“Do you mean my guests, or Jeffrey’s?”
“I assume Jeffrey is getting acquainted with the chefs we located for him. Quite an amazing amount of talent out there. I have no idea how he’ll choose one. Maybe he’ll marry one, too.”
Cool ocean breezes blew over the edge of the balcony. Angel wiggled under his arm for warmth. He loved when she did that. He pulled her in tight and hung on.
It might be the last time he touched her.
“Are you sure that’s his intent? Maybe he simply wants the best chef for the restaurant.”
RW inhaled, breathing in her scent. “How would I know? The boy has no bridal prospects in mind and always loved the kitchen. Can’t tell you how many times I found him asleep in there as a child and had to carry him back to his bedroom. It makes sense he would marry a chef.” RW didn’t mention how much the staff had taken care of Jeffrey when his own mother wouldn’t.
“You’re still going to force him to marry?”
“That was the deal,” he said firmly. “He needs to change his ways. Repairing his reputation is the only way I can save him from Xander Finn. Jeff knows it, too.”
“Well, if that’s the case, Jeff simply needs to let himself feel which chef is the right fit...for whatever he is planning,” she said. “He should follow his heart.”
“It took me four decades to locate that organ in my chest. What makes you think he’ll find his and trust it in a few weeks?”
She smiled up at him. “Because we’ll help him.”
He doubted Jeffrey would listen to his old man when it came to affairs of the heart—not after RW had so badly botched things with Jeffrey’s mother—but Angel was a force to be reckoned with. She was the only reason RW had learned to get in tune with his own emotions. Lately, she had been trying to teach him how to forgive himself for all the sins of his past.
He rubbed her arm, to warm her, yes, but mostly to touch her. He touched her every chance he could get.
“How about your friends? Are they comfortable?”
“From the dirty streets to Casa Larga is a mind-blowing trip. Cristina is still jumping at every shadow. It’s hard for her to believe that she’s safe here,” she said.
Twenty years ago, Cristina had joined the gang because she was a young, filthy and hungry runaway. Angel, who had been a teenager herself, had looked out for the girl until Angel left the gang, in fear for her life. She’d begged Cristina to go with her but the young woman was too scared. Leaving Cristina behind had been tough. So, when Cristina called three months ago, Angel did not hesitate. She’d rescued the young woman and her four-year-old son and now she was doing everything she could to keep them both hidden and safe. If the gang found them, they would find Angel and her family.
Angel would not let that happen.
“Cristina and her son are safe. You’ve got to trust me.” He spun her around to face him. “I won’t let Cuchillo find her or you. I’m going to break that bastard.”
Angel swallowed hard. “I know.” There it was again. The worry in her voice was killing him.
He pulled her back into his arms, shielding her, hoping to prove that he would always protect her. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with his therapist—she’d made the rules clear from the start—but that new heart she’d given him? It felt things it shouldn’t.
Even if she left, when she left, he’d still feel those things. He didn’t have a choice in the matter.
After a long silent moment, he asked, “What about the little boy? Is he scared, too?”
“Sebastian is four years old and confused. Living with the gang is all he has ever known. He doesn’t understand why we brought him here. He’s too little to know we saved his life. He’s throwing a fit to go back home and is driving Cristina crazy when she’s already on edge.” Angel let out a deep breath. “It’s going to take some time.”
“What can I do to make him happy? Can I give him something?”
“Hmm. Stock options are out of the question, but...” She lifted her finger. “I might know a way to help both him and Jeffrey.”
He lifted his eyebrow. “This I’ve got to see.”
She picked up her cell phone. “Hi, Jeffrey, it’s Angel.”
“Hey, Angel. What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” RW heard his son’s voice through the receiver.
“I was wondering if you could ask one of your chef friends for a favor?” she said.
“A favor?”
“Our little guest is sad. A grilled cheese sandwich might perk him up. Since the regular kitchen staff is on vacation while you’re running the cooking competition, I was hoping you could get one of the chefs to help me out.”
“Any particular chef?” Jeff asked.
“It doesn’t matter, just pick a nice one.”
“A nice one? What does that—”
“Thanks, Jeffrey. Appreciate it,” Angel interrupted him. “Gotta go.” She hung up.
Angel smiled at RW. “Let’s see who he chooses to help that little boy. That will be the one closest to his heart.”
“Devious.” RW kissed the top of her head. “I like it.”
* * *
Michele sat on a bar stool and stood the picture book up on the island she’d recently used to stuff her career-ending squid. The kitchen was one of the only rooms she knew how to find in this gigantic house without a map. Besides, it was quiet and warm and just as clean as she’d left it. Apparently, she’d been the last contestant to cook tonight.
She spoke softly into her cell phone. “You’re still awake. Don’t you know all cowgirls need their sleep?”
“Can’t sleep good without my story,” Cari whined. “Why were you so slow?”
“I’m working, remember?” At least, I was. “Are you tucked into bed?”
“Yepee.”
Imagining her sister burrowed under the covers with a plastic pony in each hand warmed her heart. “Okay, then. Let’s find out what that Rosie is up to tonight...”
* * *
Jeff ran his hand through his hair. “Pick a nice one?” he grumbled. Why did it matter? Any line cook or fry guy could make a grilled cheese sandwich.
Hell, I could do it.
That idea sounded more appealing than approaching six women and grabbing one for Angel’s job. No wait, there were only five now since Miss Cox had bailed. He didn’t know the first two chefs very well, and they were on their way out. He had yet to meet the last three. How could he possibly pick a nice one out of the bunch?
No, it was less stress to do it himself. I’ll show you grilled cheese, little man.
He headed into the kitchen, but stopped short two strides in. Someone was sleeping with her head on the kitchen island. Long, blond hair draped over a thin arm that held...what? He leaned closer to see. A picture book?
That hair looked so damned soft. He lifted it off her face and whispered the one name he’d been thinking about all day, “Miss Cox.”
Michele jerked up, her eyes wild with fear. “Cari!”
“It’s Jeff. You’re safe here.” When he realized his hand hovered over her back, itching to comfort her—to touch her—he stepped back.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Was your bed not to your liking?”
Awareness came into her face. She rubbed that pretty mouth of hers and sat up. “Sorry. I had to make a phone call and didn’t want to disturb my roommate. It’s so warm and comfortable in here, I guess I fell asleep.” She pushed her hair back, inadvertently making it stick up on one side.
Damn, she looked adorable.
He took his hands out of his pockets and sat on the bar stool beside her. “I used to do that all the time as a kid. When my parents were fighting, this was the best place in the house to get any sleep.”
She faced him. “Your parents argued a lot?”
“Only every day
and twice on Sunday. I grew up thinking all parents hated each other and cursed the day they had kids.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”
People didn’t usually say nice things to him unless they wanted something, like a job or a good critique. None of that was the case with Miss Cox. She’d quit.
And she was different. Warm. He didn’t talk about his past, but something inside him slipped when her honey eyes dripped with concern.
“My brother, Matt, took the brunt of Dad’s fury. It was bad. But Matt was tough and took the mental and physical abuse. Sometimes I envied him because Dad at least noticed him. I was the little redheaded kid everyone ignored. Forgot. I broke the rules and threw balls in the house in the off-limits areas in the hopes of breaking something just so someone would remember I existed. God, I broke Mom’s Ming.” He threw up his hands. Knowing about rare Chinese ceramics now, he wanted to punch himself in the nose for that stupid trick. “Who got punished for the vase destruction? Matt. He lied to protect me.” His hands were shaking. He ran them through his hair. “Why did I tell you all of that?”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone. I signed a nondisclosure agreement, remember?” And then she smiled.
Those dimples did it. He took her hand in his. Gently, he placed a kiss on her knuckle. “Thank you.”
Her mouth opened in surprise and he released her hand.
“Um. Why did you come in here, Mr. Harper? Are you hungry already?”
“Jeff, please. You know my ugly secrets.”
“Only if you call me Michele.”
Michele. His mind rolled her first name around like a shiny toy.
“So? Fess up. You hid the squid under your napkin and now you’re starving.”
He laughed. “Why won’t you believe me? I told you I liked the squid. Ate every last crumb of your meal, Miss, um, Michele. I’m only here to make a grilled cheese sandwich for a friend.”
“For a friend, huh?” She acted like she didn’t believe him.
“Yep. He loves grilled cheese.” That’s all he would say.
Only a few people knew about the mother and child hiding here at Casa Larga and Jeff intended to keep the secret. Hell, everyone in Plunder Cove could be at risk if someone leaked the news. And then he remembered Angel’s request to find a nice chef to make the sandwich.
“Would you consider making it for him?” he asked.
“Of course.” She rose. “Maybe I’ll recover a little dignity after the flying squid debacle. Call it my finale. What do you want—the kid or adult version?”
When she stepped away from him, coldness rushed in like a wave. It was a weird sensation that reminded him of the time when he was ten and he and Matt had raced out to the buoy in the boating lane. Ocean temps were incredibly cold that day and it was a dumb idea to swim out, but a challenge was a challenge. Jeff never backed down.
With Matt far ahead, hypothermia had set in and Jeff’s arms and legs didn’t want to work right. He’d treaded water, gasping for air, as wave after wave dragged him under. The buoy he was desperate to cling to moved farther away. Matt had saved him that day, dragging Jeff back to shore as a lifeguard would. But it had taken days to really warm up. When he was low, part of him felt like a layer of frostbite was still stuck to his bones.
But not now.
Michele embodied warmth. How else could he explain it? Sitting beside her heated his blood. His cells, one after another, thawed. It was irrational and damned stupid, especially since she’d already quit on him, but one idea kept washing over him. Dragging him under.
She needs to stay.
Six
Jeffrey Harper really got to her.
Sure, he was as sexy as the day was long, and smart, and confident and...did she say sexy? But he was also sensitive. That story about his childhood made her heart hurt. She couldn’t imagine breaking valuable artifacts just so her mom would notice her. Not that they’d had any valuable objects in her childhood home. They’d had bills. Lots of them. Mom’s cancer medicines and Cari’s special schools came first. She hadn’t had a father for most of her life so there was no use waiting for a man to show up and save the day. If Michele wanted anything for herself, she’d worked for the money.
Making a sandwich for Jeff was a nice thing she could do before she went home. It was her way of saying thanks. It had nothing to do with wanting to hang out with Jeffrey Harper a bit longer. Nothing at all.
He followed her to the pantry, closing the gap between them again. Her insides took notice of the heat coming from him. Or was that coming from her? She always felt hot near the man. There was a slight curve to his lips. Most women would have to rise up on their tippy-toes to kiss that mouth.
“What’s the difference?” he asked about the grilled cheese sandwiches.
“For children, I go with the sweet grilled cheese. For a guy like you...” The humor in his starburst blue eyes made her reckless. What did she have to lose? “I’d go with heat. Roasted peppers. Habaneros, maybe.”
“A guy like me?”
She tapped his chest. “A spicy guy like you could take it.”
His gaze followed her finger and then slowly rose up to meet her eyes. She saw what she’d done. She’d flipped a switch. The playfulness in his expression had become dangerously intense.
She had no business stoking his fire, so why did part of her really want to?
“I can go with sweet.” The way he said it, deep and low, like she could be on the menu, made her throat dry.
“One of each?”
He nodded, crossed his arms over that broad chest of his and leaned against the counter.
“Okay, but you’re going to want to step back. The fumes will make your eyes water,” she warned.
“Then you’d better wear these.” He put a pair of mirrored navigation sunglasses on her and combed her hair back from her face with his long fingers. She stood very still and enjoyed the sensation. She’d missed feeling wanted, desired. Something about Jeffrey Harper brought out those needs. She supposed she wasn’t any different from the rest of the women in America who lusted after Jeffrey Harper.
“Now you’re ready to fly,” he said, breaking the moment.
She saluted him and began roasting the peppers in a little bit of olive oil. It only took a few minutes for the fumes to make her cough.
He reached over her and turned on the fan. “Better?”
“Much. Thanks.” And, yes, I was just imagining your arm around me.
When the peppers were nicely blackened, she took them out of the pan and put them on a plate to cool, leaving the pepper-oil in the pan. She cut a thin slice from the pepper and minced it finely. She mixed it and raspberry jelly into the pepper-oil and spread the spicy mix on two slices of focaccia bread.
“What about the rest of the habaneros?” he asked. “Aren’t they going between the slices of bread?”
“Do you have a death wish? They’d blow your head off in this sandwich. Save them for another day.”
“You said I was spicy enough to take it.”
She blushed. “No one’s that spicy. Those things are wicked. This tiny slice and the spicy oil will give the right amount of kick. I promise.”
She spread cream cheese on the bread and grilled the whole sandwich in a mixture of olive oil, garlic salt and rosemary.
“Looks great. Can I eat it now?” he asked.
She nodded and took the glasses off.
He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. When his eyes rolled toward the ceiling fan, she knew she’d done her job right. It gave her a zing of pleasure, something she hadn’t felt in months.
“That’s the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever tasted.” Two seconds later, he went in search of water. “Spicy.”
“Told you.”
He took another bite. The sounds he ma
de while he ate could have come from an X-rated movie. Wickedly, she wondered what sounds he’d made in the filming of the elevator video.
“I’ll leave you to enjoy it.” She made the second sandwich with mild cheddar cheese, grape jelly and plain white bread. He watched her every move.
“My sister loves this sandwich. Sans the crust of course.” Carefully, she sliced off the edges.
“She’s the one you were reading to. Cari, is it?”
Michele nearly cut her finger. “Yes. How did you know?”
“You said her name in your sleep.”
“Huh.”
He leaned over and pointed at the bread. “You missed a spot.”
“Sometimes I leave a spot, you know for the pain-in-the-neck critic.” She smiled at him.
“Great. Thanks. Go on.”
“You don’t take an exception to my description?”
“Nope. Entirely accurate.”
She shook her head, smiling. Who knew making sandwiches could be so much fun? It had been weeks since she’d been this comfortable in a kitchen. It felt good. Right.
“Now for every kid’s favorite. You’d better come a little closer. This is the tricky part.”
“An apple?” He put his hand on her shoulder, as he leaned in. His breath lifted the hair on her neck, sending a shiver up her spine. Her core heated up shamelessly.
“You see an apple? I see a jolly red apple man.” She picked up a knife.
Out of nowhere, uncertainty struck again. You’re going to mess this up in front of him. You can’t cook anymore. Not without me. Alfieri’s voice was back. Her hand shook just a bit when she held the knife above the apple.
“Michele.” Jeff’s voice drew her gaze to him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m a mess.” She put the knife down. “I shouldn’t have applied for this job. You don’t want me for your chef.”
She turned away so she wouldn’t witness the disgust on his face. Or whatever his reaction would be to her admission. Jeffrey Harper was not the kind of man who put up with weakness or failure.
A Convenient Scandal Page 5
