by Geraldine O'Hara, Natalie Dae, Nichelle Gregory, Crissy Smith, Lisabet Sarai
Also by Crissy Smith
Seduced by the Neighbour
Lacey’s Seduction
Eternal
Bid High
Fated Love
Vamps in the City
Were Chronicles: Pack Alpha
Were Chronicles Pack Enforcer
Were Chronicles: Pack Territory
Were Chronicles: Pack Rogue
Were Chronicles: Pack Community
Were Chronicles: Pack Mates
Were Chronicles: Pack Daughter
Were Chronicles: Pack Hunter
Corporate Wolves: The Favour
Corporate Wolves: Losing Control
Secrets: The Shifter and the Dreamer
Caught in the Middle: Magical Ménage
Bite Me!: Savage Love
Summer Seductions: Summers’ Girl
Cloaks and Daggers: Vampire Hunter
HER SECRET INGREDIENT
Lisabet Sarai
Dedication
To Nan, in loving memory
I never got to show you my kitchen
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Cordon Bleu Cooking School: Le Cordon Bleu International BV
Food and Wine Magazine: Time Inc.
Gourmet Magazine: Condé Nast
Hilton Hotels: Hilton Worldwide
iPad: Apple Inc.
Jack Daniels: Brown-Forman Corporation
Michelin: The Michelin Guide
Porsche: Porsche Automobil Holding SE
Pringles: Kellogg Company
Prius: Toyota Motor Company
Saint Laurent: YSL Beauté
YouTube: Google, Inc.
Chapter One
“Ginger? Do I taste ginger?”
“Uh—yes, that’s right, sir…”
“Ginger in coq au vin? That’s practically sacrilege, Ms Wong.”
Etienne Duvalier fixed me with a look that would have withered spinach. I straightened my spine, smoothed my apron and attempted a placating smile.
“It’s good, though—isn’t it? One of my signature dishes at Le Belvedere.” It had come out perfectly, the succulent meat melting off the bone at the first touch of a fork. I held out another portion, my own mouth watering at the rich, complex aroma. I wasn’t about to mention the hint of cloves to a traditionalist like Etienne.
He shook his head and wagged his finger at me like some cartoon schoolmaster. “A French restaurant in Hong Kong! Not exactly the place I’d recommend for the experience of classic Gallic cuisine.”
“A restaurant with three Michelin stars.” I wanted to go on, to cite the awards we’d won since I’d taken over as head chef, the praise heaped upon us by the local media, the favorable review in last month’s Gourmet magazine. But what was the point? He’d seen my résumé. Indeed, he’d signed the letter inviting me to the U.S. for a series of guest appearances on his precious Taste of France channel. Now that I’d arrived, was he having second thoughts?
My silence must have recalled him to some sense of etiquette. He leaned toward the morsel I offered, sniffing it before taking it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. His full attention appeared to be focused on the flavors unfolding on his tongue. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and swept a stray lock of hair back under my cap, awaiting his verdict.
I’d known what I was getting into. Etienne Duvalier was legendary as much for his perfectionist dedication as for his culinary prowess. He took a purist’s approach to French cooking. As far as Etienne was concerned, fusion was a dirty word. He eschewed the creative syncretism practiced by the latest generation of chefs, preferring to stick with the time-honored recipes that had made French cuisine arguably the most famous in the world.
Given his conservative attitude, I’d been surprised to learn he was so young—barely forty, I guessed. And I definitely hadn’t expected him to be so devastatingly good-looking. After the letter had arrived, I’d watched a few clips from his Toutes Saveurs Francaises show on YouTube. I’d been too distracted by his lean form and expressive face to concentrate on his ingredients or procedures. And yes, I admit that I’d agreed to travel halfway around the globe to take up his invitation at least in part because I wanted to find out if he was really that dreamy in the flesh.
Alas, he was. This was going to complicate my career ambitions considerably.
At last he swallowed the savory bit of stewed fowl. He licked his lips. My breath hitched at that brief flash of tongue. A bit of warmth softened his wintery blue-gray eyes.
“Quite delicious, I agree. However, it doesn’t taste like coq au vin.”
His accent set up disturbing flutters in my stomach, with its echoes of Jean Paul Belmondo and Vincent Cassels.
“It doesn’t taste like your idea of coq au vin, perhaps…”
“This is my channel. Therefore, my standards, my notions about taste, carry more weight than your quest for novelty.”
His smile was dazzling, despite its hint of superiority. His prominent Gallic nose and cleft chin formed a luscious contrast to his ripe, almost boyish mouth. Spotlights hanging above the studio kitchen glinted in his meticulously groomed auburn hair. The open collar of his fitted Saint Laurent dress shirt—black like the rest of his clothing—drew my eyes. My fingers itched to undo another button or two and check for matching fur on his chest.
It was no wonder his show had the highest ratings of anything produced by the Foodie Fans Network. I was pretty certain this popularity wasn’t entirely due to his famous cooking expertise.
“Do we understand one another, Ms Wong?”
Maybe this was a big mistake. How was I going to make a name for myself if I couldn’t act on my culinary inspiration? Unless I could soften him up a bit, it seemed I was doomed to frustration here at the Tastes of France channel. Frustration in more than one sense.
I placed a casual hand on his arm. His muscles shifted under the silky fabric. “Please—you should call me Emily. After all, we’re going to be working closely together.”
His brows drew together in a frown, as though my familiarity bothered him. Meanwhile, the heat seeping through his expensive shirt had me close to melting.
“Very well—um—Emily. I’d like you to do your boeuf bourguignon for me next. Genuine beef burgundy, understand? None of your Asian flourishes.”
“Yes, Etienne.”
He cocked an eyebrow. We both knew he hadn’t invited me to call him by his first name.
To sack a city takes a whole regiment, my Hokkien grandmother would have said. In for a penny, in for a pound. I didn’t doubt he’d let me know if I’d offended him.
“And I’d like to sample some of your desserts as well. Let’s see—how about crème brûlée and profiteroles? I’ve been thinking that one of your spots should focus on sweets.”
Smooth as béchamel, he extricated himself from my grasp. “I’ll come back late this afternoon for a tasting. If you need ingredients or anything else, ask Harry.”
Today was my first day at the network. I’d met Lisa the makeup girl, Marty the sound guy, a sexually ambiguous intern named Roth, and Jeff, Duvalier’s personal assistant. I couldn’t remember anyone named Harry.
My perplexity must have shown on my face.
“Harry Sanborne. My producer. He’s the man to go to with almost any sort of problem.” Once more Etienne reminded me of an old-fashioned schoolmaster, struggling to be patient as he explained a lesson to a slow pupil. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a variety of matters to attend to. I’ll see you at five PM sharp.”
He didn’t bother to ask whether I’d be ready by then. As he strode off the set, my rising annoyance was tempered by the appetizing view I had of his butt, outlined by his perfectly tailored black trousers. How could I stay mad at a guy with rear cheeks like ripe plums?
Chapter Two
“How are you getting on with M
onsieur le Chef?”
“What?” I nearly toppled off my stool. I’d been focused on my iPad, poring over my recipe files and trying to figure out how much I’d need to modify them to satisfy Duvalier.
A firm grip steadied me. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you. Etienne said you might need some help with your test dishes.” When he was certain I was not going to fall, the newcomer released my shoulder and extended his hand. “Harry Sanborne, at your service. Head producer, chief bottle-washer, and all-around handyman.”
A thirty-something man with longish black hair and dark-rimmed glasses grinned down at me. He wore loose-fitting jeans, a green plaid sport shirt and a dreadful beige cardigan sweater like something that might have belonged to my Chinese grandfather. Somehow I’d expected the producer would be more corporate. This guy looked like he belonged behind the counter at some backstreet bookstore. He had scrumptious nutmeg-brown eyes, though, brimming with laughter behind his spectacles, and I heard genuine warmth in his voice.
“Mei Lee Wong. But you already know that. My friends call me Emily.”
“I hope I can count myself in that fortunate number, Emily!” He hiked his bottom up onto the stool beside mine. His baggy clothing didn’t completely conceal the fact that he was lithe and fit. “So does he have you cringing in terror yet?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say that our culinary philosophies are not exactly in sync.”
“He’s been at you about the sacredness of French cuisine, hmm? Talking about how it’s a sacrilege to modify the holy recipes that have been passed down through the centuries?”
I chuckled. “That’s exactly the word he used! The problem is, all my recipes are riffs on traditional dishes. My specialty is contemporary French-Asian fusion. I’ll have to start from scratch to give him what he wants. And to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.”
The producer tugged on his chin with thumb and forefinger. He reminded me of Rodin’s statue. “Actually, if you stand up to him, you’ll be doing the network a favor. With his looks and charm—yes, he’s charming on his show, believe it or not—he’s still a draw, but serious foodies are starting to get a bit bored.”
“Oh?” I glanced at my watch. “Do you mind if I chop some veggies while we talk? He gave me a deadline and I’d like to be able to keep that, regardless of what I cook.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I selected a six-inch blade from the rack on the counter and began peeling carrots. “Anyway, you were saying the viewers are bored?”
Harry swiveled his seat so he could watch me work. I didn’t mind—I’d cooked in open kitchens, and if I was going to be on television, I had to get used to having an audience. And somehow, though I’d known him for only a few minutes, the disheveled young producer made me feel comfortable.
“Yeah. The ratings for the channel as a whole are falling, because he won’t work with any chef who refuses to toe his line. That’s one reason the execs pressured him to contact you. Fresh blood and all that.”
“Hmm.” My knife rose and fell with satisfying precision, creating uniform half-inch cubes of crisp orange. I swept the diced carrots into a pile at one end of the cutting block then started on the onions.
“Amazing. I could never do that. When I try to cook, the results look like something from a slasher movie.” He flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Anyway, the first two guest chefs the network hired—Etienne drove them away.”
I set the blade down. I’d chilled the onions ahead of time, but my eyes watered nevertheless. Harry handed me a handkerchief. What a sweet guy. If only Etienne were more like him.
“He’s not going to drive me away, Harry. I swear it.” I’d been the only woman in my class at the Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and the only Asian. They’d made it clear I didn’t belong. I’d stuck it out, three grueling years to get my Grand Diplôme. Then there was all the time working my way up the ranks—commis entremets, chef saucier, sous chef.
It would take more than one sexy, stubborn Frenchman to stop me.
I dumped the onions into a bowl and covered them with plastic wrap, then paused. My beef burgundy used green apples and sliced Asian long beans. Did I dare include such unconventional ingredients here in Etienne’s kingdom?
“The other guest chefs weren’t nearly as pretty as you.” Harry’s sincerity made me blush. “Too bad he’s not more—uh—susceptible.”
You know how in cartoons they show light bulbs appearing above the characters’ heads? That’s how I felt when the idea occurred to me. It was so obvious, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“Is he married? Or does he have a girlfriend?”
“Not as far as I know. I’ve never seen him with a woman.”
Oh God. He was queer. My plan crumbled to dust.
“But I don’t think he’s gay,” Harry continued, as if reading my mind. “He’s just wedded to his career. Plus he’s such a perfectionist, I suspect he’d have a hard time finding a girl who satisfied all his criteria.”
My spirits bounced back. Maybe there was hope after all.
“But you know, you might come close, Emily. Gorgeous, smart, tough and a brilliant cook besides…”
I couldn’t help laughing as I gathered the vegetables I’d prepared and stored them in the huge stainless steel refrigerator. “If you’re trying to cheer me up, Harry, you’re doing a great job. Thanks!”
“My pleasure.” He slid off the stool and once more I had a sense of his fluid strength, masked by his nerdy exterior. “Are you done for now? Can I take you to lunch? I know a great pho and soba joint a couple of blocks away.”
His puppy dog eagerness kindled a certain amount of guilt. I shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to go get some additional ingredients.”
“Give me a list. I’ll send Roth.”
Poor Harry. He was so transparent.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty particular. I’d rather do it myself. Can I take a rain check?”
He looked nearly as disappointed as I’d felt when I’d thought Etienne was gay. “Sure thing, Emily. Maybe tomorrow?”
As I made my way back to the serviced apartment where the network had put me up for the duration of my gig, I kept remembering the hurt I’d seen in Harry’s eyes. Resolutely, I replaced that image with my recollection of Etienne’s handsome Gallic countenance.
Chapter Three
Unlike my delighted parents, Grandma had been full of dire warnings when she had learned I’d been offered the gig at TOF. “Barbarians!” she’d muttered as she’d helped me pack. “Those American men think every Chinese girl is a delicate flower to pick when blooming, then toss in the garbage when she wilts.”
“I’m thirty, Gran. And don’t forget I lived on my own in Paris for four years. I can take care of myself.”
“Thirty, yes, not fresh produce anymore. Why don’t you forget about this TV show? Marry someone like Hsi Chang Hu? His mother tells me he’s still interested in you, and his property company is making a fortune.”
I’d gently rejected my old classmate’s urgent proposal years ago, before enrolling at Cordon Bleu. “I’ve got to take advantage of this opportunity. Something this good might never come again.”
“And what about grandchildren for me?”
“There’s time, Gran. Please don’t worry. I just haven’t found the right guy yet.”
An image of Etienne Duvalier had flashed through my mind, that clip where he swept off his chef’s hat with such aplomb and favored his audience with a smile warm enough to melt butter. What would Gran think about a Frenchman as a son-in-low? Etienne had starred in enough of my fantasies at that point that I could feel myself dampen at the mere notion of his sharing my bed.
“Well, just in case you meet someone you like there in Gold Mountain—take this.” She’d handed me a glass vial of brown powder that looked like dust someone had collected off a neglected windowsill. “Dōng chóng xià căo. Winter worm, summer grass.”
“Huh?” I
unscrewed the cap and sniffed the bottle’s dubious contents. No scent at all. I tapped a bit into my palm. The fine-grained particles coated my skin, reminding me of the residue from butterfly wings.
“Caterpillar fungus. An ancient remedy. Increases energy and stimulates powerful desire, especially in men.”
“An aphrodisiac?” I shook my head. “Thanks, but I don’t need that kind of help.” If—when—I encountered the man I wanted as my partner, I wasn’t about to resort to artificial means to attract him.
She’d refused to take the vial back. “Keep it. You might change your mind.”
Wise woman. How did she know these things? Back in my hotel room, I rummaged through my toiletries kit, looking for the vial I’d thrown in at the last minute.
I needed to get Etienne on my side. I wanted to make him desire me the same way I lusted after him. Gran’s gift just might be the means to both ends. A single arrow to bring down two geese, as she’d say.
But was it safe? And would it be effective? A quarter of an hour on the Internet convinced me that there were indeed some scientific studies supporting my grandmother’s claims, and few if any negative indications.
It couldn’t hurt to try.
* * * *
I spent the next four hours in frantic labor, concocting a menu that I hoped would impress even Etienne Duvalier. Beef burgundy in the classic style—I ultimately used the recipe from Duvalier’s own cookbook—the hearty, wine-laced sauce rich with bacon, tarragon and black pepper. Salade Niçoise, with crisp organic Romaine, seared fresh tuna, and black olives imported weekly from Provence, or so Roth told me, according to Duvalier’s standing orders. I resisted the temptation to throw in the sliced water chestnuts and honey-roasted cashews that distinguished my own version. Then there were the two desserts Etienne had requested—simple but luscious caramel custard, arrayed in neat casseroles golden with egg yolk—and the far more challenging miniature profiteroles or choux de crème, delicate pastry puffs wrapped around sweetened whipped cream.
The profiteroles, I decided, were the best vehicle for delivering my amorous intervention. I sent Roth out to find me some confectionary sugar and ground anise, so that I wouldn’t be disturbed. Then I sprinkled a pinch of the supposed aphrodisiac over the top of the cream filling and stirred it in. The brownish powder disappeared completely. When I sampled a bit off the tip of a spoon, I found no discernible change in the taste, which was dominated by the almond extract I’d added previously. But was one pinch enough to do the job? Inspired by a strange recklessness—if I was going to go through with this, why take half measures?—I added two more aliquots.
