Some Like It Hot (24 page)

Danny woke up the next morning with the energy of a man who’d slept the sleep of the righteous for a good … two, maybe even two and a half hours.

It would’ve been more, but when he finally fell back into bed, he was hard as a rock from the sleepy sensuality of Eva pressed all along his side, leaning trustingly into him and letting him manhandle her up to her room and under her covers.

Seriously, when they got back to New York, Danny was heading straight for Our Lady and putting in for sainthood.

He still couldn’t believe he’d scraped together the inner fortitude to strip Eva out of her executive-sexy garb and tuck her in, then just … leave.

Saint fucking Danny, patron of horny, self-denying chefs.

But somehow, as the alarm blared them awake and Winslow grumbled his way to the shower, Danny felt more energized than he had in days. Rested, refreshed, and ready to cook his heart out.

Throwing back the covers, he padded over to the bathroom door, steam already escaping through the crack, and yelled, “Chop chop, Winslow. I’ve got something I want to do before we meet everyone downstairs for the big reveal.”

He just wanted to check in on Eva, make sure she was okay after her late night. Nothing that would get either of them in trouble. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how she felt like she had no one to turn to when she needed help. Danny wanted her to know that wasn’t true.

She had him.

And part of him wondered if she’d even remember that last bit of the conversation—the part where she’d come right out and told him she wanted to see him when they got back to New York.

She’d been pretty out of it, so he wasn’t trying to get his hopes up. But the fact that she’d said it at all, that she’d felt that yearning, even for a brief moment … it made Danny twice as eager to see her this morning.

The shower faucet squeaked off. “I’m hurrying as fast as I can. You think this gorgeousness just happens? It takes time to look this good.”

Danny sighed. “Fine, but I call second shower.”

Appearing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his skinny hips and another swirled in a turban around his head, Win said, “So what’s this errand you want to run? Is it anything like the errand that took you out of our room in the middle of the night last night?”

Crap.

“Sorry I woke you,” Danny mumbled, pushing past Winslow and sucking in the misty, moisty air of the bathroom.

“No big.” Winslow shrugged, following him in. When Danny paused before dropping his sweats and getting into the shower, Win rolled his eyes and ostentatiously turned his back. “You got nothing I haven’t seen before. Up close and very personal. But I promise not to look.”

Feeling sheepish, Danny shucked his pants and deliberately didn’t rush to get behind the frosted glass of the shower stall. “Sorry.”

“You straight boys. So body-shy. Not that you’ve got anything to be ashamed of. Rowr,” Winslow said. He sounded amused, so Danny relaxed and twisted the faucet to hot, luxuriating for a long moment in the scalding fall of water over his bare shoulders. He tried to keep his hands out of the stream; they were mostly healed, but direct heat still stung.

“What can I say? We can’t all be as gorgeous as you,” he teased.

“Mmm. True. And flattery will so not distract me from my question. What up with you, Daniel? You find yourself a hot mama ladyfriend who somehow needs to be secret from the rest of us?”

Danny barked his elbow on the jutting tile soap dish and swore as tingly pain radiated up his forearm.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Win said, his voice sounding weird and distorted until Danny realized he was talking and shaving at the same time. “Okay, keep your secrets. You don’t have to spill. Even though I give you all my good gossip. Like, for instance … hold up.”

There was a pause while Danny squirted shampoo into his hair and worked up a lather. It sounded like the bathroom door opened and closed, then the vent switched on above Danny’s head, sucking up steam and laying down a blanket of whirring white noise over the shower.

“I heard,” Winslow confided in a stage whisper, “something very interesting about our mysterious Henry Beck.”

Danny groaned and rinsed, pushing his face into the water. “Not another wild theory about Beck being an assassin for the Mossad or something.”

“No, this one’s legit.” Winslow sounded way too excited.

Danny frowned. “Where’d you hear it? And Win, seriously. It’s not right to go poking around in Beck’s past. If he wants you to know who he is and where he comes from, he’ll tell you.”

“It wasn’t me, I swear. But listen to this, Danny. That Mossad thing wasn’t totally wrong—Beck was in the army! Or the navy, actually, but not like a SEAL or an assassin.”

Danny blinked water out of his eyes. It made a certain kind of sense. Some of the things Beck had said over the last few months, the things he knew, the way he cooked…

“But that’s not
even
the juiciest part,” Win crowed.

“God. Do I want to hear this?” Danny shut off the water and opened the shower door to grope for a towel.

Thick terry cloth plopped into his hand, and Danny grunted a thank-you, wiping off his face and opening his eyes to see Winslow, now dressed, nearly levitating with suppressed glee.

“You def want to hear this, my man, because it explains soooo much. Like, everything that’s gone down since we got here, practically. I mean, we all figured Beck must have known that West Coast chickie, Skye Gladwell, before, right? Clearly. Nobody snaps on a man as hard as he snapped on that Ryan Larousse unless there’s something deeply personal going on.”

“Okay, true,” Danny conceded, briskly rubbing himself dry and making himself a towel kilt before stepping out of the shower stall.

“I thought, hey, he boned her once, maybe. She’s cute, if you like that crunchy granola earth mother look, and, you know, boobies.”

“Over the line, Chef,” Danny warned him, trying not to grin. “What do you think Beck would do if he heard you talking like that?”

“Beck can’t hear me,” Winslow said, “or I wouldn’t. Because I’d be too scared for my mothereffing
life,
man, because Beck is off the hook when it comes to Skye Gladwell. And you wanna know why?”

“They dated,” Danny guessed, heading for the sink and his toothbrush.

Winslow appeared in the mirror behind him, green eyes sparkling with delight. “Way better than that. They were married.”

Danny nearly choked on his toothbrush, minty foam clogging his windpipe as he inhaled sharply. His gaze flew to Winslow’s reflected grin. “Get out of here. And no comments about my gag reflex, please.”

“You’re no fun. And oh yeah, baby. Married.” Winslow nodded vigorously. “But wanna hear the kicker?”

“Are you really offering me a choice?” Danny asked, spitting toothpaste into the sink, but it was rhetorical at this point. He had to know it all, so he could prepare for whatever fallout might hit the team.

Winslow leaned in, his energetic body almost still, for once. “They split up, but they never got divorced.”

Danny turned to face Win, his heart pounding dangerously. This was huge.

“You mean…”

“That’s right,” Winslow said seriously. “Beck and Skye Gladwell are still married.”

Holy shit.

Danny’s brain didn’t want to compute the many ways in which this new information spelled disaster for his crew.

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

“Public record! We found it online. And quit trying to dodge. Now that I’ve showed you mine,” Winslow said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, “you have to show me yours.”

Thoroughly distracted, Danny picked up his razor and stared at it for a moment. Nope. Too dangerous. He’d cut his own throat, the way things were going today. Tossing it back to the counter, he said, “Show you what?”

Win made an impatient noise. “Come on! Spill. Or don’t even, just confirm, because I have a theory.”

“Of course you do,” Danny groaned. “Listen, Win, I don’t want to…”

“It’s Eva Jansen, isn’t it!” Winslow pointed triumphantly at the ceiling, like a cartoon detective having an
aha!
moment.

Danny knew he hadn’t managed to completely hide his wince when Winslow’s blinding white grin spread across his face.

“Okay, yes. I had something going with Eva, before the competition really got started. Nothing serious, and it’s over now.”

Why did both parts of that final sentence make him feel like a liar?

“I knew it!” Winslow clapped his hands together like a little kid at his first birthday party. The sly, suspicious tilt of his mouth didn’t quite fit the image, though. “So if you’re not still doing the nasty, why do you have an errand about her this morning?”

“I never said it was about her,” Danny pointed out. Crap, what time was it? He needed to get moving.

Pushing out into the chill, dry air of the main hotel room, Danny hurried to his suitcase and rummaged through it for a clean-ish pair of jeans.

Beck was awake, Danny saw, and in the midst of his usual morning routine of push-ups and sit-ups, grunting out a number under his breath after each one.

Danny hesitated after getting his clothes on, eyes on the gleaming expanse of Beck’s broad, sweaty back. Should he say something? Like … what? There was nothing to say. He still thought it was wrong to nose through someone else’s past. Better to wait until Beck decided he needed to unload, someday, or until it turned into a problem.

“It is about her, though, right?” Winslow called from the bathroom. “You owe me, Danny, pay up.”

Rushing to stall any further discussion of what Danny owed and why, he said, “Yeah, it’s about Eva, okay? I’ve been worried about her. She’s taken on too much with this competition, it’s wearing her out.”

“So?” Winslow leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, rubbing one palm over his shiny shaved head. “Isn’t that her business?”

He gave Win a look that hopefully conveyed his impression of the irony of Winslow Jones not wanting to get all up in someone else’s business. Win had the grace to blush, but he stuck his chin out. “I’m serious, man. What are you planning?”

Danny sat on the edge of the bed and stuck his feet into his socks. “I’m just going to make sure she slept, and that she’s up in time for the challenge.”

“Why?” Beck asked, kneeling up from his floor exercises, chest heaving slightly. With two sets of eyes scrutinizing him, Danny’s plan suddenly felt flimsy and potentially stupid. Bending to tie the laces on his black Chuck Taylors, Danny said, “Because. She’s … I don’t know, she’s struggling, and I have to help her.”

Danny looked up from his shoes in time to catch the worried look Beck and Winslow exchanged.

“You know,” Win said, an unfamiliar tentative note in his voice. “Not everybody wants to be helped.”

In his deep, slow voice, Beck said, “I have to agree. Eva Jansen doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’s looking for a lot of hand-holding and coddling.”

“She needs help.” Danny stood up and rummaged through his pants from the day before for his wallet and room key. “She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s close to burnout.”

And Danny needed to see her.

“Maybe, but…” Winslow still looked doubtful.

“Guys, lay off,” Danny said, with more firm confidence than he actually felt. “It’s not like I’m going to go try to get her fired or something, just to give her a break from working. All I want is to check in. Make sure she eats breakfast. That kind of thing. Now, don’t be late for the team meet-up downstairs,” he reminded them, heading for the door. “You’ve got forty-five minutes.”

Without pausing to listen to any more stupid advice on how he should suddenly stop being himself and taking care of the people he cared about, Danny made his way down to the competition kitchen. He had a hunch Eva would already be up and at ’em.

When he got there, though, there was no sign of her. Instead, Danny found Theo Jansen, and the man was in deep, serious conversation with another guy. Danny cracked the door open and peered through.

It was Kane Slater. What were these two having such a heart-to-heart over? From what he’d seen over the past week since Theo showed up, they not-so-cordially hated each other.

None of your business, Danny,
he told himself, shaking his head at the way Winslow’s nose for gossip had rubbed off on him.

But just as he moved his hand to let the door swing silently shut, something Theo said rang through his brain like a gong, stopping him cold.

“It’s for the best.” Theo’s voice rumbled, smooth and subtly persuasive. “For everyone, including Eva. I know she’s your friend. If you won’t think of us, at least think of Eva.”

What the hell?

Propping the door open with his foot, Danny checked the hallway. The coast was clear of potential witnesses to this dumb-ass, self-destructive act of eavesdropping.

Which was a damn good thing, because there was no way he could force himself to walk away now.

Kane had been having a good day. Shoot, he’d never been happier. Surrounded by fellow food enthusiasts and awesomely talented chefs, days spent with one of his best friends, and nights with the hottest, smartest, funniest, coolest woman he’d ever met. And Kane had hung out with Madonna! So that was saying something.

He should’ve known it couldn’t last.

If life had taught him anything, it was to grab on to the good stuff and wring every last drop of joy from it, because nothing lasted forever. Had anyone asked, he could’ve honestly said that he’d tried to do that with Claire, but he didn’t know how successful he’d been.

There always seemed to be more to her, more to them and what they could be together, hanging just out of reach like that last, perfect, summer peach way high up at the top of the tree.

When Theo Jansen asked him to meet early that morning, before the challenge began, Kane had assumed it had something to with the competition. He’d bounced in, all chipper and happy, body bruised and sore in the best possible way from the night before. Claire wasn’t kidding about that starving-lion thing. She’d pretty much mauled him.