by Jackie Braun
Not just any job, but one that would have been hers if she hadn’t taken her rebellion to the extreme. Leave it to her father to rub salt in the wound by publicly proclaiming the need for a “successor,” and then agreeing to let Cuisine Cable Network fill the head-chef position at his restaurant via its highly rated Executive Chef Challenge show. By the time the last of the weekly installments aired in the fall, Lara or one of eleven other über-qualified chefs from around the country would be deciding the Chesterfield’s dinner specials.
Lara had entered the competition without her father’s knowledge. Indeed, no one at the network knew about her ties to Clifton and the Chesterfield. She could only count on anonymity because the program was taped in advance. If it aired live, she would have been found out right away. If she made it to the final round, which her father would judge personally, she would be forced to come clean. Between now and then, however, she had to do some of the best and most creative cooking of her life.
She scanned the faces of the six men and four women in the waiting room. Add her and that made eleven. She frowned. Someone was missing.
She was still standing just inside the door, surreptitiously checking email on her cell phone, when she heard it open. Contestant number twelve had arrived. She turned, ready to size up the competition, and came face-to-face with...
“Paper,” she murmured in surprise and resisted the urge to touch her lips.
The gray eyes regarding her widened fractionally before his mouth softened with a grin.
“Actually, I go by Finn. Finn Westbrook.” He peeled off his drenched jacket and hung it on the coatrack just to Lara’s left. “Enjoy your ride?”
“I did. Thank you.” Even though the answer seemed obvious, she inquired, “Did you have to wait long for another taxi?”
“I gave up on waiting there. I hauled ass for three blocks before I was able to flag one down at Columbus Circle.”
A drop of water spilled down his temple. Lara resisted the temptation to wipe it away. Instead, she reached into her purse and handed him a plastic-wrapped package of tissues.
“Thanks.”
“Least I can do. I didn’t realize we both were headed to the same place or we could have shared the taxi.”
He pulled out a couple of the tissues, gave her back the packet and blotted his temple before rubbing them over his head. His short hair looked both messy and perfect afterward.
“So, you’re a chef,” he said.
“That’s right.” And although she was pretty sure she knew the answer, she said, “You?”
“One of the best.” The smile that accompanied the boast was charming enough to keep his words from sounding too cocky.
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this room can make the same claim,” she replied drily.
His smile widened as he balled up the tissues and, after little more than a cursory glance, tossed them in the direction of a wastebasket that was tucked in the corner. The soggy wad made it in. Of course. More points for him...if she were keeping score.
“I guess this means we’re adversaries,” he said.
Indeed. They both were after the same thing. The very thing for which he’d sought out a good-luck kiss. Keep your eyes on the prize, Lara, she silently admonished, since she was finding keeping her eyes on Finn a far-too-pleasing diversion.
“I guess it does.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered for a couple of heartbeats. “That’s too bad.”
Before Lara could think of a fitting response, a man stepped out from one of the offices. He was in his late thirties, suit-clad and bespectacled with a receding hairline. But what made him seem older and headmasterish was the way he clapped his hands together to gain their attention.
She recognized him from the preliminary round that she’d won a couple of weeks earlier. His name was Tristan Wembley, and he worked for the network in some sort of production capacity. She couldn’t remember his official title, but he’d made it clear in their previous dealings that if Lara had any questions or concerns, she was to contact him first.
“Welcome, everyone, to Sylvan Studios, the home of the Cuisine Cable Network and its highest-rated program, Executive Chef Challenge, which, as you know, is featuring the famed Chesterfield restaurant this season.
“Congratulations on making it this far in the competition. It’s a testament to your skill as chefs that you are standing here right now. One hundred and eighty-two other hopefuls didn’t make the cut.
“Today, you will get your first look at the kitchen studio. Tomorrow and Friday, we will spend the day taping promo spots that will be televised and also air on our website. Filming of the first round starts Monday morning. You are to report to the studio no later than 7:00 a.m. Plan on spending at least ten hours here.”
Someone gasped. “Ten hours!”
“It may be closer to twelve,” Tristan replied, unfazed.
Even though the segments would air weekly on the network, the chefs would be competing three days a week for nearly four weeks. She was in for some long days.
Tristan’s upbeat tone took an ominous turn when he said, “Take a good look around, chefs, because by this time next week, one of you already will have been sent packing and another one will be on his or her way out the door.”
Lara scanned the waiting room’s occupants, wondering whom it would be. No way was she leaving after the first round or the second. When she got to Finn, he snorted softly and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t look at me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it for the duration.”
Under other circumstances, she might have welcomed those words from a gorgeous man whose mouth should be registered as a lethal weapon. In this case...
A tremor swept up her spine. “God, I hope not.”
The corners of Finn’s mouth turned down even as his brows shot up. His tone held a slight edge when he replied, “At least you’re honest.”
If he only knew...
Tristan clapped his hands together again.
“Okay, chefs, if you’ll follow me, we can get started.”
Finn fell in step beside Lara.
“I guess you regret that kiss for luck now,” he said conversationally.
She glanced around, thankful that none of the other chefs appeared to have overheard them. Lip-locks with strangers for good luck wasn’t exactly a topic she wanted broadcasted.
“Probably as much as you’re regretting letting me have that cab,” she replied, keeping her voice so low that he leaned closer to hear her. She swore she could feel the heat wafting from his hot, moist skin.
“You won the cab.” Broad shoulders lifted and his gaze lowered to her lips again. “As for anything else, I’m not beating myself up over it. It was...nice.”
“Nice?” She replied too quickly to edit the incredulity from her tone.
“You have a better adjective for it?” His tone held a dare.
She shook her head and he went on.
“It’s a little inconvenient, though.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.
He smiled, looking as satisfied as Lara had felt after that amazing kiss. “I think you do.”
Oh, yeah. She did, all right.
He went on. “I want you to know in advance that I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Taking you down.”
The grin that stole over his face now was worthy of a plundering pirate.
“Damn, you’re arrogant.” But she said it without any heat. In fact, she couldn’t hold back her own smile.
Ahead of them, Tristan was saying, “Each of you has been randomly assigned a workstation. All of the stations are identical with identical supplies. Today, you will have one hour—no more, no less—to acquaint yourself with the space and set i
t up as you see fit.
“If something is missing or an appliance doesn’t work properly, it’s your responsibility to tell one of the staff before you leave today. Once filming starts on Monday, no adjustments will be made. None,” he stated firmly with a steely glance around. “You will just have to make do.”
Tristan had walked while he talked. The group now stood outside the studio. Over the double doors a red light was encased in a metal cage. It was off now, indicating that no taping was going on. Soon enough the set would be hot and filming would be under way.
As a food stylist, Lara had spent a great deal of time under bright lights and around cameras. She’d considered that good training for this competition. She’d even figured it might give her a leg up on her opponents—until Tristan pushed open the doors and they all filed inside.
The overhead lights glared off the appliances as well as the stainless-steel-topped prep stations.
Someone yelled, “Sweet!”
And she heard a few oaths, some uttered in awe, others laced with foreboding. Hers fell into the latter category.
“It looks different on television,” Finn said.
It certainly did. On TV it seemed smaller, almost intimate. It looked like a real restaurant kitchen rather than a massive set riddled with cables and camera equipment.
Ovens and prep stations lined two of the walls. The third wall boasted a pantry, an impressively stocked wine rack and a double-door refrigerator, as well as an ice-cream machine, blast chiller, anti-griddle and other specialized appliances.
The setup allowed for the contestants as well as the camera operators to move around freely. And, of course, come Monday, the show’s on-air host, Garrett St. John, would be there as well, roaming the set while he narrated the competitors’ actions and performed spontaneous on-air interviews as they worked.
On-air interviews.
Bile threatened to creep up the back of her throat at the thought. She’d scored a C-minus in public speaking in high school. Too much lip-smacking and too many ums, according to her teacher. Oh, and she talked too fast and failed to make enough eye contact with the audience.
“If anyone suffers stage fright, I suggest you get over it now,” Tristan said. “In addition to the twelve of you, this set will be crowded with several dozen other people next week. A number of them will be operating cameras trained not only on what you are making, but on your faces. You may have as many as a dozen focused on you at any given time. Every grin, every grimace, every little dot of perspiration on your forehead will be recorded.”
“Gee, that makes me feel better,” Lara murmured thickly.
Next to her, Finn grunted out what passed for a laugh.
Tristan was saying, “When the show airs, the fans will be rooting for their favorites. We want to give them as much of you as possible. That’s why a lot of what doesn’t make it into each week’s televised episode will wind up on the show’s website.”
Tristan’s cell rang. He glanced at the display.
“Sorry. I need to take this. And while I do, I need for all of you to wait here. No searching for your workstations until I return,” he added before walking out in the hallway to talk on his phone.
“Nervous?” Finn asked.
Heck, yeah, she was nervous. But she shook her head and tried to look unconcerned.
Her denial was met with one raised eyebrow. “And I thought you were honest,” he chided softly.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” she allowed. “Not about cooking for the judges or having to do it while facing down a clock, but—”
“Liar.”
She ignored him and continued. “But about the entertainment component. I’m a chef, not an actor.” She gestured around her. “I think we’re all nervous about working in front of the cameras.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Are you telling me you’re not the least bit anxious?”
“I can’t afford to be if I want to win. And I want to win.”
“Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”
The smile her word elicited was illicit. He leaned closer, and his tone was matter-of-fact when he clarified, “I’m going to win.”
Another time she might have found such self-assuredness sexy, especially when paired with smoky eyes and a devilish grin. Since it ran counter to her own plans, however, she told him, “In your dreams, Paper.”
Finn chuckled. “I was right about figuring you for a rock. But the only thing I’m dreaming about right now—” His gaze flicked to her lips and he hesitated before clarifying, “The only thing I can afford to dream about is being the last chef standing in this kitchen.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Try a dozen of us,” scoffed the young man standing to Lara’s right.
She’d forgotten about him—she’d forgotten about all of them—as she and Finn had engaged in a quiet battle of words that carried an undertone of flirting.
Kirby Something-or-other. From where she stood, she wasn’t able to make out the last name on his badge. She pegged him to be in his early twenties. His shaggy hair stuck out at odd angles and gave the overall appearance of having been hacked off with a meat cleaver.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t all be friendly, y’all.” The speaker this time was a middle-aged blonde whose waist was as thick as her Southern accent. Her badge read Flo Gimball.
“That’s right. We can be friendly. Course, it won’t change anything. I’m going to win,” boasted a gravelly-voiced man who sported a shaved head, gauged ears and a five-inch-long goatee.
Thanks to two full sleeves of tattoos, he would have looked right at home in a biker bar. Rebel that he was, he wasn’t wearing the name tag he’d received from the security desk in the lobby, but the Gothic lettering on the side of his neck spelled out Ryder. Lara assumed it was his name—whether first, last or otherwise, she couldn’t be sure.
“Right,” she muttered half under her breath.
Sorry, but she couldn’t see Ryder in her father’s kitchen. For starters, Clifton wasn’t a fan of body art, which was probably why she had gotten a yin-yang symbol the size of a half-dollar inked on her lower back as soon as she’d turned eighteen. Her dad had been livid when he found out. She’d been smug and secretly pleased to have gotten his attention. Now, every time she wore a bathing suit, she just felt stupid.
“You got something to say?” Ryder asked in a voice as gritty as cornmeal.
The guy easily stood six-six and carried his fillet knife in a sheath attached to his belt. Fish and prime cuts of meat probably weren’t the only things he used it on. Lara gulped, a purely reflexive action that she regretted immediately when the huge man grinned as if he could smell her fear.
“Down, boy.” Finn surprised her by stepping between them. “Pick on someone your own size.”
Ryder’s laughter chewed through the silence that followed Finn’s valiant admonition like the rusty blade of a chain saw.
“I musta missed the memo that said we’re competing in pairs. What, pretty boy? Are you gonna be her sous-chef?” Ryder taunted.
The barb earned snickers from some of the other competitors.
Lara appreciated Finn’s gesture, but she couldn’t afford to be perceived as weak. Stepping around him, she told Ryder, “Actually, I do have something to say, but I’ll let my food do the talking on Monday.”
For that matter, she hoped that whatever she prepared in the allotted time would speak volumes to the trio of judges, which would include a different celebrity chef each week.
“Should be pretty quiet, then,” said a statuesque brunette whose name badge read Angel Horvath.
Her overinflated lips curved into a smile that was too menacing to be perceived as friendly, and Lara was left with the impression that it wouldn’t be smart to turn
her back on the woman—or any of her fellow competitors, for that matter.
That included Finn, their kiss in the cab and his recent act of gallantry notwithstanding. They all had the same objective: winning. As Finn already had pointed out, that made them adversaries.
Tristan had returned for part of the exchange. He clapped his hands together again in a gesture that Lara was already starting to find annoying.
“Hey, chefs. I have no problem with trash talk. In fact, undermining another contestant’s confidence can be a good strategy. But save it for the cameras, please. We have too much to do over the next couple of days to waste time on your egos.”
Lara cast a sideways glance at Finn. The easygoing smile he’d sported was gone, replaced by an expression more in keeping with the intensity she’d spied earlier in his gaze. His game face, she thought, and experienced a flicker of disappointment that they hadn’t met under other circumstances.
THREE
Mix well
The competitors had one hour, not a minute more, to familiarize themselves with their surroundings. Finn had to restrain himself to a brisk walk when Tristan finally released them to go find their workstations. He wanted to run like a couple of the other chefs were doing, but he knew better. Haste in a kitchen was often met with disaster. So he moved quickly, but safely as he searched for his name on the white placards affixed to the stainless-steel vent hoods.
Finn had spent his entire adult life in and around professional kitchens—some of them better equipped and better run than others. For a while, he’d presided over his own in a restaurant dubbed Rascal’s, which he’d owned with his wife and best friend. Ex-wife now. And former best friend.
He was at home amid pots, pans and appliances, but he wasn’t exactly in his element here.
Finn hadn’t admitted it before, but he shared Lara’s trepidation about cooking in front of a slew of cameras for a television audience that ultimately would not taste his creations. He had no problem preparing his signature dishes in a crowded restaurant kitchen where well-ordered chaos reigned, but this was different. So much in the Cuisine Cable Network’s kitchen was unknown, unaccounted for and just plain beyond his control.
