“That’s wonderful!”
“Well, it would have been perfect except that Paolo will be catering the rest of the meal.” Michaela made a face to show how she felt about it.
“Why the face?” Aunt Willow studied her niece. “Something tells me this is more complicated than you’re letting on.”
Michaela sighed. “You know me too well. There is something that’s been gnawing at me.”
Aunt Willow smiled serenely. “Tell me what’s bothering you and we can look for a solution.”
“It’s Paolo. He’s gotten under my skin. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake off the attraction.” Michaela knew it was more than just attraction. She was falling for Paolo and couldn’t get him out of her mind…or out of her heart.
“Do tell,” Aunt Willow said, grinning. “The two of you have combustible chemistry.”
“Is it obvious?”
“Absolutely. Such powerful energy! The day of the taping, the air was so charged, I thought the set would go up in flames.”
“That is what’s killing me. I’m the last person Paolo should be igniting.” But the only one I want to ignite me, she amended privately.
“I don’t know about that. Your kind of connection with him doesn’t happen often. You should run with it, not away from it,” Aunt Willow stated with certainty.
“I can’t,” Michaela wailed. “Paolo and I want the same thing and the stakes are high for both of us. How can we fiercely compete and build a loving relationship? I can’t see that happening. My feelings for him are deepening, but I have to stay focused on winning.”
“I see your problem.” Aunt Willow gave a reflective pause. “I’m pulling for you, dear, and I think you are the better chef by far,” she said loyally, “but what are you going to do if for some reason Paolo wins?”
Michaela shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t think about that now.”
“I understand. Just promise me one thing.”
Michaela braced herself. “What?”
“Stop thinking so much and start living. Look at Magda. She was always looking for the perfect man, always rejecting one after the other because he wasn’t her Mr. Darcy. Maybe if she’d given some of the guys a chance, she wouldn’t feel so alone now.” Willow clucked her teeth and shook her head. “She sure could use some lovin’ and groovin’.”
Michaela giggled. “You sound just like a sixties flower child.”
“How else am I supposed to sound? I was a sixties flower child and proud of it. Honey, don’t laugh. Without the lovin’, life ain’t worth livin’,” she drawled. “It’s not a cliché, it’s the truth. It’s been twenty-four years since Stephen died, and I’ve dated other men, but nobody has ever come close to making me feel the way he did. We were total opposites, but we clicked and all we wanted was for the other one to be happy.”
“I hear you. But Paolo is pretty hot to handle. Our personalities are poles apart. Our family backgrounds are very different too. He comes from a close-knit, loving family and has strong opinions on marriage and children.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Maybe, except you know what Mom and Dad’s marriage was like. I have no idea if I can be the kind of wife Paolo would expect.”
“Why do you doubt yourself? Of course, you can. You’re loving and generous and…”
Michaela gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Thanks, but I think I got ahead of myself and went a little overboard there. Who even said he wants to marry me?” She sighed deeply. “Anyway, even if we weren’t competing, I’m not sure it would work out.”
“You won’t know unless you surrender to the attraction and separate business from pleasure. Just let it happen,” Aunt Willow said fervently. “Peace and love. It’s still what life is all about.”
“I just wish things hadn’t gotten so complicated. I had everything planned out.”
Aunt Willow chuckled and gave Michaela a tight hug. “Oh, honey, who ever said life went according to our plans? We have to roll with the punches and be resilient. That’s my secret for happiness.”
Michaela could not believe her luck. She was about to present her special desserts to the upper crust socialites of Williams Island. Mr. Blumenthal had felt it only fair for Michaela to be involved with the catering since she and Paolo were competing for Miami Spice. He didn’t want to give an unfair advantage to Paolo over Michaela.
So here she was in the Blumenthals’ mansion, setting up with her assistant Dan’s help. The impressive kitchen was grander and bigger than Michaela’s living and dining room combined. Sparkling with modern elegance, it was decorated in cool, neutral colors with bisque travertine tiled floors, smoky quartz countertops, and sleek mahogany cabinetry. Taupe glass backsplashes and state-of-the-art appliances completed the glamorous kitchen. Seeing the pristine condition of the stainless steel appliances, it was obvious the Blumenthals rarely frequented their kitchen, let alone cooked or ate at home.
Earlier when she had arrived, Michaela had been surprised to find the Blumenthal mansion was opulent, without being kitschy, which she would have expected given Bernice’s gaudy style of dressing. Bernice had probably contracted an interior decorator. The elegantly appointed mansion exuded an impersonal air in spite of the coordinated luxe fabrics and stylish furniture. All the right accents were there to make it look splendid, all except one addition that could not be escaped—portraits of Bernice, in different poses, at different stages of her life—some nude—adorned every room Michaela had passed on her way to the kitchen. There was even a large framed, black-and-white etching of a woman’s bare, curvy back, surely Bernice’s, on one of the kitchen walls.
Michaela stood beneath the multi-tiered modern chandelier over the island, pinching herself at the incredible opportunity to highlight her deceptively lo-cal desserts. So what if Paolo had catered the rest of the meal? She had made the desserts bite-sized and colorful, tempting samples of her culinary talents. Maybe she would even make a convert out of Bernice. If Bernice had stuck to lo-cal foods, her backside would still resemble the flattering black-and-white etching instead.
“I hope Palmentieri has a sweet tooth, because these are amazing,” Dan said, interrupting her thoughts. The big, Texan chef was carefully transferring her dainty key lime tarts to one of the silver platters provided by Jewel, Bernice’s long-suffering, elderly Jamaican kitchen maid.
“Sadly, I found out he doesn’t care too much for sweets when I called his assistant. She said, and I quote, ‘Signore Palmentieri prefers to eat hearty and drink even heartier’,” Michaela said in an Italian accent. “Apparently, Paolo is making his favorite meal.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not the only guest.”
“True. Williams Island isn’t called the Florida Riviera for nothing. The residents here are used to the very best of everything.”
Dan lifted a delicate macaron. “These are sure to please them.”
“Thanks, Dan.” Michaela had brought dependable Dan to help her out instead of Elliot. With so much at stake, she could ill afford to deal with Elliot’s penchant for drama, especially after his revelation that he had the hots for Palmentieri, whom Elliot insisted was gay. Knowing her sous chef too well, Michaela was sure he would have finagled an introduction to the tenor tonight. Elliot on a mission was more combustible than gasoline and matches.
She had purposely arrived a half an hour early so she could get a head start before Paolo began invading her space…and peace of mind.
Forty minutes later, Paolo charged in, running late as usual. He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment to Michaela and Dan and then got down to business. His accompanying staff of three joined him in transforming the kitchen into a bustling bistro. Michaela wondered why Paolo looked tense and unhappy, with her mostly. It couldn’t be that he was behind schedule. He was so self-assured about his cooking skills those things didn’t faze him.
Decked in a gypsy-like, garnet corset dress with a red rose tucked into her overflowing cleavage, Bernice peeked in often while the staff labored nonstop. Michaela sighed. The woman was a classic. No doubt, she had dressed for Palmentieri’s benefit, since he was reprising the role of Don Jose in Carmen, Bizet’s lush opera later that week. Carmen was about sex, love, jealousy and murder—things sure to intrigue Bernice. Palmentieri would have been more excited had Bernice opted to dress like Escamillo, but not everyone knew that, according to Elliot.
Michaela stood with her hands on her hips, surveying her glistening desserts. “Looks good enough to eat,” she said with satisfaction. Mouthwatering key lime tarts, airy meringue nests filled with raspberries, dark chocolate passion fruit truffles, and the piece de resistance: a lavish variety of liqueur flavored “love bite” macarons in dreamy pastels.
Paolo was too preoccupied with his meal to give her a second glance. She came up beside him and peered over his shoulder while he stirred the chanterelle and porcini risotto. Peace and love. Michaela remembered Aunt Willow’s words. Paolo had been studiously ignoring her since he arrived. Granted, he was working against the time, but still…it hurt to be disregarded.
“That smells divine,” Michaela said sincerely.
When Paolo didn’t respond, she asked, “Are you purposely ignoring me? You seem annoyed with me.”
When he finally gave her his full attention, she shrank away from the stark displeasure in his eyes. “I’m disappointed in you. You are not the person I thought you were, Michaela.”
Michaela, not Maki, and spoken in a cold tone. Michaela swallowed hard. “What do you mean? Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Don’t act innocent. It is beneath you,” he said bluntly. He turned his attention back to the risotto.
Michaela heaved a shaky breath as a tremor ran through her. She was baffled by Paolo’s harsh words and was about to ask him to elaborate when Bernice stole up behind Paolo and made a shushing motion with her finger over her pursed lips, urging Michaela not to let on she was there. Michaela’s eyes bulged incredulously when Bernice’s hand slid upward from the back of his firm thigh and meandered over to rest on his taut buttock as he bent over the six-burner stove. From the glazed look in Bernice’s eyes and her wet grin, it was obvious she had already imbibed one too many martinis.
“Not now, Michaela. You are not going to sabotage this,” Paolo grated, shocking her with the unfair accusation. “This time I’m prepared. I won’t put up with your tricks tonight.”
Michaela’s face burned with the injustice of his charge, and he had made it in front of the producer’s wife no less. God only knew what she would relay to Mr. Blumenthal. “I am not trying to sabotage you! That was…”
“I do not like your new image on your website, or the way you’ve changed just to win this competition,” he snarled in a low voice, cutting her off. “You cheated. Now take your hand off my ass.”
So that was it. Paolo disapproved of her website and was pissed off at her. The revelation stung Michaela; she had never felt his wrath directed at her.
Bernice let out a raucous giggle. “Actually, that’s my hand, darling. Just checking to see how things are progressing,” she said giving Paolo an inappropriate, proprietary pat on the rump, as if to say “this is mine and you work for me”.
Michaela could see the cords tighten in Paolo’s neck when he realized that tipsy Bernice was the culprit. His square hand clutched the wooden spoon, his muscles flexing beneath his brown skin. Any doubts Michaela might have had about his relationship with Bernice dissolved as she looked at Paolo’s face, taut and dark with annoyance.
“Everything is going fine, Bernice. But I work better without interruptions,” he bit out.
One more impertinent pat of her jeweled hand and Bernice was gone—for now.
Once Bernice was out of earshot, Michaela asked, “Paolo…about my website. What’s wrong with it?”
“It is all about sex and not about cooking,” he said bluntly.
This coming from the master of sexy charisma? How ironic.
Paolo walked away and turned his attention to his sous chef, Gil, who was putting the final touches on the veal osso bucco, cooked earlier at the restaurant and waiting to be plated. Michaela remained rooted to the spot, smarting from Paolo’s allegations.
Okay, so she had cheated a teensy bit by kind of copying his idea. But what was this about the website? When Tiffany had promised to set it up, Michaela had thought it would be fine. She should have monitored the website, or at least checked to see what Tiffany had done with it like Aunt Willow had suggested, but things at work had been like a roller coaster lately and she hadn’t had a second for herself.
Maybe she had been too trusting, given Tiffany’s penchant for mischief. A wave of unease made her feel queasy when she remembered how Tiffany had announced playfully, “Sex sells and I’m your new pimp.” Dad was probably right. Tiffany needed to be reined in and controlled or she went off the rails sometimes. Michaela should have put a stop to it then, but she’d been swept away with the thrill of having her whole family united behind her.
Michaela’s iPhone rang in her chef’s tunic pocket. Surprised to see Mercy Hospital in the caller ID, she answered it on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“This is the emergency room of Mercy Hospital. May I speak to Michaela Willoughby?” a male voice asked briskly.
“Yes, this is Michaela Willoughby.”
“Please come to the hospital. Magda Talbot and Willow Reese have you listed as an emergency contact.”
Michaela’s heart almost stopped. “Oh, my God, what happened?” she cried.
Chapter Nineteen
Waiting in the ice-cold hospital emergency room was nerve-wracking enough—but waiting alone was even worse. Michaela had left Dan in charge of everything before tearing off for the hospital in a panic. Just before she left the kitchen, she caught Paolo watching her with a concerned look as he asked Dan what was wrong.
She had thought of calling Mom and Dad, who were out of town at a lawyers’ convention, but decided to postpone calling them until she had more information. She didn’t want to alarm them yet, but her sister was another story. Michaela had called, texted and emailed Tiffany to no avail. She had left a detailed message about her aunts’ car accident and where they were being treated for injuries. Her little sister had an annoying habit of disappearing, often forgetting to charge her phone.
Who knew what Tiffany was up to? Michaela had not had a moment to speak to her recently, but she knew that Aunt Willow had been in almost daily contact about the contest and details of their campaign for her show. Michaela’s cell phone didn’t work in the ER, but she wasn’t going to budge from there until she got more information on her aunts’ conditions or at least talked to a doctor. Tiffany knew where to find her. If only she would get there soon!
A long, distressing hour passed in the crowded waiting room with no word on her aunts, save that they had sustained injuries in a terrible car accident and were undergoing myriad tests. Beside herself with worry, Michaela had alternated between praying and badgering the ER attendants for updates on her aunts.
She was about to ask the ER nurse for another update when the glass entrance doors slid open and Paolo rushed inside. Michaela’s heart ached with relief at the sight of him as his keen black eyes scanned the room for her. Never had she been so happy to see anyone in her entire life! Their eyes met across the room and Michaela could not stop the soft sob that escaped her mouth. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she ran to him.
Paolo’s strong arms closed around her in a tight embrace, dismantling her control and unleashing her pent-up anguish. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and her words came out in a jumbled mess. He patted her back and murmured comforting words, encouraging her to talk about the accident. She kept babbling that it was a miracle her tw
o aunts had survived the head-on collision, but they were in bad shape.
“What if they don’t make it?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“Calm down, querida. Don’t think like that,” he said firmly, rubbing her back. “Your aunts are in good hands at this hospital.”
“I can’t get past the fact that they could have died,” Michaela mumbled, her voice muffled against his chest. She pulled back and stared at the wet splotches on his shirt. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her face crumble pitifully. “I ruined your shirt with my mascara. I never cry like this.”
“It’s okay, Maki. I don’t give a damn about the shirt.” Paolo gently cradled her face in his big, beautiful hands as he slid his thumbs beneath her eyes, wiping away her tears and the remnants of her mascara. He handed her a napkin from the paper bag he held. “Here. Blow,” he instructed patiently.
Michaela blotted her eyes and then blew her nose. She took hiccupping breaths to get a grip on her emotions.
“Everything’s going to be okay, nena,” Paolo soothed, sliding his arm around her waist as he led her toward the exit doors. “I brought you some coffee and a sandwich. Let’s go sit on the bench outside. We can talk there while you eat.”
Michaela suddenly noticed that everyone in the waiting room was staring at them. “No, I don’t want to leave until I speak with a doctor,” she whispered, her voice raw.
She had never expected Paolo to show up; his generosity stunned her. Anyone else with a chance to hobnob with the Williams Island elite before his show would not have ditched everything to go to the hospital and be with his competitor—a sneaky competitor who hadn’t been playing fair, she thought with a pang of guilt. Gazing into Paolo’s eyes, she could not imagine anyone else she would rather be with during a crisis.
Grill Me, Baby Page 20
