Hot Under Pressure (19 page)

It was a purely emotional response, nothing rational about it. Rationally, they both knew they weren’t related to the Lunden family, by blood or any other bond, but still, it sucked to be the odd men out.

So what? This was hardly the first time he’d been on the outside looking in, and as he knew from experience, life went on. You either went along with it, or you collapsed under the weight of your own self-pity.

Drawing himself up, Beck stood tall.

He clapped a hand on his sous-chef’s shoulder and ignored the swoop in his stomach as the elevator carried them toward their destiny. Beside him, Win straightened his spine and tilted his chin, the light of battle brightening his green eyes.

Beck regulated his breathing and his mind, forcing his thoughts away from the Lundens, Gus’s heart, the bet with Skye, Skye’s skin in the moonlight … there was nothing but the contest now. The challenge. The fight.

And they were going to win, or die trying.

*   *   *

Skye was starting to wonder if the East Coast team planned to just concede the fight.

First Eva Jansen had arrived in the competition kitchen, her phone pressed to her ear and a very worried look on her lovely, fine-boned face. Then she’d had that frantic whispered conversation with her assistant, the skinny emo boy with the black-framed hipster glasses and the messy hair, and the assistant had started talking a mile a minute on
his
phone while Eva paced back and forth at the front of the kitchen.

“What do you think is going on?” Skye poked at Fiona, who was busily engaged in yet another bicker-fest with Rex. Honestly, the sexual tension there was so thick, it was starting to clog Skye’s pores.

Fiona managed to tear herself away from trying to capture the much-taller Rex in a headlock just long enough to shrug. “Who knows? We were early getting down here, but it must be about time for things to get started.”

Skye hated waiting. It made everything worse, and she was jittery enough already, her stomach roiling with guilt and nerves, and her mind cluttered with images of the night before. And her body … she suppressed a shiver. Just thinking about last night sent an unwelcome jolt of sweetness through her veins.

As if her memories had conjured him up, the kitchen doors swung open and Henry Beck stalked into the room, with the East Coast team’s sous-chef close on his heels.

The double doors swung on their hinges behind him, closing with a muffled bang.

Where was the rest of his team?

Skye’s gaze shot to Eva Jansen, who didn’t look surprised or bewildered in the least as she tilted her head to send Beck and Winslow to their places. If Eva looked anything at all, it was sympathetic—and Skye’s belly did a sickening flip.

She knew. On some level, somehow, she knew what Eva was going to say before she opened her glossy lips.

“There’s been a change to the roster for the final challenge,” Eva announced calmly. “Due to a family emergency, Max and Danny Lunden have had to return to New York, and Jules Cavanaugh has gone with them. In their place, Chef Henry Beck will take the lead for the East Coast team. Winslow Jones will assist. Thank you.”

And with that, Eva sauntered over to confer with the judges, as calm as if she hadn’t just rocked the foundations of Skye’s already shaky confidence by pitting her against the one man Skye couldn’t resist.

She cut the thought off frantically, closing her eyes and trying her best to call up a vision of Jeremiah Raleigh’s rugged good looks, his sun-streaked hair, his tanned, creased face.

The jab of a sharp elbow in her side robbed her of her concentration, and nearly her balance.

Opening her eyes, she snapped, “What?” before she realized Fiona had been trying to warn her.

Beck hadn’t gone straight to his station across the kitchen. Instead, he was standing directly in front of her, staring down with a knowing expression in his brown eyes.

He put out his hand. Skye blinked at it for a long moment before clasping it with her own.

Beck’s fingers were warm and rough, his hand broad and strong enough to enfold hers with ease. “It will be an honor to compete against you,” he said, his gravelly voice rolling through her like thunder.

It took two tries, but she managed to swallow hard enough to say, “You too. I hope everything is okay with your teammates.”

His gaze flickered. “They’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure they will be,” Skye said, the urge to comfort prodding her to keep talking. “And I’m sure it helps that they know you’re here to carry the team.”

Something moved behind his eyes, uncertainty quickly swallowed up by determination. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fair warning, Skye. I don’t intend to let them down.”

The unshakeable vow in his words pierced Skye’s heart. Before she could think, her mouth was opening and spitting out, “No, of course not. You’d never let anyone down, would you?”

You told me once that you’d never let me down. Remember?

It hung there between them, her accusation and his silence, chilling the air until she half-expected her next breath to form a visible vapor cloud.

Beck dropped her hand as it were a piece of ice that had numbed him through, and Skye felt the prickle of a flush heating her neck and ears. She’d forgotten they were still holding hands.

She didn’t know what she expected him to say. Maybe that he’d try not to let anyone down; maybe an apology; maybe a demand that she let the past go and get over herself already.

Any of those responses would have been better than what he did.

Because after a lengthy, weighted pause filled with the sharp edges of things unsaid, all he did was walk away.

Chapter 18

Beck marched back to the stainless steel table where Win was unpacking their knife rolls. His entire head was filled with Skye’s elusive, earthy scent, his pulse throbbing in his ears. His chest pounded with the knowledge that he’d had her last night, and he’d have more of her soon … but that none of it made a difference when it came to how she felt.

He’d killed that, and nothing on earth could bring it back.

There was no rhyme or reason to the way that thought scoured his insides out like a sandblaster, and it wasn’t going to help him win the RSC to dwell on it.

Thank God for the U.S. Navy, he mused as he took up his place beside Winslow. Without it, he’d never have the training or the discipline to force his mind down a new path, away from the meandering tangle of emotion that was everything to do with Skye.

“You okay?” Win asked out of the side of his mouth.

Beck gave him a short nod and focused all his attention on Eva Jansen, who faced the competitors with excitement flushing her cheeks.

“Good morning, chefs. I know you’re as anxious to get started as I am, so let’s get right down to it.”

Anticipation tightened Beck’s sinews, and he consciously slowed his breathing.

This was it.

“We’re down to the last two teams, and it’s tempting to think about this battle in terms of East versus West. But as epic as the rivalry is between San Francisco’s up-and-coming restaurant scene and the more established food culture of New York, I want to go deeper.”

Eva clasped her hands in front of her and glanced between Skye and Beck. “The RSC isn’t here to decide the debate between San Francisco and New York City. We’re here to determine who is the Rising Star Chef of the nation this year. And in order to do that, we need to get to know each of you a little better.”

Nervousness skated down Beck’s spine and lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

What the hell does that mean?

For a brief, awful moment Beck pictured a ludicrous version of the Miss America pageant, with himself and Skye tricked out in formal wear and answering questions about their hopes and dreams.

Thank God, Eva’s silky voice snapped him out of it. “That’s why this year, we did away with the final team battle and turned it into an individual challenge. Two chefs, going head to head, cooking their hearts out … and telling us the story of their lives in five courses. Each course will represent a stage in your journey toward becoming the chef you are today.”

The words crashed over Beck’s head like an incoming wave.

Eva went on to explain in more detail, but Beck could hardly take it in.

The story of my life? Shit. I’d rather strap on a bikini and advocate for world peace.

Beside him, Winslow jittered in place, and Beck shot him a look. Seemed like maybe his sous-chef was as freaked out as Beck was, which should’ve been bad news. But instead, it gave Beck an outpouring of gratitude that he wasn’t alone in being so completely thrown by this.

With a monumental effort, Beck tuned back in to Eva’s speech just as she got to the part where she told them they had the rest of that day to plan.

Frowning, she glanced between the two tables set up in the center of the kitchen. Beck and Win stood shoulder to shoulder behind one, while all five of the original West Coast team members were grouped around the second.

“The plan was to allow the full team to consult on the menu,” she said slowly, “But that clearly won’t be possible for the East Coast team.”

Before Beck could open his mouth to tell her it didn’t matter, they’d be fine on their own, Skye had one slim hand up in the air and that stubborn, righteous look on her face.

“Ms. Jansen, in order to keep everything completely fair across the board, I’m willing to forego consultation with my team today.”

Beck stiffened as Skye’s teammates, especially the dreadlocked guy, shot her incredulous glares, but Eva looked relieved.

“Thank you, Chef Gladwell. That’s extremely generous of you, and I think it’s the right choice. Which brings me to the other choice you need to make.”

Beck tensed all over, ready for another twist. Eva didn’t disappoint him.

“We’ve decided that in the spirit of true competition, we want each of you to know exactly what you’re up against. Therefore, you will be cooking and presenting your dishes consecutively—you’ll both have the full day tomorrow to prep, then the following day, one of you will cook and present at noon, and the other will go at six. We’d like each of you to join the judges for your opponent’s tasting.”

Beck allowed himself to relax a bit. That wasn’t so bad.

Turning to Skye, Eva said, “Since you won the last challenge, I’ll leave it up to you. Would you prefer to present in the morning or the evening?”

Skye licked her lips, an old nervous gesture Beck had always found ridiculously appealing, and said, “I’ll go second.”

“Which means,” Eva cut her eyes to Beck, “You’ll be first.”

He acknowledged his marching orders with a short nod.

“Okay!” She clapped her hands together, then waved to the judges. “Get planning. The cars will be out front to take you to shop first thing tomorrow morning.”

And that was it. She and the judges waved goodbye and trooped out of the kitchen, followed more slowly by Skye’s grumbling male teammates. On the way out the door, the dreadlocked guy fixed Skye with a pointed stare and mouthed something at her that looked a lot like “Meat is murder.”

She rolled her eyes, then pointedly turned back to her sous-chef, Fiona, when she noticed Beck’s attention.

“Well, that was pretty stand up of her,” Win commented. “Gotta love a woman who likes an even playing field.”

Beck grunted and crouched to retrieve a small, spiral-bound notebook from the outside pocket of his leather knife roll. He carried it everywhere, used it to jot down ideas—maybe the notes in there would spark something.

God knew, he didn’t have any other clues about where to start.

“So,” Win tried again, nerves pitching his voice higher than usual. “Your life story, huh? That should be fun.”

We’ll be fine
was what Beck meant to say, but somehow, what came out was “Son of a bitch.”

“I heard that.” Win gave a sage nod and a shrug. “But hey, it could be worse.”

It was hard to see how.

Beck flipped through the pages of his notebook, scowling down at his own penciled scratchings. There were lists of ingredients he’d seen at the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market, sketches of finished plates he’d dreamed up, one or two new techniques he’d been meaning to try.

All of it was him, Beck the chef, and it should’ve been a good place to begin. But somehow, it felt like he was failing before they even got going.

“Anything good in there?” Win asked.

Beck shrugged and passed him the notebook. “Maybe a couple of ideas. Shit, I don’t know.”

Looking up from his perusal of a particularly intricate recipe involving pan-fried skate wings, Winslow cocked his head. “This is really a problem for you, isn’t it?”

Beck wondered if it was the tension in his shoulders or the tic in his jaw that had given him away.

“It’s going to be fine.” There, he managed it that time.

“The life story of the most secretive, mysterious, enigmatic guy I’ve ever met, in five dishes,” Win mused. He looked like he wanted to smile but was holding it back, and Beck felt the roil of emotion that had been percolating since Eva first articulated the challenge threaten to bubble over.

“This is like a dream come true for you,” Beck growled, irritation scoring over his skin like fire ants. “The perfect excuse to satisfy your curiosity about whatever mystery you think there is in my past.”

He regretted the harsh growl of his tone as soon as the words left his mouth. He knew how intimidating he could sound without even really meaning to, and with all the pressure building in his head, he didn’t want to explode all over Winslow. Who might be a busybody but was also a good guy—and, Beck noticed, was not looking the slightest bit intimidated.

“Bitch, please.” Win waved a hand. “Get over your bad self. You’re not that fascinating.”

The twinkle in his green eyes invited Beck into the joke. He chuckled, then laughed out loud when Win’s delighted grin spread ear to ear.

And all of a sudden, Beck felt the tension inside him break like the popping of his ears when the boat dove to a new depth. The pressure was still there, but he could handle it.