by Claire Adams
"You don't want me to go in the kitchen because you think I'm going to spill something on these nice clothes, don't you?" I asked to provoke him.
"No, it's just-"
I slipped past him and headed for the kitchen. Then, I saw what Vincent Jeffry wanted to keep hidden. The Brickman's personal chef, an up and coming rock star in the culinary world, was slumped in the chair by the fireplace. Toast sat neglected in the toaster, getting cold and chewy. The egg carton sat open and ignored on the kitchen island. The young man smelled of booze and drooled a little while he slept.
I was more shocked by how Vincent Jeffry tiptoed around the slovenly worker. If it had been anyone else, there would have been sharp condemnation and an instant firing.
"Is he really so great?" I asked at my normal volume.
He flapped his hands to quiet me down. "His name gives the estate a certain cachet, even if most of his food lately has been, ah, uninspired."
I snorted and clanged the kettle in the large basin sink. "Looks like he's ruining his good name right now," I observed.
"Chef Nolan is supposed to be a genius," Vincent Jeffry said in a defensive tone.
I eyeballed the ingredients. "Chef Nolan is lazy and hungover."
The young chef woke with a start when I banged the kettle down on the eight-burner stove top. When his blurry eyes focused on me, he gave a lecherous smile that made my skin crawl. Then, he saw Vincent Jeffry, and his eyes narrowed.
"Trying to replace me, you stuffy bootlicker?" Chef Nolan asked. He heaved himself up from the chair and wove his way over to the kitchen island. "Not that I condemn your choice. Pretty lady to look at in the kitchen might be nice."
Vincent Jeffry drew himself up, almost a full foot taller than the upstart chef. "Ms. Davies is a guest, and you will treat her with the proper respect."
Chef Nolan's bloodshot eyes glowed a little brighter, and he sidled around the kitchen island. "Then let me help, my lady. Perhaps you would like a shot of Turkish coffee. It's a tricky preparation, but I can show you."
"No, thank you," I said, repulsed. "How about you tell me what's for breakfast?"
The young chef sniffled as he turned to the kitchen island and the scattered ingredients. "Omelets," he said in a dull tone.
"We had omelets late last night. Not feeling inspired?" I asked.
Chef Nolan gave Vincent Jeffry a nasty look. "How can I be when the butler here keeps killing my creativity? I don't mean to shock you, my lady, but this servant is a tyrant. He drives us all like slaves and then complains that our work is uninspired."
I bristled at his accusations. Chef Nolan was relying on the cachet of his name to excuse his behavior, but to point a finger at someone else was inexcusable. If I had been any number of Teddy's friends, I would have taken the complaint straight to him and demanded that Vincent Jeffry be put in his place.
I locked eyes with the hungover young man. "Vincent Jeffry has a long and impeccable work history, plus his personal connections to the neighborhood and families here. You've chosen the wrong person to try to blame for your inadequacies."
"What, are you slumming it with the butler?" Chef Nolan spat at me. "I don't need this job. I should be in Manhattan, working in my own restaurant."
I marched to the side door and pulled it open. "Good luck. Without a recommendation from the Brickmans, you may find it difficult to get financing, but people say that inspiration comes from hard work."
Vincent Jeffry stepped forward, and I was afraid he would ingratiate himself to the lazy chef just to keep the peace. Instead, Teddy's butler towered over the other man and stuck a finger straight in the middle of Chef Nolan's chest.
"Your roast beef was inedible, your filleting techniques are a disgrace, and you wouldn't know a wine pairing from a bottle in a brown bag. On top of which, you were slow, rude, slovenly, and prone to infantile tantrums. You are no longer welcome here, Mr. Nolan," Vincent Jeffry said.
Chef Nolan started to open his mouth, but I cut him off. "If you have one shred of decency left, you will use it to keep your mouth shut. Leave now and maybe you can salvage some of your reputation. God knows it doesn't look like you have much else."
Chef Nolan stormed out the door, and we shut it behind him with a sigh of relief.
A sigh that turned to a gasp when we turned around and saw Teddy standing in the kitchen door. Then, he smiled and said, "Are we making omelets again?"
Vincent Jeffry waited for a lecture on the hiring and firing of famous chefs. I waited for Teddy to notice my new outfit. He strolled to the cabinet and pulled out a coffee mug. I rushed to fill the French press and finish brewing the coffee.
"You know, it might be good for me to know how to make my own coffee. Can you show me?" Teddy asked.
"Turkish or regular?" I asked.
Vincent Jeffry smothered a laugh, then smoothed out his countenance. "Mr. Theodore, I apologize for letting Chef Nolan go. I promise we will have a decent replacement before this weekend."
Teddy nodded absently as he scooted around the kitchen island to hover over my shoulder. "I trust you, Vinny."
Vincent Jeffry pursed his lips at the nickname and left us to our coffee lessons.
"First, you should know where your coffee grinder is," I said.
Teddy followed me down the kitchen counter. "I think maybe first I should know what a coffee grinder looks like," he joked.
When I reached for a fresh bag of whole coffee beans, my sleeve brushed Teddy's arm.
"You look lovely, by the way," he said in my ear.
I opened my mouth to confess about the laundry room lost and found, but realized it didn't matter. It was a simple and easy compliment. "Thank you," I said. "Now, do you really want to learn how to make breakfast, or were you just being nice?"
Teddy chuckled. "What I'd really like to learn how to do is crack an egg one-handed. Can you do that?"
We abandoned the coffee grinder in favor of the already brewed coffee and the ingredients Chef Nolan had left scattered on the kitchen island. It was disconcerting how close Teddy was to me—and how every accidental touch shot through me like a current of electricity.
"I used to make frittatas and egg bakes just so I had an excuse for practicing cracking an egg one-handed," I told him.
Teddy brushed my long hair over my shoulder as he watched me take an egg from the carton. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Donna Martin. She was the head cook for the big house on the other side of my property. She used to use me as an assistant during all the big, holiday meals," I told him. "Though, now that I think about it, I bet she was just tricking me into her kitchen like I was a stray dog. It's not easy for my family to get together for the holidays."
Teddy shook his head at my “stray dog” comment, then brought the focus back to breakfast. "So, what would Donna Martin make of all this?"
"Well," I said, pouring Teddy a cup of coffee, "we had omelets last night, so I think we should make savory pancakes and sausages this morning."
"I had savory pancakes once," Teddy said. "In Tuscany."
"I've never been to France, but Donna Martin schooled me in French cooking. First, we're going to need some herbs." I led him to the small, bright conservatory just to the left of the side door. There were rows of fresh herbs growing in polished terracotta pots.
Teddy eyed the darkened windows. "Glad we don't have to go out to the garden. I'm not sure I can handle any more stumbling around in the storm."
I plucked a few bunches of herbs and turned back to the kitchen with a sigh. "I suppose the rain is going to stop my cleanup work."
"Good, then we can both take a day off. It might take the whole day for me to learn the difference between those little green leaves."
It felt wonderful to move freely around the Brickman's big kitchen. I pushed up my sleeves and marveled again at the softness of the cashmere. It was a completely different world than the now muddy pit of charred debris I had been facing. I knew it was weak, but I let the rai
n be my excuse to enjoy myself just for a little while.
Teddy was a surprise. He helped where he could and watched every move I made. Our conversation ranged from cooking to travel to growing up on Long Island.
"I remember my mother making scrambled eggs," Teddy said as I slipped the savory pancakes onto two plates. "She always added cheddar cheese, just for me."
"How old were you?"
He scooped up the plates. "Four or five. We had a little hotplate she used to plug in by the sink."
I wondered why his memory didn't match the outlandish space of the Brickman kitchen, then noticed he was walking towards the door with the two plates. "Wait. Where are you going?"
"To the morning room. Vinny would be insulted if we didn't take our repast there. He's set everything up to impress you."
"Impress me?" I scoffed. "He knows he doesn't have to do that."
"Fine, then don't be impressed," Teddy joked as he led the way to the morning room.
It was impossible not to pause in the beautiful archway. The morning room was a long, narrow space dominated by a wall of high windows. White lace curtains as delicate as silken spider webs stood out starkly against the storm-gray sky. Two places had been set with sterling silverware and fine china. Teddy plunked our plates down on top of the delicately patterned china and then held my chair out for me.
"It's much more pleasant when there's actually sun. You'll see tomorrow," Teddy said.
"Tomorrow?" I gulped.
He poured me a glass of champagne from the ice bucket stand next to his chair. "It's supposed to storm all day and into the night. So, how about we make lunch plans, as well? I've always wanted to know how people make Monte Cristo sandwiches."
I looked at the threatening clouds. They rolled by, held at bay by the delicate lace curtains and the bright, sparkling chandeliers of the morning room. Teddy held up his champagne flute, and I gave in.
"To the storm," I said.
"I've never been so grateful for bad weather in my life," he toasted with a smile.
I felt another frisson of electricity from that smile and knew it was more than the storm building up between us.
Chapter Eight
Teddy
Vincent Jeffry was horrified to find Kiara and me washing dishes in the kitchen. Without a word, he snatched the dish towel out of my hands and shooed us both out into the hallway. The kitchen door shut firmly in our faces.
"I think I screwed everything up by firing your chef," Kiara said.
I shook my head. "No, you did us a favor. I was getting sick of runny eggs and cold toast. Chef Nolan wasn't much of a morning person."
She laughed. "So, if I'm not allowed to do the dishes, what I am supposed to do?"
I led her into the grand foyer. "Normally, when our guests first arrive, I take them on the tour of the estate."
Her figure shrunk slightly as she looked up at the opulence of the entryway. I regretted my comment. The last thing Kiara Davies wanted was a tour of my elegant and pristine home when hers was a pile of sodden ashes.
"I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me," I said.
She held up a hand. "No. You have a home you should be proud of. Where do we start?"
"I know," I said with a wink. "Instead of a tour, why don't we do a little exploring? I haven't been down to the cellars since I was a child. It's a maze down there."
Her eyes lit up. "Exploring sounds like fun."
I led her to the secret door underneath the grand staircase. We peered down the curving steps and grinned. "I'm not going to lie," I said. "It's spooky down there."
"Scared of thunderstorms and dark basements?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
I laughed and led the way. "I got lost down here when we first moved in. It took a while for the nightmares to go away. Now, I look at it as a testament to my bravery."
Kiara was not impressed. Instead, she caught my arm on the narrow, curving stairs. "When you moved in? I thought you always lived here, but then you mentioned cooking with your mother in a small kitchen."
I shrugged and recited the line I had been coached to say. "My parents didn't always see eye to eye, so they had separate residences for a while."
I don't know why I couldn't confide in Kiara, of all people, but my father was adamant that my illegitimate birth be kept low profile. It was common assumption that my parents lived together my whole life and were intending to get married all along. The tragic timing of my mother's death solidified the story as truth.
"All right," Kiara groped for my hand. "I'll admit, it is creepy down here. I feel like we're the first people who have been in these rooms in a hundred years."
"More like twenty," I said, happily tugging her closer to me. I held up my lantern and led her down the dusty hallway.
"Wow," she whispered, glancing at the floor. "Even abandoned under twenty years of dust, these floors are beautiful."
I blinked, having never seen the elegant mosaic tiles and inlaid marble that graced the old, basement floors. "We must be near some of the original rooms."
Kiara pulled back as we stepped through a darkened doorway and into a high-ceilinged room. "Are those hooks hanging from the ceiling?" she squeaked.
"Oh my God, what is this place?" I whispered. My smile was threatening to break through.
Kiara stepped forward and squinted into the darkness. She still clung to my hand, but her stance was bold. She was of petite stature, yet I was always surprised when she only came up to my shoulders. It was the way she held herself: tall, strong, and fearless.
My heart flipped as Kiara scanned the ominous room. There was a yawning, a blackened fireplace, a groove worn into the floor where something large was missing, and hanging dust-covers that shielded a myriad of strange shapes. I was about to shout “boo,” in the hopes of making her heart race like mine was when it appeared.
The shadow lifted off from the floor in a cloud of dust and flapped wildly towards us.
"Pigeon!" Kiara's scream was a lot louder than her astute observation warranted.
We found ourselves clinging to each other, her scream ringing in my ear, as the bird hopped out a broken window pane and disappeared.
"Don't laugh at me," Kiara scolded as I began to chuckle. "You jumped, too."
"Recognize the spooky room yet?" I asked, happy when she did not pull out of my arms immediately.
"It's the original kitchen," she said, her laughter turning to awed delight. "Nothing's been changed. It's amazing!"
"I thought you might like it. I didn't expect the pigeon." I leaned over as if Kiara was a magnet.
Her hands softened but still hung on to my shoulders. "I can't figure you out, Teddy Brickman."
"You're surprised that I'm a real person," I said, slipping my arms around her slim back. "I've always looked like a caricature to you from across that lawn."
"Did I look like a stray dog?" she asked.
I pressed her tighter against my chest, ignoring the blooming heat where her pert breasts rubbed against me. "Never. You looked like Little Red Riding Hood, ready to take on any wolf. And I was jealous of you."
She shook her head and realized just how close we were when our noses almost brushed. "Don't lie."
"It's true. Where you lived looked warm and safe, while where I lived felt like this," I glanced around the forgotten room.
"I don't know," Kiara smiled. "I kind of like it in here."
I gave into her gravity with a soft groan. Her lips were still curved in a smile when I tasted them—just a soft sip to satiate my curiosity. I pulled back, jolted by my own hunger.
Kiara rose up on her toes, her lips parting as she kissed me. I was engulfed by the taste of her, the daring brushes of her tongue, and the way she moved against me like a rolling wave. I caught her closer and felt my hunger growing. There was no holding back, no cautious give and take; there was only the all-consuming heat of the kiss.
She pulled back, breathless. "No. Don't get the wrong idea."
I s
wayed forward, but stopped. "What wrong idea? That you might actually like me and want to kiss me?"
"No," she said. "I don't want you to think I'm only showing gratitude. Or that I'm trying to ensnare you to get what I want. Or that I'm the kind of woman who goes around throwing herself at rich men."
I pressed a finger to her mouth, only regretting it wasn't another kiss. "I have to admit, I wasn't thinking very much during that kiss."
She stilled. "So, I can stop babbling?" she asked with a rueful smile.
"And start exploring," I said, reluctantly letting her go.
#
I caught Vincent Jeffry as he skulked around the house, carefully checking rooms and turning off lights. He turned off the lights in the ballroom, took one more scan of the cavernous room, then turned around and gasped.
"Storm got you jumpy, too, Vinny?" I asked with a chuckle.
He drew himself up to his full height and tugged down the cuffs of his sleeves. "I apologize, sir. Is there something I can help you with at this late hour?"
Kiara had said goodnight an hour ago and left me prowling the lower floors, wondering what to do. It was perfect that just after I settled on a course of action, my housekeeper had appeared.
"I noticed how comfortable and beautiful Kiara looked today. I think it'd be nice to furnish her with more of a wardrobe. You helped her find those clothes. Can you tell me what size she wears?" I asked.
Vincent Jeffry's eyes widened, and he strode past me into the hallway. "No, sir. I wouldn't want to be indiscreet."
"Come on. I want to do something nice for her while she's staying with us. What woman doesn't like a few new outfits?" I asked, following him as he marched away.
He stalled by checking the library, even though no one had gone inside it for over a week. "Ms. Davies might get the wrong idea."
I laughed. "You know, Kiara spouted something about the wrong idea earlier, too. What's with that?"
His cheeks grew pink. "What happened earlier?" he asked before he could stop himself.
"Aha. You aren't a robot, after all," I said. When he didn't even feign a smile, I poked him in the ribs with my elbow. "Come on, Vinny. I just want to know what size to tell my personal shopper. She could have the clothes by mid-morning tomorrow."
