Some Like It Hot (22 page)

“Yeah,” Danny said. “I’ve noticed that the camera crew seems to have expanded. I thought Cheney was balking on that, though. How did you get him to agree that the RSC should be filmed?”

He was just making conversation, trying to spin out the moments when he got to stand close to her and breathe in the light, floral scent of her perfume, but Eva went weirdly shifty and evasive, her eyes darting away from his while she tapped out a rapid-fire rhythm on the bar with the edge of the stacked legal-size papers.

“I just finally figured out what he was looking for, and how to give it to him. Everybody wins.”

Danny couldn’t help his grimace. “Yeah. Sure.”

Her eyes shifted back to him. “You don’t like the idea of being on TV? Most chefs would flip at the chance.”

Danny shrugged and knocked back the rest of his bottle, the beer hoppy and bitter as it went down. “It’s never been a priority for me. Honestly, I think most of those TV chefs are total sell-outs, corporate shills who’ve lost everything that’s great about being a chef.”

“But…” Eva really seemed to be struggling with that idea. “But you’re in this competition for the exposure for your restaurant! What could be better exposure than appearing on TV? I thought you’d be thrilled about this.”

“Who, me? I mean, yeah, the publicity will be awesome. Remind people of what Lunden’s Tavern used to be, back in the day, and make it clear we’re still there, still in it. Still putting out great food. Just … if it were me, you know. Just me. I’d never agree to be filmed.”

“Well, luckily for me, you signed a contract when you entered the competition that gives me the right to film whatever I damn well please, for the length of your stay as an RSC competitor.” Eva pushed away from the bar and grabbed her briefcase, movements stiff and jerky.

Danny wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he didn’t want her stalking out, completely pissed at him.

“Eva, wait. Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

Breath coming in harsh little puffs that lifted her rib cage and strained the precarious strings tying her dress together, Eva made a visible attempt to control herself. “It’s fine. You’re entitled to your opinion.” Forcing out a laugh, she slung her purse onto her shoulder. “And it’s not like you’re the first person to have that opinion. I’ve heard it all before. TV is evil, it pollutes the culinary arts, la la la.”

Now Danny was the one getting pissed. “Oh come on. You’re mad that I don’t agree with you about the Cooking Channel being the saving grace of this competition?”

“No,” she said, slowing her breathing. “I’m not mad.”

Except she so clearly was.

Eva’s eyes were shadowed in the dim flickering of The Blind Tiger’s Prohibition-era lighting. She turned to leave, and Danny’s instinctive move to follow her and finish this was stopped in its tracks by the parting shot Eva tossed over her shoulder.

“I’m not mad—but maybe I’m disappointed. I don’t expect everyone to agree with me. But I guess I would’ve hoped that you, of all people, would give me the benefit of the doubt. That you’d believe I’m trying my hardest to do the best I know how, for the good of the competition.”

“Eva—”

She paused by the door, her face turned away so all he could see was the pure, pale curve of her jaw. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I should never have expected anything from you. I broke my own rules, and now I’m paying the price.”

Who the fuck does he think he is?
Eva fumed, the anger simmering under her skin keeping her warm on the two-block hike over to the Five Points intersection, where she’d said she’d meet Claire.

She stuffed the revised Cooking Channel contracts into her briefcase haphazardly, hands shaking, lost in her furious contemplation of Danny’s ungrateful, shortsighted, old-fashioned, hidebound idiocy.

In fact, she was concentrating so hard on suppressing the voice whispering that Danny had only echoed exactly what she herself had always believed, that when a hand landed on her shoulder, she shrieked and nearly pepper-sprayed her poor assistant, Drew.

“It’s only me,” he cried, hopping back a step, hands raised as if she’d pulled a gun on him. “Can I catch a ride back to the hotel?”

As the sharp shock of fear at being touched on the street, at night, without warning drained from her system, so did the jolt of energy she’d gotten from sparring with Danny. Suddenly remembering that she hadn’t had more than four hours of sleep a night for the last week made Eva’s bones hurt.

“Sure, hop in,” she said, waving a hand at the black chauffeured car waiting patiently at the curb. “As long as you don’t mind sharing with Claire and me.”

Drew had a long-standing, somewhat debilitating fear of Claire Durand, so Eva felt she ought to warn him. “You might have to make conversation with Claire, since there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the leather headrest.”

Drew blanched, his white cheeks going even paler until he looked like a ghost by the light of the streetlamp. “Oh, uh, in that case. Can I just talk to you for a quick sec?”

Trying not to sigh audibly, Eva pulled the flaps of her cashmere coat closer to her chin and buttoned the top button.

“Shoot,” she said.

“It’s just … my assignment. With the chefs? I’m not feeling too great about it.”

A headache threatened with a lance of pain behind Eva’s right eye. “No?”

He shook his head, the porcupine quills of his coal-black hair quivering into spikes. “Winslow Jones and I … he’s my friend. Maybe more than a friend, and I don’t like using him for inside information.”

“It’s only gossip,” Eva pointed out. “Stuff he’d be telling you anyway, probably. And you pass it on to me, same as always. I don’t see how this is different from the way we’ve done things in the past. You keep your ear to the ground; it’s part of what I pay you for.”

He screwed up his face. “Yeah, for who’s leaving what restaurant, and who’s looking for a new sous chef, and who’s had a fight with their backer. This stuff you want to know now … it’s more personal. It feels like I’m breaking a confidence, and I don’t like it.”

“It’s just for a little longer,” Eva said, trying not to plead, but God, the timing could not be worse, here. “I talked to Cheney tonight, and I promised we’d have something for him soon. We’re so close to getting the television side of things going—I just need a few more stories to pitch to him, angles to work with the chefs as they’re filming. And once they get going, it’s out of our hands. Whatever the cameras catch, they catch.”

“I know, but…” Drew fidgeted with the fringe on his purple wool scarf, looking unsure.

“I’m not asking you to fabricate anything, Andrew,” she said. Time for a little tough love. “Just give me a few more details, things for Cheney to watch out for, and we’ll let the chefs and their inherent ability to create drama take care of the rest.”

“Okay, fine,” Drew said, his cheeks red with wind-burn, or cold. Or maybe frustration. “Tell Cheney that the East Coast Team pushed Beck to open up about what the deal is between him and Skye Gladwell, and it turns out they knew each other. A long time ago, like, ten years ago, in San Francisco. Win thinks they had a relationship, but it ended because…” He paused uncertainly.

“Oh my God, what?” Eva cried.

“I don’t know. Win isn’t sure…”

“Drew…”

“Okay! He doesn’t know, but he thinks Beck spent some time in prison. And maybe that’s why Skye dumped him. There. Happy now? I feel like such a turd.”

A shiver ran down Eva’s spine, chills prickling her legs and arms. She’d known it had to be something like this. “You’re not a turd,” she said. “That’s not, like, some deep, dark shocker like a secret baby or an evil twin or something. Prison time is a matter of public record.”

His face lightened. “So … there’s other ways you could’ve found out about it,” Drew said. “Not necessarily because I squealed like a rat.”

“Exactly. Do some more digging, would you? The more details, the better.”

A knocking sound from inside the car made Eva glance at the darkened windows, where a barely visible hand rapped against the glass.

“Good work,” Eva said, putting her hand on the car door handle. “This is exactly what Cheney was looking for. You really came through for me, and I won’t forget it. Now go back to the hotel and get some sleep. You sure you don’t want a ride?”

With a nervous look at the car, Drew backed away, blowing into his cupped, mittened hands. “No, no, that’s okay. I’m feeling better about stuff now. Thanks for listening. I’m going to head back to the Tiger, see if Win … if the others are still hanging out.”

Eva said good night and ducked into the warmth of the car, pushing Claire along the wide backseat.

“What was that about?” Claire asked, irritable.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, but I had an employee with an inconvenient attack of conscience. Don’t worry, I squashed it.” And she refused to feel bad about that.

Claire raised her eyebrows in that expressive way that had always gotten Eva to confess to whatever youthful mischief she’d gotten up to in the hopes of attracting her father’s attention. “I see. Sounds serious.”

“Not as serious as my need to get back to the hotel sometime this century. Hey, driver?” Eva leaned forward and tapped on the privacy divider. “Know any shortcuts back to the Gold Coast Arms? There’s a crisp fifty in it for you if you get us there in less than half an hour.”

She still had about fifty emails to answer that were too involved to get into on her iPhone, and she had to make sure everything was set up for the challenge the next morning—those cars had to be on standby in front of the hotel by six o’clock, or they’d be behind all day, and the schedule was so tight…

The car peeled away from the curb so fast, Eva careened into Claire, who righted her with a firm, “Put on your seat belt.”

“Yes, Mom,” Eva mocked, fumbling for the shoulder harness, but beside her, Claire’s graceful limbs went into a stiff, ungainly freeze.

“What?” Eva said, mystified. “What did I say?”

“Mom,” Claire replied faintly. “You never … I haven’t heard that from you before.”

“It was only a joke. Ignore me, I’m babbling with exhaustion.”

Claire shot her a quick, unreadable glance. “I know. I offered to pick you up so that we would have time to talk, but perhaps it must wait until later.”

Intrigued, Eva unbuttoned her coat and got herself situated.

“Talk about what?”

“Have you spent much time with your father since he arrived?” Claire asked.

Not sure if this was a change of subject or the subject, Eva replied warily, “Noooo … I’ve been a little busy running his competition for him. What, has he been complaining that I’m ignoring him? Because the phone works at both ends, you know.”

“That is not … no.
Merde,
this is difficult. I do not even know how to begin to explain.” Angling herself to face Eva, Claire pushed both hands through her wavy, auburn hair, pulling it back from her face and exposing the lovely, strong lines of her bone structure.

“Eva. We have known each other a long time. I watched you grow up.”

It had to be exhaustion that was keeping her emotions so ridiculously close to the surface. Swallowing around the hard knot in her throat, Eva said, “You helped me grow up.”

Claire’s face softened, the lines of tension melting from the corners of her eyes. “That is lovely to hear. You have always been very important to me, in my life. Much more important than I would have supposed, the first time I met you!”

“God, I was such a brat,” Eva exclaimed.

“You were a motherless child,” Claire corrected. “And in many ways, fatherless, too. You needed guidance and attention—copious amounts of both.”

“So, nothing’s changed in the last fifteen years!” Eva said brightly. “And even though I’ve figured out other ways to get the attention I want…”

Claire snorted, but Eva ignored it, a growing fear weighing down her words so that they dropped into the silence of the car like rocks into deep water. God, was Claire about to tell her she had cancer or something? “I still need you. You’re not … going anywhere, are you?”

The confused scrunch of Claire’s brows eased the compression in Eva’s chest immediately. “Where would I go? No. Listen to me, Eva. It’s about your father.”

Her accent got thicker, the way it always did when she was upset, and Eva’s rib cage squeezed in again. “He has asked to see me again. To give him another chance.”

Eva blinked. “Wait. What?”

A spasm of impatience crossed Claire’s face. “Your father is interested in me. Romantically. And I would like to know what you think of that.”

Bewilderment spun Eva around so she felt dizzy. “I guess … fine? I mean, no. Hold on. This is my dad we’re talking about. I love him, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t see how bad he was for you, before. Even as a kid … when you broke it off with him, I knew why. I didn’t blame you, even though I wanted you to stay with us so badly.”

Claire reached out and clutched Eva’s hand, twining their fingers together. Eva pressed hard enough that it hurt where their knuckles rubbed together, but she didn’t want to let go.

“So you think it’s a terrible idea?” Claire inquired delicately.

“No, it’s just … a surprise. And I’m not sure why you’re talking to me about it—what did you tell my dad? And Claire, what about Kane? I thought you two were working things out.”

Withdrawing her hand, Claire retreated into herself. “I told your father I needed time to think, and to talk to you—that as of now, your friendship means more to me than any fond memories or potential future with Theo. He accepted that. And as for Kane…”

She shook her head, staring out the dark window of the speeding car, the lights of Chicago a blur beyond the smoky glass. “He’s so young. Whatever he thinks he feels for me now … it won’t last. It can’t.”

“Kane’s my age,” Eva pointed out. “If I found love tomorrow, would you tell me not to bother with the relationship, because I’m too young to know what I want?”

She waited, breath caught in her throat, for Claire’s answer. It was silly, how much she cared—there wasn’t a relationship for her to defend, because there couldn’t be right now, and because once Danny found out what she’d done, the way she’d sold her soul to keep the Cooking Channel interested…

Stop it! This is pointless. You’re doing what you have to do, end of story.

But she still held her breath until Claire said, slowly and with obvious reluctance, “It would depend. Is this love you have found with someone utterly unsuitable, extremely different from you, and potentially bad for your career?”

Eva’s breath left her on a frustrated laugh. “Actually, yeah.”

“Then my advice to you would be the same as to myself. Think with your head, not your heart.” Claire arched a sardonic brow. “Or other organs. Love is all very well, but I’ve worked too hard to get where I am now to compromise myself for a fleeting hormonal fantasy. And I’ve watched you work equally as hard, to win your father’s approval and his confidence in you. You’re a heartbeat away from achieving your goal.”

“I know,” Eva said, feeling numb weariness creep over her once more. Scooting around on the bench seat, she leaned her weight into Claire’s slim, bony, yet somehow comforting form and let her head drop to Claire’s shoulder.

“Maybe I really haven’t grown up much since you first met me,” Eva said drowsily, her eyes drooping. She yawned so hard, something in her jaw popped.

“Hmm?” Claire’s arm came up to steady Eva against her side.

“It’s just … I know you’re right. I get it, about sacrificing and making choices and having priorities. But part of me still clings to the idea that I can have it all.”

She felt Claire go motionless against her, but before Eva could rouse herself to see what was the matter, Claire had relaxed again. “I want that for you,
chérie,
” she said, a note of wonder in her voice. “And I want it for myself.”

The last thing Eva was aware of before she dropped into a deep, dreamless catnap was the hard line of Danny Lunden’s jaw, the unexpected lushness of his mouth, and the snap of fire in his blue-gray eyes whenever he looked at her.

She was Eva Jansen, damn it. If anyone could figure out how to have it all, she could.

The ring of his phone jarred Kane out of a two-hour self-imposed isolation session with his guitar. He’d been stuck for the last few days, but tonight he’d felt the stirring of music in his brain, a few snatches of melody and one kicky little phrase his fingers itched to play with, so he’d refused all offers to go out and hunkered down in his hotel suite, with the do not disturb sign on the door and his cell phone set to block calls.

Except for his mama, and Claire Durand.

Laying Betsy carefully on the bed, Kane fumbled across his nightstand for the vibrating phone and snuck a look at the screen before answering.

With a grin wide enough to hurt his cheeks, he said, “Did you miss me?”

He had to strain to hear her reply. “Kane. We need to talk.”

His heart sank. “Uh-oh. Talking’s not our best event. And why are you being so quiet?”

“I don’t want to wake Eva,” Claire said. “She is finally snatching a few well-deserved, much-needed moments of rest. But we are almost back to the hotel, where I’m sure she’ll immediately dive back into work.”

“She’s a powerhouse,” Kane agreed. He knew Claire had been worried about Eva; he’d had a few uneasy moment, himself, wondering if maybe he should say something to get her to slow down before she burned out. “Want me to come up to your suite?”