“Oh, get over it.” She gave him that maddening smile, tasted her cup, and added another drop or two for good measure. “There. I might as well make it worth your time in the stony lonesome, Sherlock.”
“The what?”
She took another delicate sip. “The pokey, hoosegow, the big house.” She put her cup down with Southern belle precision. “For manslaughter,” she said. “You get the picture.”
Jericho’s smirk increased the acid building in Jordan’s stomach. “The blog Ethridge wrote about the two of you is pretty damning. Don’t worry, even I figured out it was standard operating procedure for Ethridge to butcher the competition.”
Heat rose up Jordan’s neck, it raced over his face. Anger over Ethridge’s vile words still burned in his gut worse than the coffee. “He was a bastard, through and through. A vicious, egotistical shit. He loved to tear people’s careers apart with a few verbal jabs. It was a blood sport to him.”
“Some people might say he deserved what he got.” Jericho gave him that hard stare.
“They’d be right.”
Tilly set her coffee down with a huff of annoyance. “At least he didn’t call you a short, fat cow.”
Jericho cut Jordan off at the knees before he could come to her defense. “I’d go with voluptuous.”
Damn heroics.
Jordan didn’t like the way the sparkle left her eyes or the way the late critic’s nastiness still hurt her from the grave, or in this case, the morgue. “Don’t give him the power to upset you. He’s gone.” He’d rather she blast away at him than let Ethridge get under her skin and mess with her mind. “And face it, Matilda. You are short.” He leaned back in his chair. He waited for her to take a verbal blowtorch to him until he was as crunchy as the topping on a good crème brûlée. “And you’re rounded, but it grows on a person.” There, that ought to set her off.
Nothing happened. She sat there, staring down into her lap. He didn’t like the sense of dread creeping up his spine. The stress threatened to burn a hole in his gut. “You’re fine the way you are, Matilda.”
“Tell that to my thighs.” She wiped her lips with her napkin and threw it down next to her empty cup. “My name is Tilly. I already told you once to cut it out. If you so much as mention the M word in my presence, or in print, I’ll turn you into a capon.”
“Capon?” Jericho frowned.
“A castrated rooster,” she informed him without thinking about what she’d said. A pretty shade of pink flushed her cheeks the minute she realized her gaffe.
The detective’s eyes went round.
Jordan raised an eyebrow and nodded in his direction. “Is that the wisest thing to say given the—ah—situation?”
Her eyes burned laser bright until Jordan was sure there was a hole blown out the back of his skull and the paneling had caught fire.
There, that was more like it. Relief chilled down the acid burning in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head, but he couldn’t help the smile. “Don’t get any ideas.”
The detective’s phone rang. He snatched it from inside his jacket. “Jericho here.” His face hardened, the muscle in his jaw bunched tight. “It’s a positive ID?”
He ended the call and stood. “What can you tell me about Olivia Vargas?”
She shrugged. “She’s pretty much up-front. What you see is what you get. We talked on the elevator after she’d been bumped from the contest. It broke my heart to watch her.”
“What do you mean?” The detective smelled blood. Jordan could see it there in the back of his frosty eyes.
“She’s a lot like I used to be—a single mom in a bad economy, with loans to pay off.”
“Vargas had an axe to grind with Ethridge.” She gave Jordan a nudge in the side with her elbow and a glare that could sear a steak at fifty paces. “But so did all the contestants. Barrow’s scores were almost as low as hers, and Ethridge ripped into him pretty good.”
“You still want to help?” He pulled a few bills from his wallet and laid it next to his cup.
“I’ll ask my captain. This might take more expertise than we have.”
“What do you mean?” Jordan hadn’t expected the other man to go along with Tilly’s idea, regardless of what The Culinary Channel wanted. He’d only used it as a ruse to interrupt the coffee date.
“Do you know who handled the containers prior to the show?”
“Miranda set up the ingredients right after last night’s show. I saw her wheel in the containers.” Tilly frowned. “It was around nine. I’d left the Bluetooth to my phone at the table and came back to get it. We talked a few minutes while she put the containers away and locked the refrigerators.”
“Does anyone else have the keys?”
“I don’t think so.” She glanced at Jordan for confirmation.
“Not that I know of,” he replied.
“Someone managed to open Bolzano’s.” The detective rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “The only fingerprints on Bolzano’s container besides his were Miranda Franklin’s and Olivia Vargas’s.”
Chapter Five
Tilly watched Jericho leave the dining room for the main convention floor of the hotel. She’d stake her new Caramel Macchiato Pecan Trifle recipe that Olivia was innocent. The woman could cook, in spite of what the men on the judges’ panel thought. Her serving of pork chop had been juicy and perfect; the sweet and hot of the salsa sang in her mouth.
“There has to be a good explanation why Olivia’s fingerprints were on the container.”
“Ethridge slept with her.”
“What?” She whirled to face Jordan. His off-the-cuff remark hit with the accuracy of a smart bomb. Shock and awe. “How do you know that? Did you tell the police?”
He cast her a sidelong glance and grimaced. “He bragged about it in the greenroom, right before you and Tom showed up for the first leg of the contest. He assured me it wouldn’t influence his vote, but laughed and said she didn’t have to know that. It slipped my mind.”
“How does something like that ‘slip your mind’?” She found it hard to believe. “He was on the exotic spice panel with you in the mornin’ and we all shared a table at luncheon. That only leaves a half hour before the competition. When did they have time?”
“Ever heard of a quickie?”
She snorted. “Jake didn’t know how to do anything but quickies.”
“That’s a sad, sad statement.” He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest in his patented “super chef” pose. “I’m all for slow heat myself. Add a bit of spice, and you’ve got yourself something special.” His eyes roamed over her face, taking in her overripe curves until she sizzled in her sneakers.
“Are we talkin’ cookin’ or knockin’ boots?”
He blinked at her straightforward question. Maybe his other women liked this sort of sexual repartee, however, she had no interest in taking part in his little games.
“I think we were talking about Vargas.”
“Why didn’t you report it to the contest committee?” It outraged her to realize the men had stuck together in the sordid sexual conspiracy. “She should’ve been disqualified.” Olivia had broken the rules of the contest, but Tilly could understand her desperation, the need to win. It didn’t excuse her. Neither did it excuse the men. The whole thing irked her.
“She lost anyway, so I didn’t think it was germane. It would’ve only dragged her name in the mud. I know she has two kids.” A flush of red colored his olive skin. At least he had the decency to feel shame over his part in keeping things quiet, even if it was a bit late in the game. “They didn’t need to hear something like that about their mother.”
“I can’t think.” Her head began to pound. “I need to mull it around until I can make sense of it. Maybe I’ll go to my room and rest.” She scratched her head and gave it a little shake. Her telephone rang and she snatched it out of her pocket. “Tilly Danes.”
Greg Hirschberg’s voice rasped in her ear. “Kelly tell y
ou about his idea? I just got word from the commissioner of the KCPD that we can begin filming the project.”
“Yes, he did.” She put her hand over the microphone and mouthed, “It’s Hirschberg.” He averted his eyes and swore under his breath. “I never agreed to the project.” She cast him a dirty look.
“I thought it was a great concept. Can’t you see it?”
What Tilly could see was their boss pacing around in his big office, full of himself, and waving his arms around as he tried to explain the big picture to her. He was in for a big shock. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Exactly that. N.O..”
“Listen cupcake.” His rasp turned into a growl. “We have a contract that says you work for me. I own you. Get used to it.”
Tom was right. The guy was a shark—mindless, heartless, and nothing more than a killing machine. She planned to have her brother-in-law look over her contract. Harvard cost a small fortune, and she hadn’t paid off his student loans for nothing. It was time for good ol’ Stevo to earn his keep.
“We threw around the idea of helping Detective Jericho, but—”
“According to the talk I had with the commissioner, whose wife is an ardent fan of your show, he’s more than willing to let you work on the investigation. Of course we will be donating some new equipment for the CSI department.”
Her heart sank. She knew exactly where the conversation was going. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to do it. I have to be in Philadelphia on Tuesday.”
“My personal assistant has rescheduled your book signing for two weeks from now. This is more important.” Hirschberg didn’t give her a chance to argue. “Kelly’s idea is great. Can you imagine what it will do for ratings? We’ll be sure to do an entire feature on the two of you helping to solve the murder.” He stopped just long enough to breathe and hurried on. “Of course it will be done in good taste—as a memorial to Max.”
She glared at Jordan, who took a sudden interest in the arrangement of his place setting at the table. “Of course.” It was difficult to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. He had more or less told her that the idea was a complete stinker, and now he planned to cash in on it, along with The Culinary Channel.
“Let me know when the police have something solid. I’ll keep Miranda and Nick there to film.”
She narrowed her eyes. The rat sat there looking as innocent as a big-eyed harp seal pup. “Okay, but I can’t guarantee they’ll allow a cameraman to follow us around.” One way or another she’d find a way to put the kibosh on the project, especially if it meant greasing the skids from under her remaining nemesis.
“That’s my problem. You two stay put until I tell you to leave.”
“But—”
Hirschberg cut the connection. Obviously, her boss didn’t want to hear any of her objections, not when he could be chasing dollar bills to his heart’s content.
She stabbed the icon to turn off her phone, wishing it were her boss’s eyes she poked.
“It looks like we’ll be stuck in Kansas City for a bit longer than planned.” She swiveled to face Jordan. “What were you thinkin’? Or did you even bother to think?”
“You’re the one who mentioned helping the police. The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. It’s perfect. We both like crime.” He pointed at her. “You watch all the technical stuff, I know the criminal mind.”
“So the NYPD whips out the old phone book and begs you to come to their rescue whenever there’s a case they can’t solve?”
He frowned. “Don’t be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.”
“How do you know what does or doesn’t suit me? You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re a pain in the ass.” The Jordan Kelly she recognized, and didn’t much care for, roared to life.
A red haze filmed her vision. No matter how gorgeous he might be, right now, he looked like the Prince of Lies, the Devil Incarnate, and an asshole all rolled into one. “And the sun shines out of yours?”
“Calm down.” He took her arm and led her out of the restaurant. “You’re close to making a scene,” he snarled into her ear, hurrying her past a few people loitering around the restaurant door. “That’s the last thing we need. Reporters will eat it up with a spoon.”
“I don’t care.” She jerked away and walked as fast as she could until she was a good ten feet ahead of him. She’d reached the end of her endurance and wanted nothing more to do with death or Jordan Kelly.
“Whoa, hold up.”
“I’d rather be stuck in Possum Trot, Tennessee than here with you. Believe me, what Possum Trot lacks in excitement, it makes up for in boredom.”
“Possum Trot?” A laugh erupted from him. Several hotel guests turned to gawk at them. “Seriously?” He snickered. “Possum Trot?”
She waved at him to shush. “Be quiet. It’s not funny. Kansas City used to be named Possum Trot, too.”
“You’re kidding.” His chuckle sounded incredulous and amused at the same time.
“About what? Kansas City, or my hometown?”
“Both.”
“God’s own truth.” She held up her hand as if she were taking an oath in court. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
“Your bio says Lewistown.” The challenge in his voice would normally set her off, but she was in no mood to fight with him.
“Ruby’s restaurant is in Possum Trot. She taught me everything I know about cookin’, but I had to learn to stand on my own. I opened the first Tilly’s Table in Lewistown.” Fatigue bore down on her; the events of the day added to the overpowering heaviness in her heart. She gave him a halfhearted smile. “Who would’ve ever thought a strawberry-rhubarb pie would get me on national television and in the middle of a murder case?”
“I’m sure Hirschberg will let us know what he wants us to do next.” A frown drew his black brows together. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his watch. “It’s getting late. I need to make some calls to the executive chefs in my restaurants and check up on things.”
“That makes two of us. I’m havin’ some renovations done to my restaurants. There’s a dispute goin’ on between the contractor and the architect about lightin’. They better not get sassy with me, or I may have to knock some heads together.”
They walked together toward the elevators. The crowd from the convention made the wait to get a car feel like a lifetime, and each minute extended into an eternity with more eager convention goers asking for autographs.
One of the chefs handed Tilly a copy of her book. “I would’ve killed the dude if he’d said the same thing about me.”
“I didn’t kill him.” She scrawled her signature across the inside page of the book and handed it back. “Seein’ him dead was bad enough.”
She should’ve kept her mouth shut. The comment invited excited questions and chatter from the crowd, their bodies pressing closer and closer. Once the elevator doors opened, Jordan rushed her inside. He placed her against the back wall and stood between her and the people who squeezed inside.
The air was stifling. Her heart sped up with each stale breath. The panic she’d felt earlier in the evening came back a hundredfold. Never once in her life had she had a bout of claustrophobia. Cold sweat beaded her forehead. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she tried to stay calm. It was a bad time to learn she had a fear of tight spaces.
She focused on the numbers above the elevator door. One by one they climbed higher, closer to her suite and freedom. She was practically panting by the time Jordan pushed her out the door onto her floor.
“Are you okay?”
She would have laughed at his obvious question if the world hadn’t turned gray and tilted in a most unusual way. He scooped her into his arms.
“Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit.” His muttered curses filtered through the fog clouding her mind. He might be Satan himself, but she found the strength in his arms surprisingly comforting. It added to
the floating feeling and giddiness swirling inside her head.
He smelled of woods and spice. She buried her nose in the crook of his neck and caught the enticing, warm scent of his skin. Her heart raced, but this time she craved the closeness. Fantasies of him, stark naked and carrying her off to bed, stole her breath.
She did the one thing she hadn’t done since she was thirteen and had her first crush on a boy. No-nonsense Tilly Danes giggled like a little girl.
“What’s so funny?” He frowned down at her. He hefted her a little bit higher and gave a small grunt as he walked toward her room. “You may be petite, but I swear you have a ton of lead in your butt.” He took a few more steps. “This looks a lot easier in the movies.”
Her romantic bubble burst with a loud pop.
She wriggled in his arms. “Your bedside manner sucks.” His remark about her butt had hit home. “Anyone ever tell you that?” She wanted to prove she could walk on her own, but her weak attempt to push away failed.
He tightened his grip and gave her the tiniest of shakes. “I haven’t had any complaints so far.” His dark eyes bored into hers, so intense and unrelenting that she gave up the struggle for freedom. “So simmer down. I’m taking you to your suite.”
“Let me go.” She gave him another weak thump on the shoulder in protest. “I’m all right now.”
His voice softened, as did his eyes. “I’d believe it if it weren’t for your wonderfully pasty complexion.”
“You’re just loaded with compliments tonight, aren’t you?”
“Truth hurts, Matilda.”
“It’s Tilly!”
His mouth quirked to one side. “I thought that would put a little color back in your cheeks.” He stopped at the front of the door to her suite. “Where’s your key card?”
“In my front pants pocket.”
“Promising.” He hefted her closer to his chest, his arms tightened around her as he slid his hands over her hips to find her pocket.
Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense) Page 6
