A Convenient Scandal

by Kimberley Troutte

  Using her own recipe wasn’t cheating. She’d created it after all, but she usually didn’t need to look at it. She used to be able to cook by her senses, her mood and something she called “Mom’s magic.” Lately, though, she second-guessed herself about everything. Her mom and all the magic were gone.

  Michele put the phone on the counter in front of her where she could see the recipes and began.

  The sage-rosemary bread was baking and the pan with lemon, olive oil and Italian white wine and spices was heating up nicely. The kitchen smelled divine. She stuffed squid with prosciutto, smoked mozzarella and garlic cloves and gently placed them into the pan. Lightly, she drizzled the squid with her secret homemade truffle sauce. Her special linguine noodles cooked on the back burner and the arugula-basil-chardonnay grape salad with light oil and lemon dressing was up next. Everything looked perfect...except...something felt off.

  She had a sinking feeling she’d forgotten to fill the last squid with garlic. It wasn’t hot yet. If she hurried, she could snatch it back and fix her error. She turned the heat down and used a slotted spoon to carefully recover the squid from the pan. The truffle sauce made the darned thing slippery to handle and it plopped out of the spoon and into the pan again. She wasn’t wearing an apron because all of hers had Alfieri’s name on them, so when the oil splashed up, it spotted her silk blouse. The one people said brought out the amber color in her eyes.

  “Gah! Thanks a lot, you slimy sea booger!”

  “Miss Cox?” A deep voice came up behind her.

  The surprise caused her to jerk the spoon and catapult the squid from the pan into the air. She lunged and caught it before it hit the floor tiles. Cupping the drippy squid behind her back, she straightened her shoulders and rose up to face...him.

  Jeffrey Harper’s large frame filled the space, blocking the exit. There was no way she could flee or pretend he hadn’t seen her glaring faux pas. The way he was looking at her? He’d definitely witnessed her launch food into the air and catch it with her bare hand.

  “Mr. Harper. You startled me.”

  He stepped closer and her heartbeat kicked up even more. He wore a white linen shirt—unbuttoned just enough so she could glimpse glorious red chest hair—and jeans that molded perfectly to his legs.

  The casual version of the man was sexier than the one she’d seen on television.

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation with...” He cocked his head toward the pan and a beautiful copper-colored bang fell onto his forehead. He tossed his head to move it back into place. “Slimy sea boogers.”

  Could a person die from failure?

  She steeled herself to be the recipient of his disgusted look—the one he used in the episode when he’d seen rats running across a cutting board in a hotel’s kitchen. Instead, she saw...amusement?

  “I wasn’t having a conversation with all of them. Just this one.” She produced the squid that she’d been hiding behind her back. “He was behaving badly.”

  Instead of berating her and kicking her out of his kitchen—as Alfieri would have—the corner of Jeffrey’s lips curled.

  He had beautiful lips.

  “I see. What are you going to do about him?” He kept coming closer.

  He was so tall. She had to tip her head to gaze into his eyes, which were an amazing powder blue with a golden starburst in the irises. Simply mesmerizing. It was easy to understand why women lusted after Jeffrey Harper.

  She looked at the misshapen squid. Alfieri would’ve scolded her. That mistake will come out of your paycheck.

  “Throw it away?” she said.

  “Why? Cook it up. I’ll eat it.”

  Her hands were shaking when she shoved a garlic clove inside, rearranged the stuffing, dropped the squid in the pan with the others, and turned up the heat. The pan started sizzling, which didn’t come close to the electricity she felt when Jeffrey stood so close. His woodsy cologne smelled better than the food but having him watch her cook made her nervous.

  “I don’t see chicken.” He sounded disappointed.

  Did he expect all the chefs to serve chicken? Had she missed that part of the fine print in the contract she’d signed?

  “It’s pan-seared and stuffed squid with my special truffle sauce. The linguine noodles and bay clams are almost ready,” she said, her voice tiny.

  He crossed his arms, his body language expressing disappointment. “Miss Cox, the chef position for my restaurant is highly competitive. I expect to be impressed by each meal.”

  Now that sounded more like Alfieri. The condescending tone stirred up her anger. “What more do I need to do, Mr. Harper? Juggle clams and catch them with my teeth?”

  His mouth dropped open. She’d surprised herself, too, since she usually didn’t speak up to a boss and never in a job interview. She waited for him to ask her to leave.

  Instead Jeffrey Harper surprised her.

  He laughed.

  It was a good, hearty sound that rolled through her core, loosening the bitterness inside her. She couldn’t help but smile.

  He had a really great laugh.

  “No, Miss Cox. Just excite me. I’m looking forward to being transported.”

  What did that mean? The way he looked at her, like they were sharing some sort of inside joke, was unnerving. She didn’t get the punch line.

  “Chardonnay?” he asked.

  “Sure, if that’s what you like to drink. But I’d probably suggest a nice light-bodied, high-acid red wine, like a Sangiovese, or perhaps a white Viognier?”

  “I’ll see what we’ve got in the cellar.” Watching him stride out of the kitchen, it struck her that Jeffrey Harper was not as cocky as he seemed on television. She liked him better this way. Plus, he hadn’t yelled at her.

  She took the bread out of the oven, wrapped it in a colorful towel, and placed it in a basket. Checking the recipe again to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, she plated up the meal. Four stuffed squid were dressed with the light sauce and adorned with a sprinkling of spices. The linguine and clams were cooked perfectly. The salad was a lacy pyramid of arugula and basil leaves and decorated with sweet chardonnay grapes. The dressing was another secret recipe that never failed. The meal was not a work of art, but it looked good, it smelled good, and she was sure it would taste good. That was the best she could do tonight.

  She sighed. Good wouldn’t cut it here, not by a long shot. The other chefs would be excellent.

  “I have both wines.” His deep voice rumbled behind her, sending shivers up her spine. “Which would you prefer, Miss Cox?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. He waved two bottles at her. “Me?”

  “I’m not drinking alone.”

  She folded his napkin into a flower shape. “Oh, okay. Um, I like white. Thank you.” She carried his plate to the table.

  “Viognier it is.” He poured her a glass and placed it at the table across from him. “Sit.”

  Apparently, she was supposed to watch him eat. Was he going to tell her bite by bite how she’d messed up or how the food didn’t excite him? Would he throw the entire plate at her head and order her to clean up the mess like Alfieri would?

  She glanced at the table and realized she’d forgotten the salad. Another rookie move. What else would she mess up tonight? “I’ll be right back.”

  When she returned with his salad plate, she was surprised to see he’d split his entrée onto two plates.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Harper?”

  “Join me. I hate to eat alone.” His smile was more sincere than cocky and there was something about the look in his eyes that tugged at her. Sadness? Loneliness?

  She hated to eat alone, too. Uneasily, she sat across from him.

  He sounded relieved when he said, “Thank you.”

  She heard those two words so infrequently
that she checked to make sure he wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t.

  “Eat,” he ordered.

  Huh. Somehow, she’d scored an impromptu date with America’s Most Eligible Bachelor. It wasn’t a bad way to go out after the worst job interview of her life. Not bad at all.

  * * *

  He lit two candles and moved them so he could look at Michele Cox’s pretty face.

  Jeff had never met a chef like her.

  When he first came into the kitchen, he hadn’t been impressed. There was no poetry in action. No color or fluidity. She seemed stiff and uncertain. And why was she looking at her cell phone so much? Was she using someone else’s recipe?

  Then she’d verbally threatened her food. That was strange enough, but chucking it into the air and catching it as if nothing had happened? Her cheeks had flushed with embarrassment and her gorgeous honey-colored eyes had sparked with worry, and still she’d sassed him. That took balls. And wits. Two things he wanted in his chef.

  Two things that made him want to know more about her.

  He cut through the squid and garlicky butter oozed out. He popped the bite into his mouth and chewed, slowly, deliberately. She met his gaze, and in her expression, he saw hopefulness. She wanted to win this battle. Badly. A flicker of something lit up in him, too, though he wasn’t ready to name it.

  He took a bite of the linguine and the salad, making her wait for his verdict. Not because he was cruel, but because he wanted to savor this moment—his eyes locked with hers, the two of them eating together.

  “Here, you’ve got a little—” He shook out the napkin she’d folded into a flower and wiped a bit of butter off her chin.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a taste of those deep dimples. Foreplay with the chef. He liked it. So much so that he almost forgot he was judging the meal.

  “It’s good,” he said, chewing the last bite. The second squid, the misshapen one, seemed to have twice as much garlic as the first. Inconsistency was a bad sign.

  “I know.” She looked at the food on her plate and her dimples disappeared. “Good. Not magic.”

  She felt it, too. Something was missing. “I enjoyed it. Why didn’t you make your signature dish?”

  “My chicken cacciatore?”

  “Hell, yes. I had it in New York. It was seriously one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted.” If she’d made it for him, she would’ve been a shoo-in for the job and yet she went with seafood? She didn’t know how risky that was.

  “I created that dish for Alfieri’s. I won’t make it anymore.”

  “Why not? It was fantastic.”

  “I’m sorry... I just...can’t.” Her voice choked and she gulped the rest of her wine.

  Was it his imagination, or had her cheeks gone pale? Wait. Were those tears in her eyes?

  What the hell had he said?

  “Miss Cox, is there something wrong?”

  She put her glass down and looked him in the eye. “It’s nothing. Thank you for being so kind. I’m not used to it.”

  No one had ever called him kind before. “I’m honest.”

  She waved her hand over the table. “The candles? Sharing your food? Your wine? It’s a sweet thing to do when we both know I’m not getting the job.”

  That gave him pause. Why was she trying to talk herself out of the position? “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No! I desperately need...” She pressed her lips together, cutting off her thoughts. “I want to work for Harper Industries. I really do. I’m just...this is embarrassing. I didn’t cook an award-winner tonight. I’m not sure I know how to anymore.”

  He couldn’t fathom why, but his senses told him that whatever she was hiding scared her. Was she in trouble? “You’re selling yourself short.”

  “No, I’m not.” She bit her lip. Was it quivering?

  Was she that sensitive about her food? Chefs needed to be creative and strong, bold and thick-skinned. Tears in the kitchen wouldn’t work.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll clean up the dishes for the next contestant.” She reached for his plate.

  He stopped her by putting his hand on hers. “Miss Cox? What do you desperately need?”

  She froze. Her expression seemed serious and troubled as if the answer was the key to everything. “To find what I lost so I can take care of my sister.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  As he tried to decipher her words, she pulled her hand back and reoffered it as a handshake, “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Harper. I wish you luck in finding the perfect chef. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  Shaking her soft, delicate hand produced a stab of disappointment. He said nothing. He couldn’t. She had the right to walk away from the job; people walked away all the time.

  So why did it feel like she’d just quit him?

  He watched her leave and drank his wine. Alone.

  Five

  Michele berated herself all the way back to the room she shared with Lily.

  How could she have made such dumb mistakes in front of a world-renowned critic like Jeffrey Harper? One bad word from him and she would never cook again. He had the power to ruin her career for eternity.

  Well, if she didn’t ruin everything first.

  She knocked on the door and was surprised to see Lily was already in her pajamas. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

  Lily yawned. “No. I am getting ready to go to bed, though. I’m exhausted from jet lag. Aren’t you?”

  Actually, no. She was still pumped from her time with Jeffrey. A wild mix of emotions—disappointment, embarrassment and attraction—boiled in her blood. She liked Jeffrey more than she’d expected she would, which made crashing and burning in front of him even worse.

  She walked into the room and snagged her purse. “I need to make a call before bed. I’ll take my conversation somewhere else.”

  She’d promised Cari she’d read her the bedtime story every night over the phone. She would’ve done it earlier but she’d been called to the kitchen tonight instead of tomorrow. Hopefully, the assistant at the home had reminded Cari that Michele might be calling later than usual. Cari couldn’t tell time, but she’d have a sense that it was late in New York.

  “Before you go...” Lily sat on her bed. “Please tell me how your interview went. I was confused by mine.”

  “Why? What happened?” Michele came and sat on the bed, facing Lily. “Didn’t he like your cuisine?”

  “Oh, yes. He said it was excellent. The best dim sum he’d ever tasted.”

  A sharp spike of jealousy pricked Michele’s insides. Excellent. Not good.

  That proved it. Jeffrey hated her squid.

  “What’s confusing about that?” Michele asked. “Sounds like you impressed him.”

  “During my interview, Jeffrey was... I don’t want to say cold, exactly. But very businesslike, almost as if his heart wasn’t in it. He only asked me one personal question and then thanked me and left.”

  Jeffrey hadn’t been cold during her interview. Remembering the way he’d smiled at her still made Michele warm and tingly. “Didn’t he invite you to eat with him in the dining room?”

  Lily’s brown eyes widened. “No. He ate over the sink in the kitchen. Didn’t even sit down. He didn’t want me to leave until he was finished and then he excused me. He asked you to join him for dinner?”

  “Oh, well, he must’ve felt sorry for me. I really bombed my dish.”

  “Jeffrey doesn’t give me the impression that he’d feel sorry for anyone creating unsatisfactory cuisine. Incompetent service seems to really annoy him on the show.”

  Michele thought about it. Lily was right. The guy she’d watched on TV would’ve asked her to leave the moment she’d showed him the deformed squid in her palm. Alfieri would have thrown whatever was in his hand at her and ordered her out o
f his kitchen.

  More confused than before, Michele hoisted the purse with the book inside over her shoulder. “I’m going to make that call. I won’t wake you when I come in.”

  * * *

  Angel Mendoza was the only woman RW Harper loved, the only one he couldn’t keep. He poured champagne into her favorite crystal flute and seltzer into his own mug.

  He’d stopped drinking the moment she’d come into his life. He needed to be alert, awake. He needed to not slip back into that nightmarish hole she’d dragged him out of. It was as if she’d fashioned a new heart for him out of dead, tattered tissue, and was teaching it how to beat. How to feel.

  She’d come to him as a therapist, and her therapy had saved his life. Now he was doing everything possible to keep from screwing it all up. He had to make sure that she could live her life, too.

  He joined her on the balcony. “To you,” he said, handing her the flute.

  Turning her face away from the orange-pink sunset, she melted him with her deep brown eyes. Damn, Angel was gorgeous. Sundowners with her were his favorite evening ritual, one he would sorely miss if she left him.

  When she left him. Again.

  He knew they were sharing a slice of borrowed time. It had taken a lot of coaxing to bring her back two months ago, and he suspected she’d given in only to bring Cristina and her young son to Plunder Cove for protection from the gang that was hunting all three of them. Her return had nothing to do with him.

  Still, he didn’t want to let her go.

  Taking the champagne in one hand, she cupped his cheek with the other. Her hands were soft and cool. “You are an amazing man. Thank you for protecting them, RW. I don’t know what I would’ve done—” She shook her head, banishing ugly visions that he didn’t want to imagine, either. She took a sip as if to drown the quiver in her voice.

  Right. As if he could not hear her fear and pain. He was hypersensitive to all things Angel Mendoza. Right now, her breathing was too shallow, her soft cheeks pale, her sexy laugh lines drawn too tight.

  “How are our guests? Everyone settling in?” he asked, hoping to take her mind off the past that still haunted her.