Into the Fire (3 page)

Too bad she’d turned his triumph into a hollow victory by flat-out disintegrating during the end of the competition. She’d barely plated on time and her rib dish, although inspired, was obviously rushed. And what the hell had happened with her sauce? Curious enough to ignore his pride and look for her after the awards ceremony, he found she’d simply vanished. She hadn’t even shown up at graduation. She had disappeared, cut and run, and her friends had refused to tell him where she’d gone. He would have insisted if he’d known how much it was going to eat at him. But he’d finally found her, and now she was going to give him some answers.

He made his way across the room to the back hallway where Lila had disappeared, heading toward the kitchen, he assumed. He peered through the window on a swinging door and saw ovens and a dishwasher. Bingo. He pushed through and found Lila standing to his right, spooning tapenade onto small rounds of shortbread.

He walked up to the table. “Those look good.” He reached for one.

She scowled. “They’re not finished.”

He ate it anyway. It was rosemary shortbread, and it melted in his mouth. “You haven’t lost your touch. Your recipes?”

“Why? Do you want to steal them?”

Definitely still holding a grudge.

He didn’t blame her. After all, he hadn’t exactly beaten her fair and square, but she deserved it for lying to him. Only one of them could win the competition, and winning had brought him a double victory. His restaurant would open in two weeks. The prize money hadn’t meant much to him. It was a drop in the bucket compared to his trust fund, but the restaurant meant…everything.

He decided to just get it out there. “Why did you tell me you were making duck for the competition? Considering what happened between us, I think I deserved the truth.”

Her hand jerked and slopped tapenade all over the tray. “Damn it.” She cleaned up the mess and began again, her motions focused and precise, a fascinating contrast to the hectic flush that spread over her cheeks and chest. His fingers itched to trace the path of heat flowing across her skin, so he clenched his hands into fists.

“That’s all you have to say?” he asked.

She continued to dollop tapenade on shortbread, making him want to snatch the spoon and container from her hands, fling them to the tile, and force her to pay attention to him. Finally, she raised her head. Her gaze was defiant and color blazed in her cheeks. “Why do you think, Jack? It was a competition, and I needed that prize money. All is fair in love and war, right?”

Disappointment punched a hole in his gut as he realized he’d been hoping she would say something else, something that would give him an opening, maybe even an excuse to touch her. Instead, it was just as he’d thought. She hadn’t trusted him to play fair. Clearly, the connection between them had been one-sided.

He crossed his arms. “Money, huh? So does that mean your father really did lose his job? Do you really have loans? I assumed those were lies, too,” he scoffed.

She put her hands on her hips. “Why don’t we talk about how you cheated and used my ideas to win? Let’s focus on the fact I was right to not trust you.”

She looked astonished and furious—just as she had when he announced his dish at the competition. Privately, he had to admit she was correct. No matter what had inspired his actions, he had won using her ideas. He owed her something for that. “Why don’t you let me give you some money—”

“Hell, no,” she interrupted, closing her fist over the handle of a paring knife.

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you planning to use that knife on me, Delilah? I don’t remember meat fabrication as being your strong suit, but I suppose I could give you some tips…up to a certain point, of course.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t serve you up for dinner unless you do something that makes you too stupid to live—like offer me cash to assuage your guilty conscience.”

“Exactly how broke are you, Delilah?”

“None of your goddamn business, and stop calling me Delilah.” She glared at him and fingered the knife in her hand.

“But it’s your name, isn’t it? And it fits so well.” She was a seductress, just like her namesake from the Bible, stealing his strength, ruining his concentration. “You aren’t planning on giving me a haircut with that that tiny thing, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. “As if I’d get that close.”

He grinned. “Too bad.” For a second, their eyes met and he felt it again, the connection that had haunted him for six months. Then she looked down at her trays, leaving him hungrily staring at her. Now that the novelty of the French maid uniform had worn off, he realized she looked different.

“Have you lost weight?” He tensed, wondering if that were a safe question to ask a woman holding a sharp object, no matter how small.

She snorted. “Only twenty pounds.”

“Why? You weren’t overweight.”

“Hunger will do that to a girl. It also helps that I never make that truffled mac and cheese I couldn’t resist back in school.” Her eyes were blue and sharp as she raked him from head to toe. “You don’t look like you’ve spent much time being hungry, but I imagine the prince of the Calabrese restaurant empire doesn’t suffer from plebeian problems like where his next meal is coming from. You have more important things to worry about—like where to buy the biggest, fattest goose livers.”

He had more to worry about than that, but he wasn’t looking for her sympathy. He picked up another hors d’oeuvre and stuffed it into his mouth. “Yup, got no problem keeping my weight up.”

She snorted again and bent to cut even strips from a roasted red pepper. She set the knife aside and coiled a strip on top of each shortbread. After the red pepper came a lump of creamy goat cheese. He could imagine how good they would taste now. Woodsy rosemary. Earthy mushrooms and olives. Sharp pepper and tangy goat cheese. He reached for one more, but she batted his hand away from the tray.

All the way through culinary school, they’d battled for top ranking, his speed and technical brilliance competing with her ability to take a classic flavor profile and turn it into something new and exciting. He looked at the tray of exquisite hors d’oeuvres, and tension shot up the back of his neck. If he had her gift for flavors, he wouldn’t be working twelve-hour days and his new menu would be ready to roll.

He took a deep breath and slowly released it, dispelling the headache before it could get its claws into him. He imagined her offering the tray of hors d’oeuvres to him with a seductive smile instead of smacking his hand. He replaced her French maid’s uniform with something even sexier—a silky, black negligee that displayed her magnificent breasts and made her red-gold hair glow. He added a glass of champagne to her imaginary tray. Then he added another one.

“Take a picture, it will last longer.” Her voice shattered the inviting image in his head. He blinked and found her glaring at him. “Have you seen enough yet? Or have you run so low on inspiration you want to see the rest of my hors d’oeuvre menu? Here,” she thrust a paper into his hand, “let me spare you the time and trouble. You can have my notes, with all the components neatly labeled. I’ll come up with some new ones.”

He feigned nonchalance as he glanced at the list, but every item made him hungry. “If it were that easy for you, you would have beaten me.”

The cold fury in her blue eyes warned him to step back from the table. Instead, he leaned closer. There was one more thing he wanted to know. Maybe it would help him put this whole thing behind him. She was too good a chef to go down in flames without a damn good reason. “Why did you choke during the competition?”

The anger in her eyes went from ice to blue fire. “That’s low, even for you, Calabrese,” she hissed. “I don’t know why you came back here, but you aren’t going to get an apology from me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll offer congratulations. How about this? You’re welcome. Now get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“Make me.” He snagged an hors d’oeuvre from the center of her tray and popped it in his mouth. It was every bit as good as he had imagined. His alluring mental picture of Lila returned, but this time, she was in his bed. “Come on—I dare you to throw me out of your kitchen. I bet we’ll both enjoy it.”

He didn’t think she’d actually do it, and her rough shove caught him by surprise. He stumbled as she bulldozed him across the room, fortunately catching his balance before they reached the door. He swerved to the right, spinning so that his back hit the wall instead. Expecting to push him out into the hall, she kept going and slammed into him. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Now this is what I’m talking about.”

He expected her to protest, to yell, or maybe even slap him, but instead she gasped and froze. Her eyes were shut and when she opened them, he saw the same stark desire that had consumed him for months. He couldn’t have stopped, even if he’d wanted to. He bent his head and kissed her.

Her lips opened instantly and he sank into her. He caught her moan in his mouth. Her hands clutched his hair. He reached to untie the string on her long kitchen apron, throwing it to the floor. A sound from the hall made him break their kiss. Anybody could barge through the door at any minute and interrupt them. He hauled her up against his body and moved them into a small dark room off the kitchen. The dry storage room. Perfect. He kicked the stopper out from beneath the door. It swung shut.

“You have got to be kidding me. This is a cliché.” But her voice was faint, with need, he hoped.

“This is brilliant,” he argued, kissing his way down her neck and across the tops of her breasts. He felt like a starving man in front of a buffet that could disappear any minute. He unbuttoned her blouse, groaning as the fabric parted to display her gorgeous breasts, covered in sheer black lace. He tongued her nipple through the lace. She whimpered and thrust her hips impatiently against his thigh.

He reached down to yank her skirt up to her waist. He cupped her mound through her panties then slid one finger beneath, finding her wet. She arced into his touch. “This means nothing,” she whispered.

“Nothing,” he echoed, falling to his knees. He glanced up. Her head was thrown back and her elbows rested on a shelf next to number ten cans of tomatoes. Her shirt gaped provocatively over her breasts. His gaze traveled down her body, and he sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh my God. You’re wearing a garter belt.”

“All part of the uniform.”

He slid her panties down her legs. He couldn’t get them all of the way off, but he didn’t need to. He met her gaze as he leaned forward, loving the electricity between them. Her eyes shut, and she took a deep breath. When her hands caressed his head, it felt like a blessing.

He pressed his mouth to her, seeking the fastest way to drive her wild. He wanted to take her up fast and hard and not give her a second for regrets. He sucked, using his tongue to tease her hard bud while his fingers traced a path into her body. The breathy moans coming from her throat urged him on. He knew she was close. He could feel the tension in her body as she sought her peak. He pushed deeper, memorizing the feel of her, and she broke, spasming against his lips and fingers. He continued to stroke her as he got to his feet.

She was panting. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right with you.”

He eyed the shelf. “May I make a suggestion?”

She opened one eye.

“Turn around.”

He grasped her hips as she turned and bent. Her ass was thrust out slightly, putting her at the perfect angle. She braced her elbows on the shelf and looked over her shoulder. “Condom?”

He nodded, fishing his wallet out of his pants. He extracted his emergency condom, and unbuckled his belt. He unbuttoned, unzipped, and thrust his khakis to his knees. A second later, the latex was in place, and he was poised behind her. As he slid home, they both groaned.

He couldn’t interpret the look she gave him, and it didn’t matter anyway. He was too far gone, and he was determined to take her with him. He reached to cup her breasts then slid his hands down her body to the spot where their bodies were joined. Her head dropped to her arms as she met his slow thrusts.

“Tell me when it feels good.” He moved his fingers, seeking the perfect pressure.

“There,” she gasped, clenching around him.

He kept his hand where it was and moved his hips faster. He shut his eyes, so the sight of her wouldn’t push him over the edge. But the flames dancing on the inside of his eyelids forced him to open them again. He was determined not to come until she did, but every thrust into her tight body was both heaven and hell.

Her back arched, and he felt her walls ripple around him. With relief, he bent over her, holding her tight as he surrendered to the fire barreling up his spine. “Does that feel like nothing to you?” he asked, when he could speak.

He heard the kitchen door swing open.

“Lila?” a female voice called.

She stood up, swiftly separating them. She yanked her panties and skirt into place and re-buttoned her shirt before his vision cleared of flames. Trays clattered. He heard the kitchen door swing again. Then it was silent.

She stepped to the door and looked over her shoulder, giving him a wry smile.

“Thanks for nothing.” She left him in the dark and by the time he got himself together, she was gone.

Chapter Four

Jack scowled at the paella in the bowl in front of him. He wanted to spit the saffron rice in his mouth into the garbage can. He knew the Inferno menu was missing something, but tasting Lila’s food last night had widened the wormhole of doubt inside him. The blow to his ego hadn’t helped either.

He looked at the other dishes under the heat lamp. They would be as good as the paella. He knew it just by looking at them because he knew every ingredient that had gone into them. Not only that, he had personally hired every cook in the kitchen, so he knew each dish had been cooked perfectly. The food was good, but it wasn’t the kind of good that would make a name for him in the highly competitive New York restaurant world. And it wasn’t his cooks’ fault. The blame rested solely on his own shoulders. What had made him think speed and precision was enough to pull this off?

He heard a familiar bellow in the dish room and gritted his teeth. His father was coming in the back door, and Jack needed to put his game face on. The timing could not be worse. He would have preferred to taste the dishes and talk to his staff alone, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t throw his father out of the kitchen—not when dear old Dad had paid for every square inch of the space—but it was fun to imagine the look on his father’s face if he did.

“Just in time for dinner, I see.” As usual, his father’s entry into the kitchen made Jack feel small.

Jack straightened his shoulders and forced a welcoming smile across his lips. “We’ve got a ways to go before we can consider this dinner, but it’s a start.”

“You need more than a start if you want to open your doors in two weeks.” His father picked up a spoon and dug into the paella. Even though Jack knew it wasn’t going to pass muster, he held his breath.

The old man chewed and swallowed. Then he grunted and tossed his spoon into a bus tub. Jack tried not to care that he didn’t want more than one bite.

“Got a minute?” his father asked.

Jack nodded.
As if declining were even an option.
“I need to work my way through these dishes while they’re hot and make a few notes, but I’ll meet you in the office. Want coffee? Coke? A piece of cake?”

“I’ll get a glass of water.”

Probably to wash the taste out of his mouth.
Resentment rolled through Jack in a scalding wave that made his skin feel tight. He thought of the words his father had said when he handed over the keys to Inferno.
Don’t screw up.

Jack had to assume he was screwing up if his father wasn’t tempted by the other dishes lined up under the heat lamp. Sometimes he thought his older brother had the right idea. Just give up on pleasing dad and take off, try your luck in the big, bad world. Unlike Ned, he wasn’t a hothead, and it had paid off. He’d played the old man’s game by the old man’s rules, and now Jack had everything he had been waiting for—a restaurant of his own and the opportunity to prove his father wasn’t the only chef in town.

If he didn’t screw up.

He sighed, knowing Inferno was ruined before it ever opened unless he could somehow fix the menu. One way or another, he had to make it happen. The dishes were good. They just needed tweaking. A new garnish. Maybe he would move the sides around or add a sauce here and there. Add some color to the plate.

Not for the first time, he wondered how the creative gene could have skipped him. His father clearly had the knack. He’d opened five successful restaurants. His mother was a highly sought-after interior decorator. His brother had left home with a backpack and a guitar, and now every teenager in America knew his name. And then there was Jack.

As he stood staring at the dishes in front of him, he realized his mouth tasted like rosemary and butter again, like Lila’s shortbread. He swallowed a curse. Lila Grant wouldn’t be having these problems with a menu. Nope, she’d cook up something wild and wonderful and set New York on fire. He should have taken her up on her offer and stuffed that paper in his back pocket. Maybe then he could figure out how she took mundane flavors like mushrooms, peppers, and cheese and turned them into something extraordinary. He snatched a hot dish from under the lamp and took a bite of the roasted chicken with herbed polenta.

Butter and rosemary invaded his senses again, making him growl under his breath. After leaving him in the dry storage room, Lila had treated him like he was invisible last night, and he hadn’t managed to catch her alone again. Why couldn’t he let it go? Let her go?

He forced himself to taste the next dish.

The kitchen swirled and hummed around him as he evaluated each plate and jotted down changes. Dishes clattered. He felt the breeze of his cooks working harder because he was on the line with them. Abruptly, he’d had enough. “Pack it in, boys and girls. I’ll give you notes tomorrow. Thank you very much. Enjoy your night off, and don’t worry—I’ll still pay you.”

They cheered, but several of them frowned as they began cleaning their stations. He could feel their worry press against him, but he left the kitchen. It wouldn’t kill them to spend the night wondering how they could improve their performance. He left the dishes where they were so his staff could taste them and draw their own conclusions.

He steeled himself as he strode down the hall. Undoubtedly, his father would feel compelled to make suggestions, and Jack would nod and smile until he felt like his head was going to explode.

When he opened the office door, his father jumped, almost as if he had been snoozing in the chair. His dad stood and cleared his throat. “I’m going away for a week, maybe two depending on how blue the water is in Fiji. You’ll have to keep an eye on the restaurants.”

Not a request, but then, they never were. Jack assumed he should be honored to be asked, and resented the fact that he was. “Sure, no problem. Couldn’t you have told me that up on the line?”

“Then I wouldn’t have gotten a chance to look over your books. Do you need any money?”

His dad thought lack of funds was the problem with his food? Jack supposed he should be flattered. He shook his head, frowning. “Got plenty.” Thanks to his trust fund, he could open a dozen restaurants without having to tighten his belt, as his father well knew, since he had controlled Jack’s inheritance until his twenty-first birthday. However, Jack didn’t want to branch out on his own, he wanted to take his rightful place in Calabrese Incorporated, firmly supported by his father.

“The paella could use a little less salt.”

Jack nodded, already having made a note about that.

His father stared at him. Jack could tell he wanted to say more, so he stared back, a steely challenge in his eyes. It had been said so many times, Jack could hear it in his head.
Is that the best you can do, boy?

His father nodded. “See you next week.”

“Have a good time. Who’s going with you? Candy? Bambi?” What was the name of his father’s latest too-young-to-know-better blonde?

“None of your goddamn business.” His father’s cagey grin was unrepentant.

Jack shrugged. His father held out his hand, and he shook it.

Alone in the office, Jack caught the scent of rosemary again. It was time to admit his dishes weren’t going to cut it. It was also time to do something about it. The idea had been brewing in the back of his mind since this morning.
If you can’t beat them, hire them.

He gritted his teeth, sending pain skating down his jaw. The path to success was clear but walking it was going to feel like sticking his arm under the broiler and watching the hair curl.

…

The phone rang. Lila’s hands were covered with chocolate mousse, so she ignored it. She’d overslept, exhausted by the effort of avoiding Jackson last night, and had been running behind all day. The man was relentless. He’d even invaded her dreams last night, making love to her from behind while whispering “liar” into her ear. She was trying not to think of the sex, real or imaginary, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his accusations. She couldn’t decide if his version of what had happened during the competition was better or worse than the truth. Maybe she should be happy he thought she was a liar instead of a too-trusting, psyched-out failure.

The phone stopped ringing then started again. Roxie was supposed to stay up front until five. After that her boss didn’t care if Lila let the answering machine pick up. However, it was four-thirty and the phone was on its fifth ring again which meant Roxie had split early. “Damn it,” she said, and sprinted over to pick it up.

She pushed the talk button, trying not to get mousse on the phone, and braced herself. She hated this part. No matter how she said it, it always sounded like a come on. That was the point, of course, but it didn’t stop her from trying to make it sound professional. “Personal Chef, at your service…what are you hungry for?”

A familiar low chuckle greeted her. “Seriously? Do you answer the phone like that every time, or did you know it was me?”

“Every time,” she growled, dropping the pretense of civility, doubly pissed because her heart had skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. She’d made a huge mistake last night. “It’s a niche market.”

“I have to meet your boss. He’s a genius. Say it again, one more time, like you mean it.”

“What do you want, Jackson? I’m covered with chocolate mousse.”

“This just gets better and better.” He laughed while she weighed the pros and cons of hanging up on him.

There were no cons, she decided. “Good-bye, Jackson.”

“Wait…” He cleared his throat. “Lila, you know you’re too talented to work for a sleazy caterer with a French maid fetish who makes you answer the phone like a call girl.”

“It beats minimum wage.”

“No one with a Culinary Academy degree is going to make minimum wage.”

She snorted. “You really need to get in touch with the real world, Jack. It’s New York. There are hundreds of culinary school graduates just like me willing to work for less than minimum wage just to get their foot in the door. Most of them are men, which gives them an immediate advantage. Some of them still live with their parents, so they don’t have to pay rent either.” The only thing worse than feeling the crush of debt would be living with her father, who still hadn’t rebounded from losing his job. “Didn’t we cover this territory? I need the money. I know that boggles your privileged little mind, but the rest of America understands completely. Now what do you want? I have desserts to finish, and I’m running late.” He’d better not want to talk about last night. Her heart pounded. Hadn’t she made herself clear? Nothing had happened. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen again.

She pointed at the freezer as Sarah and Damon came in the back door. They could load the truck while she finished the desserts. She ignored Sarah’s wink. The server had found her phone on the table and her apron on the floor last night and had assumed the worst—the truth.

“I have a proposition for you.”

She rolled her eyes and clamped the phone between her cheek and shoulder. The chocolate mousse she had accidentally smeared on the phone was going to get in her hair, but she needed to finish the chocolate cups. Maybe it would look like fashionable low-lights.

He cleared his throat again. Was he nervous? In spite of herself, she was intrigued. “Out with it, Jack. I’m a working girl, remember?”

“Exactly.” He spoke quickly. “I’d like you to work for me.”

“Hell, no,” she answered, just as fast.

“You know I’m opening a restaurant, right?”

She snorted again. Half of New York knew he was opening a restaurant. Heck, half of New York knew when a Calabrese sneezed, and a new restaurant was bigger news than that.

“We open in two weeks, and I could use some help with the menu,” he continued.

“Hold on.” She washed her hands and carefully wiped the phone. “Are you telling me you open in two weeks and you don’t have a menu?”

“I have a menu.” He sounded tense. “It just needs some tweaking. After tasting your hors d’oeuvres last night, I hoped I could talk you into consulting for me. It needs…something. I don’t want to open just another restaurant. I want it to be the best damn restaurant in New York.”

“A tall order,” she said, trying not to laugh while she framed a suitably withering rejection.

“Yes.” Now he sounded relieved. He probably thought he had her. The man truly had balls the size of watermelons to even ask for her help, and he had a brain the size of a tiny green pea if he thought she would say yes.

A sudden suspicion horrified her. “Was that what the dry storage room was about? Softening me up for your little proposition? God, I can’t believe I fell for the same trick twice.”

“No! I swear I didn’t even think of it until this morning. I’d never do that.”

“Right.” Fury heated her veins, but she kept her voice low and controlled, not wanting the servers to overhear. “But now you’re hoping I’ll come in and look at your menu? Shake it up a little? Give it some zip?”

“Yes! That would be perfect. I don’t know how you do it, but you have a gift. I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “That’s so generous of you, Jack. I mean, last time you screwed me you stole my ideas and then took the money too. You’ve either turned over a new leaf, or you are really, really desperate.”

She heard a sharp inhale. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“It usually is,” she agreed, not without sympathy.

“You can’t enjoy working at Personal Chef. It’s demeaning.”

“Yup. But my boss knows that, and he pays us very well. The tips are good, too,” she couldn’t resist adding. “Plus, he’s a businessman, not a chef, so I have complete freedom over the menus. As you know, I have great instincts for food, so customer satisfaction is at an all-time high now that I’ve taken over the cooking. I’ll probably get a raise soon.”

“How much is he paying you? I’ll double it.”

Of course he would. Money was never a problem, not to a Calabrese. It was a huge problem for her, but it was reassuring to discover there were limits to what she would do for the almighty buck.

“Jackson, honey, you can’t afford me.” She hung up the phone and stood staring at it for a moment before she crossed the room to replace it on the stand. She took slow, deep breaths until her hands were steady enough to refill the pastry bag and pipe mousse into the waiting chocolate shells. The phone began to ring again, but this time she let the machine pick up.