Hot Under Pressure (21 page)

“No.” Claire cocked her head, regarding Kane thoughtfully. The familiar teasing glint was back, turning his blue eyes brighter than the summer sky and tugging at the corners of his kissable lips. There was still a certain something hovering over him like a cloud, however, a lingering regret or sadness, and she found she didn’t care for it at all. “But since that day, I’ve learned a great deal about what sort of man you are. And I realized recently that I hadn’t given you the same opportunity, when it came to myself.”

Claire had never enjoyed opening herself up to others. The very phrase—the graphic imagery calling to mind her vulnerable body slit down the center like an overripe tomato so that all her innards spilled out into the open—set her teeth on edge. But for Kane, she would do it.

Better late than not at all.

Drawing back far enough to be able to look him in the eye was easier than actually making eye contact, but Claire was no weakling. She brought her gaze up and kept her eyes open, allowing Kane unfettered access to whatever his intent scrutiny could discover.

“You asked why I have been making both you and myself miserable—and I don’t know if I have a good answer for that. All I have is my past, the history that shaped me. And I offer it to you now in good faith … because I trust you with it.”

Hunger and interest flared in his gaze, but his voice was gentle as he said, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” Taking one last sip of her drink, she let the alcohol burn a hole through the knot in her throat, and the words came tumbling out.

“When I was very young, just after I first moved to New York from Paris, I began working as a freelance fact checker at a lifestyle magazine. I would go in, read other people’s stories, and then do the work they’d neglected in terms of verifying sources and double-checking information. It was tedious work, but I was ambitious.”

“You? I don’t believe it.” His voice was teasing but his gaze was keen, and Claire knew he was hanging on every syllable of this unprecedented story from her past.

“
Oui,
very ambitious. And, perhaps, not as subtle as I’ve learned to be in later years. There was a man at the magazine, an editor. Not my direct superior, but certainly above me in the hierarchy.”

Kane bared his teeth in a sudden snarl, the expression cutting off her air for a second before he smoothed it out. “Sorry, sorry. Just … I think I know where this is heading.”

With a grimace, Claire acknowledged the point. “Yes, mine is not a particularly unique or original story. We became involved, he made and broke promises, both personal and professional, and in the end, I discovered there had been a bet among the editors—all of whom were, at that time, male—to see which of them could get me into bed first.”

“Fuck.”

The harsh curse in Kane’s melodic voice took Claire aback. Her startlement made her realize he hardly ever swore. Recovering, she nodded. “Indeed. I reacted … badly, and found myself alone in a strange country, without a job.”

“They fired you?” The outrage on Kane’s face was a balm to Claire’s ruffled soul. She hated remembering that time in her life. Although this part wasn’t so bad.

“Well, when I stormed into the editor in chief’s office and spilled the entire, sordid story, the editor in chief—also a man—laughed and said something along the lines of ‘Boys will be boys.’”

“Gross.”

“Agreed.”

Curiosity sparking, Kane raised his eyebrows. “What did you do?”

Claire might like to uphold the ethnic stereotype of the French as coldblooded pragmatists, more practical than passionate, but her behavior that day couldn’t be taken as proof of the concept.

Mouth twisted in a rueful smile, she said, “I seized the closest breakable object to hand, a crystal paperweight on the corner of the editor-in-chief’s desk, and heaved it at the wall.”

Kane blinked, impressed. “Wow.”

“One dented plaster wall and a shattered, irreplaceable Award for Excellence later, I was out the door.”

“I hate this story,” Kane told her.

“Don’t worry, it has a happy ending. That magazine folded less than a year after that—I won’t say it’s because they became involved in several scandals, one right after another, due to shoddy reporting and incorrect facts in their articles, but…” She shrugged, kept her voice light. “And then I got a job writing for
Délicieux
, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Ha,” Kane crowed, his delight buoying Claire’s spirits in the face of remembered distress. “Suck it, dickweeds.”

“My sentiments more or less exactly.”

“I changed my mind. I love this story.”

A smile twisted the corner of mouth, and she felt her spirits trying to lift. “I thought you deserved to hear it, because I felt it only fair to give you the context for my reaction to what I overheard between you and Theo.”

The happiness drained from his face. “Christ. No wonder you freaked.”

“I should not have,” Claire insisted. “I know that now. You are nothing like those men who made a mockery of my feelings, who used my body as a battleground for their rivalry. Whatever I thought and felt when I heard you talking to Theo, I should not have pushed you away.”

Rubbing one finger in a delicate ring around the rim of his glass, Kane slid her a sideways glance. “You’ve been pushing me away ever since we met. Even when I was inside you—there was still a distance between us.”

The truth of it shook her down to her bones.

“I know. And I’m not sure how to stop.”

Kane closed his eyes briefly, then suddenly dropped his booted feet to the floor with a bang, pushing his barstool back with a grating sound of wooden chair legs on a marble floor.

“Then I guess you were right all along. We have nothing left to say to each other.”

Panic gripped her by the throat, nearly strangling her words as she cried, “Kane, no!”

He paused in the act of tossing a bill down on the bar, his trim, muscular frame rigid with tension.

Claire licked her lips and fought one last battle with herself before saying, “I don’t know how to stop pushing away everything that brushes too close to my heart—but I’m willing to learn. I want to try. For you.”

Kane’s muscles loosened enough to allow him to face her once more, and this time she could see traces of the young, vibrant, happy man she’d met in New York lurking under the hard-jawed stranger before her.

“Well,” he said, his low voice resonating through her whole body. “That’s a good start.”

Chapter 20

Twisting at the hips to realign her spine, Skye pressed both hands to her lower back and breathed in, imagining oxygen flowing into the knotted muscles.

She thought longingly of the Bikram yoga class she’d had to give up when she moved out to Sausalito, and released her breath and the position on a long sigh.

“Tough day at the office?”

She whirled to face Beck and her long skirt flew out around her ankles, whipping at her calves. Off balance, she stumbled against the railing, but Beck caught her before she could do more than stare, shocked, at the churning water of the bay.

His hands were big and solid on her forearms, rough with calluses and unbelievably warm against skin chilled by the breeze whipping off the water.

It was that cold wind making her shiver, Skye told herself, pulling away with a forced smile.

“We made a good start, I think.” Finding it stupidly hard to meet his dark, knowing eyes, Skye squinted out over San Francisco Bay, searching the horizon for the fast-moving ferry that would take her back to her parents’ house. “What about you? I would’ve thought you’d be back at the hotel, resting up for tomorrow. It’s not like the farmers’ market is open this late.”

She felt more than saw Beck’s shrug. “No, but I’m thinking about using salumi in one of my dishes—thought I’d come check out what Boccalone’s got to offer. Somehow I missed it when we shopped here for the last challenge, but Win couldn’t stop talking about it.”

That surprised her into looking straight at him. They were standing so close together, she had to crane her neck back to catch his gaze.

“Have you forgotten I’m the enemy? I can’t believe you’d give me any clues about what you plan to cook.”

This time it was Beck who looked away, as if he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I don’t think it matters at this point. Our styles are different enough, we could use all the same ingredients and still come up with entirely distinct dishes. Besides, I know you don’t like salumi, and that rasta kid on your team would bust a nut if you put cured meat on your menu.”

She laughed, remembering Nathan’s grouching about how she’d given up full-team consultation just to avoid hearing him suggest vegan dishes. His parting shot as the team left had been a reminder that animals were her friends, and friends didn’t eat friends.

“Yeah, salumi’s not really our thing at Queenie Pie,” she admitted. “How about you? Already sweating bullets over having to open up about your past?” Not that Skye was looking forward to hearing what Beck came up with to explain his life story, or anything.

He shrugged, massive shoulders jerking up and down in a parody of his usual smooth grace. “Nah, I’m just making the food I want to make. I’ll come up with something to say to make it sound good.”

Disappointment lanced through her. Skye shook her head. “Of course you will. God forbid you should actually follow the challenge and tell anyone anything about yourself.”

In the distance, a long horn sounded, signaling that the ferry was on its way to the dock.

“Heading home?” Beck’s voice was toneless, completely impassive, but Skye still stiffened against the implied criticism.

“It’s a temporary situation,” she blurted, then snapped her jaws shut on the rest of the explanation. She didn’t need to explain anything to him.

Beck appeared to agree, since he didn’t ask any more questions. Not for a long moment filled with nothing but the
skreel
of gulls and the wash of choppy water against the side of the ferry dock.

When he finally spoke, his question took her completely by surprise.

“Are you happy, Skye?”

Something about the way he said it, the quiet care she could suddenly hear in his voice, choked her up. Clearing her throat, she tossed her hair out of her face and squinted into the setting sun.

“Sometimes. What about you?”

“When I’m cooking.”

The simplicity of his answer gutted her. She kept her face averted, soaking up the dying warmth of the sunset on her skin and trying to breathe around the constriction in her chest.

“Me, too. I miss my restaurant.”

“What happened to it?” Beck’s frown was as audible as his concern for her, and Skye made herself give him a smile.

“Nothing bad! It’s just … it’s a tiny place, and I don’t have a huge crew of reliable cooks. I had to close it down for the month while we compete in the RSC.”

“Can you afford that?”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, “Normally, here’s about where I’d tell you to mind your own damn business. But since part of the start-up money for the café came from what I saved of the money you sent home after you enlisted, I guess it sort of is your business.”

He held up a hand. “Hey, no. You don’t have to tell—”

“We can afford it,” she interrupted. “Barely. But it’s a damn good thing we made it this far, and the publicity from getting to the finals should help us make up the lost time.”

His fine, chiseled lips were nearly white, they were pressed together so tightly. “Good. I’m glad it’s going well for you.”

Skye held back a sigh of frustration. She could already feel Beck closing off again, the brief window into his emotions slamming shut. It reminded her of … well, pretty much every conversation they’d ever had during their months of living together. And, just like back then, she found herself searching for any possible way to prop that window open for just a little while longer.

“Hey. Would you be interested in seeing Queenie Pie? Considering you’re a major investor and all…”

That got her a sardonic brow lift. “I thought you had a ferry to catch.”

The ferry that would take her out to the quiet, picturesque artists’ colony of Sausalito, where her parents would be so busy arguing over politics and bickering over the last joint that they’d barely notice she was there?

“There’ll be another one later. Come on, we can catch a cab.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Since when?”

The glimmer of humor in his dark eyes called an answering smile from Skye, as instinctive as breathing, and the reflexiveness of the response annoyed her enough to make her voice sharp. “We might not be the Big Apple, but San Francisco has a perfectly adequate fleet of taxis, and great public transportation.”

“Right. You always loved those cable cars.”

Shooting him a look as they left the Ferry Building, crossing a set of cable car tracks, Skye gestured at the lines running up and down Embarcadero. “Tell me you wouldn’t rather climb onto a charming old open-air cable car, zoom around town with the wind in your face, instead of trudging down into the bowels of the earth and packing yourself into a tin can that travels through subterranean tunnels with no fresh air.”

Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he went a little pale under his olive skin. “No arguments here. Subways aren’t my thing.”

Guilt for playing on his claustrophobia twisted at Skye’s stomach. “Well, either way, it’s not an issue because we’re going to grab a cab. Nothing could be simpler or quicker.”

Please
, she prayed to whatever god controlled traffic patterns and the sometimes lackadaisical cab drivers of San Francisco.
Please don’t make a liar out of me.

For once, the gods seemed to be listening. Beck and Skye had only been waiting in semi-awkward silence on the corner of Embarcadero and Market for about five minutes when an open cab pulled over.

The awkward silence continued as the taxi carried them over the Bay Bridge and up into the Berkeley hills, and Skye stared out the window wondering what the hell she was doing.

What nutty impulse had prompted her to initiate this little adventure? She was supposed to be avoiding Beck, avoiding the temptation he represented and the catastrophic emotional hurricane he threw her into, not inviting him over for tea.