by Carol Grace
The question went unanswered when his phone rang. Now when he was distracted was her chance to walk away. If she really was serious, she'd do it. She turned. He hung up, grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.
"The answer is no. I don't gamble, not with money, anyway," she said.
"Come on, Cinderella. Take a chance. What have you got to lose, anyway?"
He was right; she'd always have Hostess Helpers, but how dull that seemed compared to taking charge of a kitchen, any kitchen, and making decisions on her own. Even if she was just doing a super catering job for a bunch of high rollers for a week. And if it failed and she didn't get her funding and she didn't work for her stepmother anymore? Then she'd be applying for sous-chef jobs at restaurants that paid minimum wage. It was a depressing thought. But at least she would have tried for her dream instead of living in her family's shadow.
"Okay," she said. "When do I start? And by the way, my name is Ellie."
He grinned. His eyes lit up. Her heart skipped a beat. She warned herself not to get taken in by a grin or smooth talk or a random touch of the hand. Because those were the tricks of the trade for a man who always got what he wanted. This guy was a professional charmer. Schmoozing money out of rich people and work out of poor people like her. She had to get everything in writing.
He must have read her mind. "Let's go into the house and we'll draw up a contract," he said. They walked past his living room, which was set up with chairs filled with well-dressed people listening to a speaker who was showing pictures on a screen of a "new product guaranteed to change your life forever." In his office—the kind of office she knew he'd have, filled with leather-bound books and big, comfortable chairs—he wrote up a contract on his large polished walnut desk, and they both signed it.
Ellie knew she ought to read the fine print, but for some crazy reason she trusted him, and besides, she wasn't a fine-print kind of girl. She was someone with vision, who looked at the big picture, and this big picture was of her very own restaurant. They shook hands, and he held hers a few seconds longer than necessary. Long enough for her heart to thump against her ribs. It was fear of the unknown, fear of failing, fear of falling. His hand was warm and solid. Hers was small and cold.
"Well, Cinderella, we've got a deal," he drawled.
Calm down, she told herself. If he could be that casual, so could she. She was working for him. He was paying her. Any feelings she had about him as a man were totally out of place. If she couldn't control her physical reactions to him, she ought to tear up the contract and walk away. Could people tear up contracts? They did it in the movies.
She admitted he was an attractive man and she was a vulnerable woman. When you got right down to it, he was risking more than she was.
"To set the record straight, I'm not Cinderella," she said. "Not anymore. I work for a living, sure, but I'm nobody's scullery maid. And I certainly never had a fairy godmother."
"Did you need one?"
"No, of course not. I had two parents. For a while, anyway. When it counted. After that, well, I could have used a little magic in my life from time to time," she said lightly, trying not to think of the loss of her mother and the arrival of Gwen and her stepsisters. She never understood how her father could have remarried within the year. And to Gwen of all people.
It made her aware of the difference between the sexes. How could her father have forgotten so soon? It seemed to her then and even now that his marriage to Gwen was a betrayal. He'd loved her mother. They hadn't had a perfect marriage. Who does? But he was faithful and so was she. They'd made a happy home for her. Sure, her father was lonely after her mother died. So was she. But why Gwen and why so soon? His precipitous second marriage and the arrival of her stepmother and sisters created a wedge between her and her father that was never closed.
"I don't believe in magic," he said flatly.
"Not even when you were a kid?"
"I was never a kid."
"That's right, no backyard, no birthday parties. You've probably never even been to the circus."
"The circus? Why would I want to go to the circus?" His forehead creased in a puzzled frown.
"I don't know. To see the clowns, acrobats and elephants and the high-wire acts, maybe. And stuff yourself with popcorn, peanuts and cotton candy. At least, that's why I went."
"Sounds like you've got some happy memories."
She nodded. "I was an only child. They doted on me. Bedtime stories, toys, books, the circus, until…" No use reliving the past. Before he could say anything, she changed the subject. "So your father taught you that kid stuff was a waste of time. Was your jumping on the trampoline today a case of arrested development?"
"Must have been," he said with a smile. He probably wished she'd forget about that breach of behavior, but she hadn't. It made him seem almost human. His phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, studied the number on the caller ID, then told whoever was calling, "Can't talk now. Call you later."
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said to Ellie, "I'll go join the sharks. If you need anything, Hannah left her number pinned to the refrigerator. You can call her."
Standing in the middle of the big empty kitchen, Ellie almost missed her stepmother and sisters with their complaining and snide comments. It was too quiet, too clean and too empty in there, and the expectations were too huge. She stood for a long moment with her arms wrapped around her waist. She was scared. Not that she couldn't do the job. She'd dazzle those venture guys with her crème brulée, her seared halibut and her mango cheesecake.
It was working for Jack Martin that frightened her. Someone whose heart was made of stone. Whose eyes reflected dollar bills. Not one-dollar bills, thousand-dollar bills. Her first impressions were never wrong. Sure he'd helped her out today. Sure he'd jumped up and down on a trampoline with her and laughed like an idiot. And he'd confided in her about his childhood. And then promptly wanted to forget he'd ever done any of those things. She understood that part. She could kick herself for talking about her own past. The circus and all that. And sure he'd offered her a chance to get her own restaurant. If things went according to his plan.
But he was using her. He was a cynical gambler and a businessman out to make money for himself. He didn't mind sharing it, and that was a good thing. But after this week, she was on her own. If all went well, she'd get her funding and then she had to put up or shut up. It was a scary proposition, but one she'd hoped and prayed for.
She wondered how much she'd see of Jack. Hadn't she signed what he called a "boiler plate" venture capital agreement that he'd have the right not only to pull the plug on her if she didn't show a profit in six months, but also to monitor his investment—which meant her? Which meant that he would be her board of directors, with the right to inspect her books and watch her expenditures and generally lean over her shoulder.
She couldn't worry about that now. After all, what were the chances that things would all fall into place so that in one week she could start planning her restaurant? It was too good to be true.
One minute her hopes skyrocketed with dreams of that little bistro on the bay she'd envisioned with a view of fishing boats out the window where ordinary people felt comfortable coming for fabulous, earthy food—cumin-crusted lamb chops, chicken sauté with pineapple salsa and eggplant manicotti. She'd hire some really good people to work with her, servers and sous-chefs who understood the food. She'd feed them and they'd be like family, working together for a common goal.
The next minute she saw the whole thing falling through and having to beg Gwen to take her back. In any case, she was closer right now than she'd ever been to having her dream come true. And it was all because of Jack Martin. She told herself to calm down and concentrate on dinner. If she didn't, if the group wasn't blown away by what she created, she'd be sealing his doom as well as her own.
Chapter Three
"I'm going to be busy this week," Ellie told Gwen as she cradled the kitchen phone against her ear.
&nb
sp; "I know you are. You have jobs all week long," Gwen said tartly. "Cocktail party tonight, ladies' lunch tomorrow, birthday party…"
"No, I mean I've been hired by the guy we worked for last night, Jack Martin. His housekeeper got sick and I'm filling in for her. All week."
"So that's what he wanted," she muttered. "How much is he paying you?"
"I…uh…" Oh, Lord, she'd forgotten to ask him. That's what kind of businesswoman she was. "Twice as much as I've been making." That was what he'd said, hadn't he?
"Humph. Well, I suppose we'll have to manage without you. Of course you'll put half of what he gives you back into the business."
"Your business?" Ellie asked incredulously.
"Our business. The family business."
Ellie couldn't believe Gwen's attitude. She'd worked hard for the family and what had she gotten out of it? Certainly no thanks. Even though she'd done everything they'd ever asked. She'd put up with their orders and their short tempers and their self-centeredness. But this time Gwen had gone too far and Ellie'd had enough.
Ellie took a deep breath. "Look, Gwen, this is my job. He hired me. I'm the one who's going to do the work. It's just for a week. But what I earn this week I'm going to keep. All of it. Every penny. Do you hear?"
She imagined Gwen's mouth falling open. Her being too shocked to reply. Ellie talking back? Ellie refusing to take orders? She couldn't believe it. Ellie felt a rush of satisfaction.
"Talk to you later," Ellie said.
"Wait a minute. We need the van. Where is it?"
"Parked in front of his house."
"I'll have May come and pick it up."
"But…" How would she get home? Never mind. No time to worry about that now.
Ellie found that Jack's housekeeper had made a menu for the whole week, with recipes typed out and bound in a loose-leaf notebook, and had all the ingredients labeled. Some were in the huge freezer, some in the walk-in pantry. Some items, like the fish for the soup tonight, would be delivered. It was a dream come true. Ellie was chopping onions when the phone rang. She hesitated. Would Jack answer or should she? What did a housekeeper do exactly, besides cook? Clean? Take messages?
She soon found out because it was Hannah on the phone.
"I feel just terrible about this," Hannah said, when Ellie introduced herself. "Jack called and told me what a trooper you are, coming in at the last minute. I owe you, my dear, for giving up whatever you were doing."
"Jack tells me you're quite a cook. Feel free to change any recipes you want. They're not written in stone, you know. And Jack won't mind."
"He won't?"
Hannah chuckled. "I know how he comes across, all full of himself and demanding, but he'll respect you for standing up to him. You've probably seen his picture in the society column and read the comments, 'Jack Martin, playboy, with his latest girlfriend,' but that's not the Jack I know. That's not the real Jack. Sure, he looks like a wolf, even acts like one sometimes, but he's really a lamb underneath. Once you get to know him."
Which would never happen, Ellie thought. "I'm afraid I won't have time to get to know him. I'll only be here a week."
"True, true. I'll be back by then. Maybe not as good as new, but at least I'll be hobbling around. I hope your family won't miss you too much this week."
"As a matter of fact…"
"Your husband will be lost without you, is that what you mean?" Hannah asked.
"No, I'm not married, but I have a stepmother and two stepsisters who I work with."
"And I hear your name is Cinderella," Hannah said. "Very interesting."
"That was just for a children's party. I'm really just plain Ellie."
"Well, Ellie, my sister is here with a pot of soup she made. Can't cook worth a darn, but her heart's in the right place. Be right with you, Clara. Oh, yes, the neighbor girls I hired ought to show up at seven to serve. They know what to do. I trained them myself. You'll be busy enough cooking. If they give you any trouble, you let me know. And don't believe those rumors about our Jack. He's a sweetheart. Just needs a good… Never mind. Now, Ellie, you call me anytime, you hear?"
Feeling cheered by the woman's comments, she was also puzzled by her assessment of Jack's character. But then, Jack probably paid Hannah plenty for her services, which included praising her boss. Ellie went back to chopping onions and sautéing veal and scallops for the main course. By the time the fish man came to the back door, she had the soup base made and was ready to put it all together. A few minutes before seven o'clock, two teenage girls came to the back door, dressed in matching black dresses.
"We're here to serve," they explained. "I'm Stephani and she's Lauren. Too bad about Mrs. Armstrong, but she said you're just as good, and you're the boss." They peeked into the pots and sniffed appreciatively. "Smells good," they said.
"Are you Jack's new girlfriend?" Stephani asked.
"Oh, no, no," Ellie said with a little more emphasis than was absolutely necessary. "Substitute cook, that's it. I'm a chef, a professional chef. I just met him yesterday."
"We were wondering. That is my mom was wondering because the women in the neighborhood have a pool going. They guess how long his latest girlfriend will last. Sometimes it's a week, sometimes a month."
Ellie looked at her watch. "Well, girls, I guess we'd better get going."
They nodded, tied aprons around their waists and were soon filling water glasses at the long dinner table in the dining room and folding napkins in a cheerful efficient manner her stepsisters would do well to emulate. If they cared enough, which they didn't.
Jack poked his head into the kitchen. "Ready?"
She wiped her palms on her apron and nodded. She shouldn't be nervous. Everything had been planned. She'd tasted and basted and added a few things to the recipes. She had help. Real help, not stepsister help. She had confidence. But her heart was hammering. She stood at the entrance to the dining room and pressed her ear against the door. She heard loud voices and laughter. She heard Jack's voice proposing a toast and glasses clink together. Then she went back to the kitchen.
Salad was tossed. Rolls were heated. Soup was ladled. Plates were filled, bowls were passed. Dessert was consumed. Coffee was made and drunk.
Three hours later the dinner was over. The voices faded as the group adjourned to the living room. The girls started to wash the pots and pans and load the dishwasher.
"Don't you have homework?" she asked them.
They nodded in unison.
"Go home. I can do this."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
"Really? We're supposed to—"
"I know. You're supposed to do the pots and pans, but I remember high school. Yes, it was about a hundred years ago, but I still remember staying up late to do my homework and getting up early for my first class."
"Thank you," they chorused, took off their aprons and headed for the door. "We just live across the street. We'll be back tomorrow."
"Thanks," Ellie said as they closed the door behind them. She poured herself a cup of coffee heavily laced with cream, and sank into the chair in the corner.
That's where Jack found her a few minutes later. He gave her a thumbs-up.
"Was it all right?" she asked, still in a daze. Still unable to stand and face the pots and pans.
"All right? It was great! If they don't come around, it won't be your fault. Some of the women asked for your recipes, or rather Hannah's recipes. How're you holding up? You look beat."
She managed to force a tired smile.
He looked around the kitchen. "Where are the girls?"
"I sent them home. They had homework. When I was their age…" She blinked back a tear before he could see it.
"Go on."
"Nothing."
"When you were their age you were out every night or on the phone with your friends, am I right?"
"My mom died when I was eleven. I was suddenly in charge of the house until my dad remarried."
"So those were th
e bad times."
"They weren't that bad until Gwen and the girls moved in," she said.
"So you could stop cooking and go back to being a kid."
"Not exactly. I didn't stop cooking, I just had to cook what she wanted me to." The memories came flooding back. The feelings of being dictated to, left out, forgotten by her father and unloved. She shook her head and pressed her lips together to keep from blurting something she'd regret. Jack was not interested in her past. She'd already said far too much. This was a business relationship and that was all. Jack didn't say anything. He just looked away, took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. She'd embarrassed him, and herself, too, by blabbing on and on. It was just because she was tired.
"I'd better give you a hand."
"Don't you have homework, too?" she asked, rising slowly from her chair.
"I do have work. I have to crunch some numbers before tomorrow, but I'm a night owl and I have plenty of time to do it. The gang has gone to North Beach to sample our night life, but I pleaded other commitments. They'll be back tomorrow morning. Can I say the same for you?" His tone was light, but there was a hint of anxiety in his gaze. Did he really think she'd walk out on him after only one night? She was not a quitter.
"Of course. We have a deal." She filled the sink with hot water and added a splash of liquid detergent.
He patted her on the shoulder. His way of being friendly, of protecting his investment, no doubt. "Just checking," he said.
She wasn't surprised when his cell phone rang, and he carried on a conversation while stacking pots with one hand.
"Don't you ever turn your phone off?" she asked when he hung up.
"Might miss something. Especially this week. There's so much on the line. Every call is important."
"So how is it going?" she asked, her hands submerged in soapy water.
"So far, so good." He picked up a towel and dried one of the roasting pans. "But it doesn't mean anything. I've put on these things before and got nothing, zilch, nada."
