by Jackie Braun
It came down to a hand of cards. Literally. At the start of each competition the host would deal three oversize cards. One specified the amount of time the chefs had to cook. Another gave the course they had to prepare—appetizer, entrée or dessert. The final card revealed the identity of the celebrity judge.
And then there was the plainspoken and pretty Lara Smith.
If the first blow of attraction had landed like a sucker punch, the second, when he’d stumbled upon her in the waiting room, had delivered the knockout.
Wouldn’t it just figure that the first woman to arouse his interest—and then some—since Sheryl had buried a knife in his back would be one he was competing against for the chance of a lifetime?
Priorities, Westbrook, priorities, he silently admonished.
Sex and his social life rated lower on the list than getting back what he’d lost. And thanks to Sheryl and Cole, he’d lost everything.
Of course, all of the chefs here were determined to win. But it was different for Finn. For him, it went deeper than bragging rights and securing a coveted position with a paycheck to match. Being crowned the Chesterfield’s executive chef wouldn’t be a stop as much as a stepping-stone. He needed it to launch his comeback.
Nothing and no one would stand in his way.
He found his station and smothered a bemused laugh. So much for putting distance between himself and Lara Smith. They would be working side by side.
At the moment, however, it wasn’t her side that had Finn’s attention. She was bent at the waist, inspecting the oven. It was all he could do to hold back a groan at his first unrestricted view of her butt. Overall, she was too slender to be considered voluptuous, but her rear had a definite curve that filled out her fitted pants nicely. If she liked to sample her cooking, as chefs were wont to do, she worked off the extra calories later. When his libido started to fantasize about exactly how, he swallowed hard and reeled it in.
She glanced over as she straightened, and smiled.
“We meet again,” he said in a lame attempt to cover his embarrassment over being caught ogling her butt.
The bright lights teased streaks of copper from her otherwise auburn hair, and idly he wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared.
“That reminds me. I never properly introduced myself.” She rubbed the palm of her right hand on the thigh of her pants before holding it out. “I’m—”
“No need.” A handshake? Really? They’d already kissed. “Besides, I know who you are.”
“Y-you know?” Her eyes rounded at that and her face paled to the point he thought she might pass out.
It was a curious reaction. She didn’t only sound surprised but, well, guilty.
“You’re wearing a badge with your name on it,” he pointed out.
“I... A badge. Right. I’m wearing a badge.” She laughed awkwardly as she patted the rectangular sticker affixed to a chest that, in his estimation, was neither too large nor too small, but just the right size. She motioned to the prep table that they would be sharing. “It looks like we’re going to be working together.”
The idea, like the woman, was way too appealing for his peace of mind, so he clarified, “We won’t be working together, Lara. We’ll be competing against each other.”
“Adversaries,” she said, parroting what he had said earlier.
“Yep. And as I already told you, I intend to win.”
She notched up her chin, not appearing to be cowed in the least by his bravado.
He found her arrogance a surprising turn-on when she replied in a haughty voice, “You keep telling yourself that, Paper. You just keep telling yourself that.”
* * *
Smooth.
Lara patted the badge even as she wanted to give her forehead a slap. She supposed the fact that she was so lousy at lying was a testament to how rarely she did it. Deceit did not come naturally to her. No, that would be her mother.
Even with her father—especially with him—Lara had always been truthful. Blunt and tactless, yes, but truthful all the same.
At least Finn was no longer staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was going about his business, as should she, since they had only an hour in the kitchen studio.
Satisfied that the oven and stove-top burners worked, Lara turned her attention to the prep table. While all of the contestants had their own ovens, the tables, which ran parallel to them, were ten feet long and intended to accommodate two chefs. All of her preparations, including plating the finished product, would take place on that single length of stainless-steel real estate, and she was going to have to share it with the handsome man who had her mind wandering to other uses for a handy horizontal surface.
“Something wrong?” He stopped what he was doing and looked over at her.
Lara felt a flush creep over her cheeks, one of the curses of having a redhead’s fair skin.
“No. Nothing’s...wrong.” She forced her gaze from him to the prep top, where a couple of containers filled with spatulas, slotted spoons and the like, and some bottles of oil were all that delineated one chef’s side from the other. “It’s just not a lot of space for two people.”
“Worried I’ll take advantage of you?”
She felt her face flame anew as a couple of more inappropriate thoughts threatened to storm the gates of propriety. Worried? More like wishing.
“I just hope you’re not one of those chefs who like to spread out.”
“I’ll keep all of my stuff on my side if you’ll do the same.” To illustrate his point, Finn moved a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to his section.
“Actually, I think we’re supposed to share the oil.”
He glanced at the trio of bottles, which were filled with different varieties, some of which were intended for cooking, others for adding flavor afterward.
“Ah. So I see.” He moved the bottle back to the dividing line. “Are we good?”
“That depends.” She canted her leg out to one side and settled a hand on her hip. She was only half kidding when she said, “When you’re cooking, are you neat? Some chefs aren’t and it’s a pet peeve of mine.”
Indeed, it was one of the rare points on which Lara and her father actually saw eye to eye.
“As a pin. What about you?”
“A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“Then I’d say the two of us will get along fine.”
“Yes, we’re...” Her gaze homed in on his mouth as she recalled their kiss. “We’re very...”
Finn’s smirk told her he knew exactly where her mind had wandered.
“Compatible? Is that the word you’re looking for?”
Oh, she had a feeling they would be that and then some.
She looked away and blurted out the first thing she could think of. “The knives aren’t bad.”
Five of the most essential blades clung to magnetic strips that were mounted on the wall behind each contestant’s stove. Even at a glance, she could gauge the quality. The network had spared no expense.
“Will you be using them?” he asked.
“Please.” She snorted at that. More so than any other utensil in a chef’s kitchen, knives were personal, their weight and balance suited to the user. As such, they were the one item the contestants were allowed to bring with them from home. “Are you kidding?”
He shrugged. “Just trying to get a feel for what kind of chef you are.”
She was the kind who deserved to be heading up the Chesterfield’s kitchen, a job she was going to do her damnedest to earn.
Tristan, apparently having overheard their conversation, said, “Remember, chefs. You’re limited to seven.” He’d been making the rounds in the studio, hands clasped behind his back, h
is expression reminiscent of a warden’s. “Are you finding everything to be in working order at your stations?”
“So far so good,” Finn said.
She nodded in agreement.
Once Tristan had moved on, Finn said, “I wonder if Ryder will show up next week wearing all of his knives on his belt. The guy’s a trip.”
The visual nearly had her smiling.
“I was going to say scary. Thanks for earlier, by the way.”
She might not have needed Finn’s interference, but she’d appreciated the gesture.
“He was just trying to psych you out.”
Mind games.
For a sobering second she wondered if Finn was playing one now, being nice, friendly, lulling her into complacency with words that were every bit as enticing as his good looks. She didn’t want to think so, but as Tristan had mentioned earlier, a chef could use trickery and deceit as part of his or her overall strategy.
Underhandedness made for good television. Still, Lara couldn’t see her father condoning such behavior in the person tapped to run his kitchen. Of course, Clifton wouldn’t have much of a choice—at least not for one year. She’d read the fine print in the rules. The winner was ensured employment as the head chef for that long, although he or she could be fired for cause before then.
“What made you sign on for this?” Finn asked.
Lara opted for the most obvious answer, which also saved her from having to lie. She felt like enough of a fraud already. “I want the job. You?”
“The same.” He said it quickly, a little too quickly.
They eyed one another.
“It’s a great opportunity. The chance of a lifetime.” She smiled.
“It’s also a lot of hoops to jump through to run your own kitchen.”
“It’s not just any kitchen, though. It’s the Chesterfield. Two American presidents have eaten there, as well as an assortment of state and federal lawmakers. On any given night you can find a Tony-Award-winning actor or Hollywood A-lister seated in the dining room raving about the roasted duck or—”
She broke off, becoming aware that she sounded just like her father used to when Lara or her mother had dared to complain about the amount of time he spent there.
Meanwhile, Finn didn’t appear overly awed, even when he leaned closer and added, “You forgot its Michelin rating. Three stars.”
Okay, now she was confused. “You’re not impressed?”
“Oh, I’m impressed, all right. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He was holding one of the knives, and he used it to make a sweeping motion around the studio. “Even so, I’d bet you the title that more than a few of the chefs here have a reason beyond the Chesterfield’s prestige for signing up for this show.”
Lara glanced around, considering. Perhaps Finn was right. He certainly was right about her. She had something to prove. To her father. To herself. And, okay, maybe she could perform a little bit of penance in the process.
He was saying, “It’s those reasons you have to worry about.”
Intrigued, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“That’s where passion comes from.”
Finn returned the knife to the magnetic strip, offered the same smile that he’d given her after he’d surrendered the cab and asked for that kiss. The effect was every bit as mesmerizing. Lara’s skin felt as if it had been splattered with hot grease.
With her gaze on his mouth, she almost corrected him. It wasn’t passion’s only origin.
* * *
They didn’t talk for the next several minutes as they acquainted themselves not only with their immediate stations but also the set’s overall configuration. Indeed, the kitchen was unnaturally quiet. All of the chefs were alert and on edge.
The pantry consisted of several freestanding, metal-framed shelving units. An assortment of bins and containers, contents clearly labeled in bold lettering, filled them.
“So, that’s a red onion,” the quirky-haired Kirby said.
Lara, Finn and several of the other chefs laughed.
Tristan adjusted his glasses and allowed a moment for their mirth before saying, “Obviously, the labels are intended for viewers at home. Although in the heat of battle, some of you also might find yourselves grateful for them.”
“I notice that several of these are empty, Tristan.” Flo pointed to a bin marked Bell Peppers.
“Not to worry. They’ll be full on Monday with fresh produce.”
“How fresh?” Lara wanted to know. “And where does the show do its shopping?”
“You’re the food stylist, right?” Tristan asked.
Other than her pseudonym, Lara had tried to be as truthful as possible on her application to the show. So, in addition to her education and professional background, she’d jotted down her current job title.
Ryder snickered, apparently sharing her father’s derogatory opinion of her profession.
She squared her shoulders. “That’s my current job, yes. And, as a food stylist, I know that the fresher the ingredients, the better-looking the finished product. The same, obviously, goes for taste. There is a huge difference between the flavor of a tomato allowed to ripen on the vine before it’s picked and shipped to a nearby market, and a hydroponic pretender trucked to a grocery store half a dozen states away. I don’t want that difference to cost me with the judges.”
“She makes a good point,” Finn said while several of the other chefs nodded. “I’ll be damned if I want to go home because some college intern didn’t know how to pick out decent broccoli rabe.”
Lara appreciated his solidarity.
“I can assure you, everything used on this show is carefully selected. We shop the same sources as high-end restaurants do and that includes the Chesterfield. Sometimes we shop directly from local growers. The same goes for our seafood, meat and poultry. Buyers for the show are at the seaport before dawn on weekdays picking out the best catches. Quality will not be an issue.” He eyed Finn before adding drily, “At least not the quality of the ingredients.”
Rather than being offended, Finn merely smiled. “Touché.”
It was interesting. The man could be intense, but apparently that didn’t prevent him from also having a sense of humor or poking fun at himself. Lara found it an appealing trait. God knew that neither her father nor her ex-husband had been able to laugh at themselves.
“One thing to keep in mind, chefs.” Tristan held up a finger as he revealed the troubling caveat. “Although the pantry items will be restocked after every round of competition, once they are gone during a round, they’re gone.”
“First come, first served. Sounds good to me. Get used to seeing me at the front of the line,” Ryder said to no one in particular as he folded a pair of tattooed arms over his massive chest.
Lara offered up a silent prayer that he would be the first in line for elimination, as well. Less than an hour in his presence and his unflagging superiority had grown tiresome. She really didn’t want to have to put up with it for the show’s duration.
“This is a competition intended to test your skills, Mr. Surkovski.” Ryder’s last name, Lara assumed as Tristan continued, “Sometimes even the best kitchens run out of an item and have to make adjustments on the fly. You’ve got to use your head. In other words, brain trumps brawn here. You’ll have to rely on what can be found between your earrings.”
Where Finn had taken Tristan’s teasing barbs in stride, Ryder’s skin flushed a deep scarlet and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Lara figured it was only Tristan’s position with the network that saved him from a scathing comeback. Or worse.
“The first kitchen I worked in ran out of hot dogs. It was a disaster since it was at the ballpark,” Finn quipped to no one in particular.
Lara got the feeling Finn had only said it to lig
hten the mood. Sure enough, Tristan and the other chefs laughed. All except for Ryder. He was stone-faced.
“You’re making an enemy,” Lara whispered as they followed Tristan to another area of the set.
“You mean Ryder?” Finn shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “It’s not like I’m here to make friends.”
Adversaries. The word rang in her head. Right.
They could be friendly, but they were competitors, each with an agenda that ran counter to the others’. Under such circumstances, true friendship or relationships of any kind weren’t likely.
So it came as a surprise when, after they finished with everything for the day, Finn turned to Lara as they headed outside and said, “Hey, do you want to go for a cup of coffee or something?”
God help her, but it was the or something that had her attention.
FOUR
Add a dash of spice
“I thought you told me you weren’t here to make friends, Finn,” Lara said, raising one eyebrow.
“I’m not.”
“But you’re willing to make an exception in my case?”
Was he?
One side of her mouth rose in a smile that had a decidedly unsettling effect on his heart rate. No, Finn wasn’t after friendship. But he couldn’t deny his interest in Lara Smith. It had been there since the get-go.
“Well, if you looked like Ryder, I wouldn’t be offering,” he replied truthfully.
“And if I looked like Angel?”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Smoky eyes and Angelina Jolie lips?” Lara pouted and batted her eyelashes for effect. “Not to mention a pair of legs that start at the chin.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your legs.” Or any other part of her anatomy, from what Finn could tell. And, yeah, he’d been looking. “Besides, she’s not my taste. Too...obvious.” His gaze lowered briefly to Lara’s mouth and more naturally proportioned lips before flicking away to gaze up at the busy street. “I prefer subtlety, complexity.”
