on nerves all day in preparation for this interview, and hadn’t had the time or inclination to eat much. Everything tasted good.

  “Now then,” he started. “What’s wrong?”

  Fran didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She hadn’t been acting like herself. She owed him an explanation, or at least as much of one as she could give him without making a complete fool of herself.

  “Before I answer that question, I think turnabout is fair play. You got to ask me something personal.”

  “I did? When? What?”

  “At dinner last night. You asked me to explain the remark I’d made about taking care of myself. And I said that I’m trying to live my life on my terms and not the ones my family sets.”

  “I remember.” He took a bite of dessert and nodded appreciatively. “This is good enough to eat.”

  She laughed. “Praise like that could turn my head.” She moved the food around her plate without taking a bite. “I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Okay. Fair is fair.”

  “Why are you not looking for a woman?”

  He put his fork down, his carefree demeanor vanishing. His expression turned dark and he looked pained. “I suppose it’s pointless to do a ten-minute monologue on why it’s perfectly acceptable to be a confirmed bachelor. There doesn’t have to be a reason, et cetera.”

  “I agree.” He didn’t play games. How refreshing was that?

  “I fell in love in college.”

  “I hear a ‘but.’ And I have one for you—but I can’t believe any woman in her right mind would dump you.”

  “She didn’t,” he said sadly. “Her name was Beth and she died.”

  “Oh, Alex.” Fran wished the earth would swallow her whole, right then and there. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? “I’m so sorry.”

  Ignoring her consoling words, he continued. “It’s very simple, really. Everyone gets a single shot at love, and I had mine. I’m perfectly content with being alone. There’s no point in looking for anyone.”

  She nodded. “I appreciate the clarification.”

  Fran found his pronouncement profoundly sad. And she hated being proved right about his story having an unhappy ending. Still, it put her at ease with him. She wasn’t looking and neither was he, which she found vaguely disappointing. But things got weird when coworkers cozied up. Now she had a guarantee that the work environment would be safe. That left the oven door open to cook up something special—professionally speaking.

  “I think it’s time to talk business now.” She put her fork down and leaned forward eagerly. “
So, do I get the nod? The assignment? The job?”

  “I’d like to offer you a three-month contract with Marchetti’s Inc. At the end of that time, if either party is dissatisfied, we can terminate the association. If not, we can renegotiate. Assuming there’s still work to be done.” He looked at her. “It’s not love or war, but do you think it’s fair?”

  “I do.”

  Because it wasn’t love and never could be. He’d made that quite clear. So in spite of her attraction, accepting his offer was perfectly safe.

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Four

  “Y ou do?” Alex watched Fran nod.

  His reply to her question about his love life had obviously allayed whatever misgivings she’d had. The sparkle was back in her eyes.

  And he felt as if he was skydiving without a chute. He almost wished this interview had been a disaster. Although it would seriously upset his timetable for the project, he could search for a chef who didn’t make him think about soul-stirring kisses instead of stirring marinara sauce. But he would be lying to himself if he said her cooking wasn’t among the best he’d ever had.

  “Welcome to Marchetti’s,” he said to Fran. “I’ll have the company attorney draw up the contract. You’ll receive a call tomorrow for a signature.” He held out his hand. “So it’s official. You are the new chef for Marchetti’s frozen foods—for a minimum of three months and subject to family approval. Let’s shake on the deal. Gentleman’s agreement.”

  The way her breasts filled out her hunter-green sweater put the lie to that statement. As well as the gold hoop earrings dangling daintily from earlobes that he wanted to examine with the tip of his tongue. There was nothing remotely gentlemanly about Fran Carlino. She was all-woman. And he was still free-falling.

  She huffed out a breath and the movement did some interesting, downright mouthwatering things to her bosom beneath that sweater. But his brain cleared slightly and he focused enough to realize that something he’d said had put a kink in her wire whisk.

  “What?” he asked, dropping his hand.

  “You never said anything about family approval.”

  “It’s a family business. I value input from my brothers. The more critical evaluation we can withstand, the better. But I suppose it’s normal to be nervous.”