Hot to the Touch

by Isabel Sharpe

  Being here in Troy’s arms, both of them sated and blissful, she could almost believe it. Almost.

  The growl of his stomach brought giggles into their afterglow and eventually got them up, dressed again and into the kitchen, where Darcy put the meal in motion.

  Everything went perfectly; the hamburgers were juicy and rich, meaty with the deep flavor of the grass-fed beef boosted with porcini powder. The cheater-fries were crisp and fragrant, the coleslaw tangy and fresh-tasting. She didn’t know when she’d gotten such pride from cooking such simple food. Maybe this would make another good summer special for the restaurant: Who Needs Fancy When There’s Delicious?

  Troy finished the last fry, swiping it in a spill of ketchup, and gave a long, satisfied sigh. “Darcy, you are a kitchen genius. I’m touched you did all this for me, especially after a long day at work.”

  “It was nothing.” She sipped beer, realizing how much her own enjoyment of the meal had come from pleasing him. Oh, Lord, she wasn’t about to get servile, was she? She wanted this new relationship to come with a guarantee the old patterns no longer applied.

  He leaned back in his chair, took a sip of beer, watching her appraisingly. “You are a genius and a romantic.”

  “Romantic?” She gave him a good frown. “What makes you think that? Because I cooked something you like? That’s my job.”

  “That, and you named your restaurant after the flower in your mother’s wedding bouquet. If you expected love always to turn to crap, you wouldn’t want to name your restaurant anything to do with disappointment and failure.”

  “Hmm.” She considered him, slowly swinging her beer back and forth. “Interesting idea.”

  “Admit it. I’ve outed you. You’re a romantic.”

  “Yeah?” Annoyance jabbed. She wasn’t wild about being told who or what she was, even though he was right.

  Wait, hadn’t she been thinking how much she treasured how easily he could read her? Why was she suddenly looking for reasons to be dissatisfied?

  Troy took her hand across the table, his beautiful, deep eyes so warm she had to look away. “Remember I said strength and integrity were most of what gladiolas stood for?” He squeezed her fingers. “But that there was something else, too?”

  “Yes.” She started feeling unaccountably nervous. “What is it?”

  “Love at first sight.” He spoke casually, but her hand jerked and she nearly dropped her beer, remembering that powerful first encounter at Esmee. Was that why he’d brought the flowers? Was he saying he was in love with her? Fear shot through her in the same intensity as hope.

  No, no, she didn’t want to be swallowed up.

  Yes, yes, she was in love with him, too.

  Help.

  “Really.” She was out of any other reaction. “Is that why you bought me glads?”

  “No.” He looked amused. She wasn’t. “Would that scare you?”

  Yes! “Why should it?”

  “Because of what happened to us at Esmee.” He held up his hands, smiling reassuringly. “Calm down. I know it’s too soon to use words that strong.”

  Calm down? Wasn’t she calm? She might not feel calm, but she hadn’t thrown any tantrums she was aware of. “Yes, it’s much too soon.”

  “But who knows?” His dark eyes crinkled into that sexy smile. “Maybe someday we’ll look back…”

  “Could be.” She fidgeted under his gaze, a mass of conflict and confusion. This was not what she wanted to be talking about. “Ready for your milkshake?”

  “I’m sorry.” He leaned across the table to kiss her. “I didn’t mean to get all intense. And yes, I am always ready for a milkshake.”

  “Good.” She shot up from the table and crossed to the freezer, feeling jumpy and prickly. Her cell rang; she glanced apologetically at Troy. “It might be the restaurant.”

  He nodded, but she felt—or thought she felt—his displeasure at the interruption. She dug her phone out of her skirt pocket and checked the display. Brit, who rarely called. “It’s my sister.”

  “It’s fine. Go ahead and take it.”

  “Right.” She hadn’t asked for permission. “Hey, what’s going on, Brit?”

  “Have you talked to Mom or Dad lately?”

  “No…” She glanced uneasily at Troy. “Why?”

  “Remember that painting Dad got after the divorce that Mom kept insisting should go to her?”

  “Yes…” Darcy put a hand to her abdomen, anticipating that she was going to feel sick in about three seconds. One…two…yup.

  “Dad got behind again on alimony and Mom went over to his place while he was at work and helped herself. He’s pressing charges.”

  “Oh, no.” Darcy groaned and dropped her head into her hand. “When are they going to grow up?”

  “You’re asking me? Rudy’s three and he has more sense than them.”

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “I’m calling Dad and persuading him to drop the charges. You call Mom and tell her to give the damn painting back. Unless you’d rather do the opposite.”

  “No.” She got up and started pacing. This was horrible. The absolute pits. And how humiliating that Troy got to witness their family’s dirty laundry in a nice big slovenly pile. “Dad deals better with you.”

  “Sad but true.” Brit gave a long sigh. “So…how is everything going?”

  Darcy laughed. “Until now?”

  “Crap, I have to go, Rudy just got up. Call Mom tomorrow, then call me, would you?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” She ended the call, smacked the phone down on the counter.

  “What’s up?” He sounded wary. She didn’t blame him.

  “My charming parents.” She yanked open the freezer, pulled out the superpremium natural vanilla and thumped it on the counter next to the blender she’d set up earlier. “Mom stole something valuable from Dad because he owes her money. He’s pressing charges. Brit wants me to call Mom and convince her to return the painting.”

  “Why is that your job?”

  She scooped up a ball of ice cream and flung it into the blender. “Someone has to rescue them from themselves.”

  “No. They own the problem.”

  Darcy turned to look at him, scoop raised in her right hand. “Excuse me?”

  “Their problem.” He set his jaw grimly, eyes hard. “Not your sister’s and not yours.”

  “Okay. But…” She felt herself getting slightly hysterical and fought to keep it under control. What the hell did he know about her family dynamic? “Don’t you think if we can keep them from making a stupid mistake, we should?”

  “No, I don’t. Not at all.” He stared straight at her, as if he were trying to change her mind with the power of his gaze. “It might sound harsh, but I’m right in this one, Darcy.”

  Of course he was. Men always were. “Thanks for your opinion.”

  He got up slowly, towering over her, and put a hand on her arm, which she immediately wanted to shake off. “If you make that call, if you involve yourself in their crap, you’ll never get out. You need to draw the line—their mess, their cleanup.”

  Nice. Very supportive. Is that how he’d be if she had a mess she needed help with? Your mess, your cleanup?

  Please, God, don’t let this relationship turn out to be typical.

  Her cell rang again. Brit? She grabbed the phone, glanced at caller ID. Gladiolas. This time she didn’t glance apologetically at Troy before she connected the call.

  “This is Darcy.”

  “Chef.” Ace sounded freaked out, even for him.

  “Ace?” She went into instant alarm. “What happened? Why are you calling?”

  “I think you’d better get over here.” His voice was low, clear and deadly serious. “Now.”

  11

  TROY DROVE HIS TOYOTA CAMRY grimly east on 94, Darcy in his passenger seat, windshield wipers attempting to compete with the downpour, his stomach pouring out acid. Darcy had insisted on going immediately to the restaurant. He
wasn’t sure what purpose he would serve. Supposedly he’d come to back her up, but he was having trouble giving his unconditional support to this fool’s errand.

  From what Troy had been able to piece together out of Darcy’s near-hysterical babble, this Raoul character, who, granted, sounded like a complete waste of oxygen, had—newsflash—been in Darcy’s office. Apparently, his cell had run out of batteries so he’d ducked in to use her phone, away from the kitchen noise, and this was somehow, in the logic of someone named “Ace,” akin to a terrorist act.

  Now they were risking a speeding ticket at close to midnight on a Saturday night when they should be in Darcy’s bed, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Because Ace had a bad feeling.

  Troy relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, telling himself to calm down. Darcy knew Ace better than Troy did. Maybe he did have bad feelings. Maybe those bad feelings were legitimate sometimes. Or all the time. Or maybe those bad feelings came because he worked a high-stress job, ate crap and smoked his brain cells into oblivion every day. Regardless, Darcy had reacted as if she’d been told a nuclear device was found at Gladiolas and only she could defuse it.

  He exited the highway, headed south on Twenty-Seventh Street to National, rain thundering on the car roof. Off they’d gone to see what Ace’s bad feeling was. Troy was coming, too, because Troy was the good guy every drama queen the world over could count on to support her while she discounted whatever he had to say.

  He navigated the mess that was National Avenue and followed Darcy’s terse directions into the alley behind Gladiolas. Before he’d put the Camry into Park, Darcy had jumped out into the cold rain more suited to March than June. Troy turned off the engine and locked the car, resisting a childish impulse to move as slowly as possible.

  Darcy wasn’t Debby. He’d made it his mantra, chanted it ceaselessly, but deep down, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe something important and threatening had happened. But when he’d suggested Darcy get more details from Ace before rushing off, she’d looked at him as if he’d suggested grilling a puppy.

  Inside, except for the drumming of rain, the restaurant kitchen was quiet and clean, food smells light and lingering. Too bad his first glimpse of the empire Darcy ruled should be when he was indulging a terrible mood. He’d much rather be here as her special guest, celebrating her achievements with her, able to admire and compliment.

  “Ace.” Darcy strode toward a kid who couldn’t be more than nineteen, with a mop of unruly red hair and freckles. He looked like the kid who played Ron in the Harry Potter movies. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Who’s he?” Ace turned his reddened narrowed eyes on Troy, whose stomach clenched, thinking of Tom. Hadn’t Ace said he’d quit?

  “Oh, sorry.” Darcy turned back absently, gestured to Troy. “This is Troy. Troy, this is Ace, my dishwasher, sometimes line cook and right-hand man.”

  Apparently, Ace had a title, and Troy didn’t. He gritted his teeth, trying to force himself to think more reasonably about all this. Darcy was upset. He should try to take her fears seriously even if he didn’t share them.

  Chilly rain dripped from his hair onto his cheek, like tears. He wiped the moisture away irritably. It was more tempting to tell Darcy to chill out, drag her home to a warm, dry bed and quiet her fears with logic and a certain technique as old as mankind.

  “Ace.” Darcy spoke sharply—Ace had been standing silent, in apparent weed-induced paralysis. “What happened?”

  He came to life with a jerk. “Oh, right. So we’re doing okay, the night is crazy. I’m working the line with Sean and Ben, we’re keeping up, but barely. Raoul comes in again, wants to chat, hey, how are we doing, how’ve we been, catch him up. Like he wouldn’t know it’s a bad time to talk?”

  Darcy shook her head, grimacing. “Of course he would.”

  “Now, standing here with you, chef, I’m thinking he wanted to come back while we were distracted, but at the time it didn’t register.”

  “Of course not. You were all busy.” She spoke to him as if he were a favorite pupil, making Troy mumble words no school kid should hear.

  “So he says he has to make a call but his phone is dead. Sean just wants to get rid of the guy, orders are coming in like crazy, the waitresses are pissy that some plates are delayed.” He looked anxiously at Darcy. “Not that it was so bad. No complaints from the customers. In fact, big tips. I think everyone had a really great time. The bride and groom came back after and—”

  “Ace, tell the story.”

  “Right, sorry.” Ace held up his hands. “Sean gestures Raoul back into your office to use your phone. When he comes out I realize we don’t know how long he was in there. We’re all in the zone.”

  The reefer zone?

  Darcy gave Ace a don’t-bullshit-me look, arms folded. “Were you smoking?”

  “Not while I was on the line,” Ace said proudly.

  Darcy nodded approvingly. Apparently, a few hours off was a major accomplishment. “Then what?”

  “Then nothing.” Ace scratched the side of his head. “He leaves. We finish the shift. When things calm down and I’m closing up, I remember he was in your office and I go in. Right away I’m getting the vibe that something isn’t right. Something bad is going on.”

  Darcy appeared to be holding her breath. Troy wiped another drip off his face. He could not believe Darcy was so enthralled with this stoner kid’s big moment in the sun. Everything they’d heard so far could have waited until morning. Or afternoon. Or next week.

  “What do you think happened?” Darcy asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know. But I’m telling you, he did something in there.”

  Troy wanted to laugh. “Like maybe make his phone call and come back out?”

  “No.” Ace shook his shaggy head. “Something else. I didn’t notice anything out of place, but there was bad intent in there.”

  “Bad intent? That’s all you’ve got?” Troy wanted to cry this time. “No evidence? Not even a strong suspicion?”

  “You don’t know Raoul.” Darcy glared at Troy, who couldn’t believe she was eating this up like a new dessert menu. Bad intent?

  “Do you think he got into my computer, Ace? Could he have gotten the password?”

  “I don’t know.” Ace’s face was funereal. “I didn’t touch anything. I called you right away.”

  Darcy rushed to the door of her office, Ace on her heels. Troy followed and parked himself outside the tiny space, leaning against the metal counter. He had a full view of the interior from here; inside, he’d only be in the way.

  A minute or two ticked by while Darcy and Ace left no speck of dust unturned. Troy crossed his arms and legs, feeling more and more annoyed. His mantra was threatening to change, from Darcy wasn’t Debby to Yes, she was. From everything Troy could see, history was repeating itself.

  “The place looks fine. The backup flash drive is still where I hid it. Nothing seems disturbed. I can’t tell if he got into the computer, though. I should think it would take time.”

  “This is what’s driving me crazy,” Ace said. “He could have been in here ten minutes or twenty or forty. You know what its like on the line. It’s crazy at times.”

  “Does anyone know the password but you?” Troy asked.

  Darcy bit her lip. “I had the file protected on the computer, but not the flash drive.”

  Troy bit back as much exasperation as he could. “Which wasn’t disturbed. Is the password something this guy could guess?”

  “No.” She was emphatic. “And I change it regularly.”

  “Does anyone else know it?”

  “Sean. He needs to know it in case I’m not around.”

  “Would he have anything to gain by passing it along?”

  “No. And I trust him.”

  “So…” He was trying desperately to lead her to the obvious conclusion: Nothing happened. Instead, she whirled away from him and faced Ace.

  “How can we find out how long he
was in there? Can we ask one of the waitresses?” Her voice was getting higher, more anxious. “Maybe Josie or Alice noticed how long he was gone from the party. We should call them now.”

  Troy stared at her, feeling as if he was in déjà vu hell. “It’s after midnight.”

  Darcy gave him a look that plainly said he wasn’t getting that the lives of every man, woman and child in the state of Wisconsin—no, the entire country, were at stake. “This is important, Troy.”

  Oh, if he had a dime for every time he’d heard that one…

  “I think anyone you called would be more cooperative if you waited until morning. I know I would be.”

  Darcy narrowed her eyes, jammed her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, is my livelihood being threatened an annoyance to you?”

  Troy glanced at Ace. He didn’t want to get into it with witnesses, but her sarcasm set him off. “Not at all. With this complete lack of evidence I don’t blame you for panicking.”

  She took three steps, bringing her out of her office to face him toe to toe. “I told you, Raoul is a creep. I don’t trust him with anything. It was a huge mistake being at all pleasant to him, and now I might have to pay for that.”

  “Okay.” Troy pushed away from the counter, folded his arms. “Say he did take them. Then what?”

  “He has my recipes and can serves my dishes, or variations of them, at his restaurant.”

  “And?”

  She laughed incredulously. “He doesn’t deserve them. They’re mine.”

  “Agreed. What’s the alternative? No one saw him. Nothing was disturbed. Will you call and ask if he took them? I’m pretty sure he’ll say no. Then what? Search his restaurant? Illegal. Tattle to the newspaper? He’ll spin it that you’re jealous and making up lies to discredit him.”

  Darcy looked as if she were about to cry. “He can’t get away with this.”

  “Get away with what?” He lifted his hands, let them slap down on his thighs. “We know nothing. We’ve proved nothing. We can’t even come up with a legitimate reason to suspect anything. There is nothing we can do, especially tonight. Let’s go home and go to bed for God’s sake.”