King of the Kitchen (6 page)

Despite his rocky past with his father and the bitterness he felt toward Vincent’s life choices, Duncan wouldn’t stand for anyone insinuating Vincent wasn’t a success. He was. He hadn’t gone to culinary school, but he had more awards and accolades than most classically trained celebrity chefs. Certainly more than Christian, who had gone to the same fancy, overpriced school that Beck had.

The press liked to play Christian and Vincent as jocular rivals, but they weren’t. They’d both apprenticed for the same chefs as they’d been coming up in the culinary world, and there had been a lot of jealousy and fighting between them even then. It had only escalated as their restaurant empires had grown, to the point that any interaction between them ended in shouting and insults.

The two couldn’t really be together for long without fur flying. Kind of like his dealings with Beck, actually. Except with a lot more hostility and epithets.

“No response to that?” Duncan asked.

“That was uncalled for, and I apologize. I do respect Vincent and his culinary ability,” Beck said stiffly, and Sadie relaxed beside Duncan. Duncan waited, knowing the other shoe was going to drop soon. “You, on the other hand, cook in a diner. So don’t think you can claim any of his gravitas, no matter what the press thinks.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “That’s a big word, gravitas. Are you sure you know what it means? I thought all your education was in fancy French sauces, not mundane things like vocabulary.”

Duncan could tell from the way Beck’s eyes flashed he’d scored a hit, but for some reason he felt guilt instead of pride. He’d taken the low blow, he knew, and it felt wrong. Duncan blew out a frustrated breath, shaking his head. He wasn’t usually this argumentative. Something in Beck seemed to bring it out in him.

“I’m sorry. Friends? Or at least tolerant acquaintances?” Duncan quirked an eyebrow at Beck, who seemed to have been stunned into silence by Duncan’s sincere apology. “You have a great place here. It’s gorgeous. Best wishes, good tidings, and all that. Congrats.” Duncan tipped his now-empty beer bottle in Beck’s direction. “Thanks for the drinks.”

He nodded to Beck, bowed to Sadie, and turned to move away. Before he could take a step, though, a hand closed over his elbow, stopping him. Duncan’s entire body went rigid when he felt Beck lean in to block him from moving. What was it with Beck and grabbing? He’d done it the last time they’d met as well. Duncan took a moment to wonder if Beck made a habit of physically assaulting everyone he met, or if Duncan was special.

Not that Duncan minded having Beck’s hands on him, though he’d have preferred it to be for a different reason. Duncan was close enough that Beck’s breath tickled against his ear when he spoke, and it sent a frisson of something other than anger sliding down Duncan’s spine.

He could see Sadie fluttering nearby and wringing her hands, distressed over what was about to happen. Corbin had materialized from somewhere, as had JT the bartender, and while their postures were relaxed, Duncan could see they were both ready to spring into action and break up a fight if they had to.

Duncan took a deep breath, very aware all eyes in the crowded restaurant were on them. He’d bet more than a few camera phones were recording them now, and at the very least, there would be grainy still photos of Duncan Walters and Beck Douglas published on gossip sites within the hour. He could imagine the headlines if they actually got into a fight. Right now people only knew Duncan and Beck were having an intimate conversation, and it was getting a bit heated. The media would run far enough with that without Duncan and Beck giving them any real fodder.

And really, despite the fact that Beck was baiting Duncan, he didn’t deserve to have the opening of his new restaurant—even though it was technically Christian’s, everyone knew it was Beck’s baby—overshadowed by the news that he and Duncan had taken the famous King-Walters rivalry up a notch into an actual physical altercation.

“I’m not looking for a fight. I get it. You’re stressed and amped up on adrenaline because of the opening, and I was a jerk. Just let it go,” Duncan said quietly, bringing his hands up to rest lightly on Beck’s chest. He wasn’t going to try to push him away, but he wanted Beck to know his proximity wasn’t welcome. The last thing Duncan wanted was a physical fight. He hated fighting, and beyond that, he knew Beck would wipe the floor with him. Through the thin suit coat Beck was wearing, Duncan could feel his bulging biceps and rock-hard chest. Most of the other professional chefs Duncan knew, himself included, were fairly fit; they had to be, to stay on their feet all day, darting around a sweltering kitchen. But Beck’s body took fit to a whole new level, and Duncan absently found himself wondering where Beck found the time to work out, given his busy production and restaurant schedule.

“If you keep walking into people’s establishments and insulting them, you might find one even if you’re not looking,” Beck muttered.

“I didn’t throw anything at you that you weren’t throwing at me,” Duncan said, unwilling to take the fall for the fight. Beck gave as good as he got; it wasn’t Duncan’s fault he couldn’t take a verbal punch as well as Duncan could.

Beck hesitated, then stepped back, releasing Duncan’s arm. Duncan resisted the urge to brush his hand over the wrinkled fabric, not wanting to call more attention to the fact that Beck had been gripping him tightly, not just laying a friendly hand on him.

“I heard you tell the reporter from
Epicurean Adventures
that the food was bland,” Beck said, his jaw clenched. “The culinary world respects you and your opinions, whether their adoration of you is valid or not—and I definitely think it isn’t—what you say matters.”

Beck closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Duncan could tell it was costing him a lot to be so frank, and Duncan appreciated it. And yes, he had told George the food was bland—because it was. But he hadn’t done it in an attempt to hurt Beck’s restaurant.

“He’s an old friend,” Duncan said, his lips curving up into a small, apologetic smile. “The reporter from
Epicurean Adventures
. I helped him get that job, actually. He knows nothing I say to him is ever on the record, not unless he specifically calls me for a comment about something. And even then, I usually refer him on up the food chain and have him talk to Vincent, because it’s his opinion that matters, not mine. I’m only an ignorant line cook, remember?”

Duncan saw the fight go out of Beck’s posture, and without anger lighting his features, Beck looked tired. “You are a lot more than a line cook, Duncan.”

Duncan shrugged easily. “I don’t get too hung up on terminology. Line cook, sous-chef, whatever. At the end of the day, we’re all little more than kitchen minions, doing the bidding of the executive chef.”

He playfully bumped Beck’s shoulder with his own, drawing a reluctant smile out of him.

Sadie startled both of them when she stepped close, putting an arm around each of their waists. “Beck, you really need to get back to mingling. Duncan, I’m putting you over at the bar where JT can watch you. I don’t need you starting a brawl like you did at Tyler’s wedding.”

“That was you?” Beck asked, giving Duncan a very obvious once-over.

“Hey, I might not look like much, but I fight dirty. I’m wiry, but I’m strong,” Duncan said with a grin. It was a total lie, of course. The other guy had tripped, and Duncan had been there to break his fall. The crowd had taken the sprawl of limbs for a fight, and Duncan hadn’t cared enough to correct them. But he hadn’t realized Beck had been at the wedding. Curious.

“Strong enough to take down Gary? That man is built like a mountain.”

“Gary was also drunk off his ass at the time, so I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Sadie said smartly, leading both of them away from the bulk of the crowd and back toward the kitchen.

“Don’t ruin my street cred, Sadie,” Duncan pouted, obediently taking a seat on the barstool she’d guided him to. “You street-cred ruiner, you.”

Sadie laughed. “Duncan, trust me. I’m pretty sure you’re your own worst enemy when it comes to ruining street cred.”

“You need a drink, boss.” JT had followed them back through the crowd, and he gave them all a sunny smile before he twirled a ridiculously expensive bottle of Glenlivet in the air and tipped it into a shot glass behind the bar. Beck growled at him wordlessly but took the shot, downing it in one go and almost managing to hide his grimace.

“Back into the lion’s den,” Beck muttered as he nodded at the three of them and then weaved his way back into the crowd, his apparent reluctance catching Duncan by surprise yet again.

He’d have figured Beck Douglas thrived on mingling and charming guests
.
Beck smiled and chatted his way around the packed room easily, stopping to pose for photos and speak with reporters and well-wishers alike, always with a smile that held none of the exhaustion Duncan had seen in his face earlier.

Beck Douglas was an enigma wrapped inside a mystery, and he was becoming more and more interesting to Duncan with every layer he unearthed.

Chapter FOUR

AS EXPECTED,
the gossip columns were abuzz with tidbits about Beck and Duncan’s friendly standoff at the Brix opening the night before. Beck couldn’t contain his smile as he looked at the photo Lindsay had texted him earlier, a screen capture of a fuzzy snapshot obviously taken with a camera phone from a distance away.

He pulled his laptop out and scanned through the list of links one of Lindsay’s underlings had put together sometime during the wee hours. Beck hadn’t made it home from the opening until an hour or so before dawn, and he’d fallen into bed without even bothering to take his shirt and suit pants off. They were rumpled almost beyond repair, and he had a private laugh over how debauched he must look. People often said owning a restaurant was like having a particularly demanding mistress, since it took all of your spare time and energy, and though Beck had never been the cheating sort, he could appreciate the sentiment. A casual observer would probably make some very different assumptions about his life if they saw him sitting at the kitchen table in his sunny breakfast nook, sipping coffee and scrolling through the gossip sites, with his hair mussed and his wrinkled dress shirt open at the collar. He found it particularly ironic since his life was so hectic he had no time for any sort of love affair, torrid or otherwise.

The headlines about his altercation with Duncan ran the gamut from close to the truth to ridiculous, and the more ludicrous ones made Beck chuckle into his drink.

“The new Romeo and Juliet? Culinary heirs from warring King and Walters empires share an intimate moment at Brix opening” was his favorite, and the accompanying blurb was hilarious, filled with innuendo and speculation that he and Duncan were in love and hiding their secret affair from Vincent and Christian, who would pull them apart.

The press was clearly underestimating Christian and his penchant for drama if they thought for one second he wouldn’t fully embrace a relationship between Beck and the son of his arch nemesis. As Christian was fond of saying, “You couldn’t buy this kind of publicity.” Beck had already had several e-mails from Christian’s secretary—all unread, because even though it was after 1:00 p.m., it was still morning to him, and e-mails from Christian were not to be opened without ample caffeine for fortification—and he doubted any of them were a reprimand.

Most of the articles hit closer to the truth, speculating that the King-Walters feud was continuing into the next generation, making them some sort of culinary Hatfields and McCoys. The media thought that, like the famous feuding Appalachian families, Christian and Vincent couldn’t even remember the reason for their long-standing animosity. Beck knew differently. His uncle could—and would—launch into a laundry list of transgressions a mile long if given the opportunity.

Beck finished his coffee, putting it in the sink with a heavy sigh that signified his daily switch from personal time to work time. And make no mistake about it, e-mails from Christian’s secretary definitely fit into the work-time category.

He opened the article attached, noting it was different from the ones Lindsay’s assistant had sent him. For starters, the byline was one of the more respected writers in the food industry, and it had been published on the web site of one of the major magazines.

“The Heirs-Apparent Come to Blows: The Next Generation of the Food Feud?”

Beck scanned the piece and felt a flash of annoyance at the magazine writer’s condescending attitude toward Duncan’s credentials. It was well known that, like his father, Duncan hadn’t gone to a traditional culinary school. But he’d been cooking professionally for more than a decade in some of the best kitchens in the world, and he had Vincent Walters, one of the most world-renowned chefs alive, as his personal tutor.

Beck had gone to culinary school not because he wanted to, but because he’d
needed
to in order to succeed. Beck had grown up in the kitchen, but he hadn’t had the advantage of having his famous and talented mentor work with him the way Duncan had. Christian expected greatness and wouldn’t settle for anything less than perfection, but he hadn’t had the time to let Beck work with him directly. By the time Beck was old enough to truly apprentice in a professional kitchen, Christian’s television show had taken off, and his restaurants were franchised across the country. He’d become more culinary personality than chef, so Beck had been forced to apprentice with the executive chefs in Christian’s empire instead.

Going to culinary school had been a necessity, and it had been one Beck had hated. He preferred simple food, but he’d known the key to succeeding with simple ingredients was to know how to treat them, and that meant he’d needed to be put through the paces of all those fancy French sauces Duncan had teased him about the night before. Beck hadn’t prepared a
sauce á l’orange aigre-douce
since culinary school; the point was he knew how to do it. The techniques he’d learned had been invaluable. For him, at least. He had no doubt Duncan had mastered the technical part of cooking as well as Beck had, possibly more so. The fact that Duncan had learned his skills in a kitchen instead of a classroom didn’t matter.