Too Darn Hot (11 page)

“Chocolates?” The man was a monster! “He sent me chocolates?” She reached for the carton. Maybe just a peek–

No!

She stiffened her spine. “Jason. Tell Mr. Reid this is not helping his cause. He is being, like, totally offensive here.”

“You’re unnatural. Don’t you eat?”

“Good-bye, Jason.”

She closed the door and dashed into her kitchen, where an exhaustive search turned up a stale Tootsie Roll and an ancient packet of low-fat hot cocoa mix that she had to peel off the inside of her cupboard.

*

“I give up.” Eric threw his hands in the air.

Cookie said, “Don’t give up.”

“What does the woman want?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I’m supposed to read her mind, that’s why. I’m supposed to be
original
.” He surveyed the Cookhouse kitchen, heaped with the cartons Lina had sent back. Jason had slunk out murmuring something about unnatural females who don’t, like, eat.

“Okay,” Cookie said. “Time to bring out the big guns.”

*

“I told you, I did not order that!” Lina cried. “Where would I put a thing like that?”

The two sullen delivery men appeared to give that some consideration. Thankfully, they kept any suggestions to themselves.

The three of them stood at the freight entrance behind her apartment building, where she’d been summoned to sign for receipt of Chef Reid’s latest insane attempt at payola. Inside the delivery truck sat an enormous gleaming steel freezer—industrial model. Sharing the truck were cases of yummy things to fill it: filet mignon, lobster tails, salmon steaks, veal cutlets, and who knew what else.

The man was certifiable.

She’d been offered cash bribes in her decade-long career as a reviewer. She’d been offered cases of fine French wine and champagne, liquor, exotic foods, free meals, and—last and unquestionably least—Chef Rudolfo’s “free ride.”

But this was the first time she’d been offered a major appliance.

One of the delivery men shoved a clipboard at her. “Sign here.”

*

“I don’t know about this, Joy.” Lina steered her antique red Mustang onto Woodcleft Avenue, the “Nautical Mile” of Freeport, Long Island. “The closest I’ve come to fishing is the fisherman’s platter at—well, at that restaurant right over there.”

On their left was Woodcleft Canal, a manmade waterway leading to the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Tied up at the dock were large white party boats advertising half-day, full-day, and night fishing trips to the general public. She didn’t know if the long walk down Woodcleft from Front Street to the bay was an actual nautical mile, or even a land mile, for that matter. Not that she knew the difference, but she supposed there had to be one. But whatever the street lacked in “mile,” it more than made up for in “nautical.”

Boat dealerships and gift shops competed for space with fish stores, bait-and-tackle shops, and restaurants, some with open-air seating. Fishing boats sold their catch directly to the public from ice-packed crates set out on the dock.

“Quit griping,” said Joy. “I’ve never been fishing either. It’s an adventure. How do you expect to meet men if you don’t go where the men go?”

“I meet men.”

“Yeah, men who are strictly off-limits. Isn’t that what Etsuko said? ‘Keep your hands off the hot chef’?”

Lina didn’t want to think about the hot chef. She couldn’t believe that grope session at the beach, the frightening ease with which she’d abandoned her principles and let down her guard.

At least she was no longer in danger of succumbing to Eric Reid’s heart-stopping hunkitude. Their relationship was now strictly business. Not only that, he’d shown himself to be the lowest link in the culinary food chain: the Audacious Palm Greaser.

Joy said, “I’m telling you, Lina, you’ve gotta get the upper hand when you set out to meet guys. When they go fishing with their buddies, the last thing they’re expecting is single women on the prowl. Men are simple. You present them with something they can’t easily compartmentalize—an out-of-context female—and right away you gain the advantage. It’s all about getting them off-kilter, capitalizing on their weaknesses.”

“Are we talking about meeting men or toppling a small dictatorship?”

Joy stuck out her tongue at her. “Oh! There it is.” She pointed to a boat tied up at the dock.

“Why this boat?” Lina asked.

“George Quinn recommended it—I saw him at that pasta class at The Cookhouse last Wednesday.”

Lina looked at the name painted in fanciful script on the seventy-foot hull: the
Captain Joe II
. A few people were already aboard, leaning on the rail, laughing and chatting, gearing up for an evening of fishing. She pulled in to the boat’s parking lot and found a space. It was seven o’clock, and the sun still shone bright in the western sky.

Lina asked, “You sure we can rent fishing rods on the boat?”

“That’s what George said.” Joy hauled a cooler chest out of the Mustang’s trunk. “Hope you’re hungry. I’ve got fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, lemonade—and something special.” She winked.

“Bloodworms!” Lina gushed. “My favorite.”

“They’ll give us bait on the boat, too. Would you settle for blackout cake? Here, you take this.” Joy handed Lina a lightweight foam chest—empty.

“What’s this for?”

“Our catch.”

“A tad optimistic, no? Anyway, who’s going to be fishing? I thought we were angling for men with rods.”

“We have to put on a good show or the jig’s up.”

They started across the street toward the boat. Lina’s eyes were drawn to a tall wooden piling on which were nailed perhaps a dozen gaping shark jaws of varying sizes. The display was as fascinating as it was creepy.

“I have motion-sickness pills. You want one?” Joy asked her.

“No need. I don’t get seasick.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been on my share of dinner cruises. Trust me.”

They followed a walkway to a narrow white gangplank and were soon aboard the
Captain Joe II
. Everyone else—Joy included—was wearing jeans and T-shirts. Lina felt more than a bit out of place in her sleeveless ice blue raw silk top, champagne-colored linen slacks, and matching suede flats. The linen blazer slung over one shoulder matched the slacks. Blue topaz earrings and necklace completed the outfit.

Well, they were supposed to be meeting men!

Lina and Joy made their way down the starboard side, between the railing and the hard bench that hugged the outside wall of the enclosed cabin. Lina peered in through the cabin’s windows and saw chairs, a snack bar, and bathrooms. Not bathrooms: heads, she mentally corrected herself. Gotta remember the lingo.

Joy chose a spot, produced a scrap of cloth, and tied it to the railing. “This’ll mark our place. According to—”

“George. Tell me, did the poor guy get to do any cooking Wednesday while you were picking his brains about this noble sport?”

“He’s so sweet,” Joy sighed. “Too bad he’s unavailable.”

“Married?”

“The other unavailable.”

“Engaged?”

“The other unavailable.”

“No! George Quinn?”

“Whose idea do you think this was? This is how he meets guys.”

Lina eyeballed the crowd, and hissed, “Joy, if you got us on some kind of gay fishing excursion, I swear I’ll—”

“Fat chance. Don’t you see the way those two are looking at us? Don’t look. Okay, now look.”

“Joy, they’re kids.” The pair ogling them as they set up their tackle a few yards down the railing couldn’t have been more than eighteen. All acne and attitude.

Joy scrutinized the boys more intently. “Maybe they came with their dads.”

“Right. Their godlike bachelor dads. Why did I let you talk me into this?”

It wasn’t long before a mate came by to collect money and set them up with fishing tackle. Lina stared at his filthy rubber waders and at her own carefully chosen outfit. She’d spent half an hour deciding what to wear before settling on light colors and delicate fabrics.

After the mates had collected the fees—plus a bit extra for the pool to award whoever caught the biggest fish—the
Captain Joe II
pulled away from the dock. Lina experienced an elemental thrill as the boat slowly chugged the length of the canal and emerged in the bay. It passed under a bridge clogged with bumper-to-bumper parkway traffic, and she felt a flash of pity for the drivers inching along overhead.

As for herself, she was beginning to relax and enjoy the experience. Deciding to leave the man-hunting to Joy, she came to the conclusion that her most pressing concern during the next few hours would be keeping potato salad off her new outfit. Life didn’t get much better.

Joy suggested a stroll around the deck: reconnaissance. When Lina expressed more interest in leaning on the railing and watching the island recede, her roommate struck out on her own.

Lina hadn’t felt this peaceful, this carefree, in years. Perhaps this had been a good idea after all, she reflected, for her mental health if not her love life.

“Made any conquests yet?”

At the sound of the distinctive raspy voice, her heart did a little bump and grind in her chest. She turned to see Eric Reid leaning on the railing next to her, a cream-lapping grin on his handsome face.

Chapter Ten

She was struck dumb.

“No?” he said. “I thought you had those two in your pocket for sure.” He nodded toward the leering youths.

Watching Eric tie a ragged bandanna on the railing to mark his spot, she muttered, “I’ll kill her.”

“Don’t blame Joy. It’s not her fault. Sound carries very well in The Cookhouse kitchen. All that steel and terra-cotta.”

“You eavesdropped.”

“George Quinn isn’t exactly the most soft-spoken guy.”

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “Cornering me like a rabbit. I can’t even get away from you.” She gestured broadly at the surrounding water. So much for serenity.

“I wouldn’t have gone to these lengths if you’d deigned to speak to me on the phone. I must’ve left a dozen messages on your voice mail.”

She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I make it a habit to screen my calls. We have nothing to say to each other.”

Eric’s snug black T-shirt was tucked into low-slung, faded jeans worn to shreds at the knees. He looked good, damn him, and smelled better.

He shook his head. “I have never met a woman harder to figure out. I thought that once we got that business about my marital status squared away, you’d stop being so schitzy.”

“Schitzy? Me?”

“Honey, you do more flip-flops than the Flying Wallendas.”

“What, exactly, am I flip-flopping on now?”

“The bribe I’m giving you.”

“Eric! Shh.” She clapped a hand over his mouth and glanced around to see if anyone had heard. “You’re not giving me a bribe.”

He wrested her hand away and held it by the wrist. “Correction. I’m giving, you’re not taking.”

“Glad you finally noticed.”

A look of distaste came over his features. “This whole nasty business will go a lot smoother if you can be a little more direct about your expectations.”

“I thought I was pretty darn direct.”

“Well, run it by me again. I’m pretty darn slow.”

Quivering with indignation, she jerked her hand out of his grip. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about the way reviews are earned, but let me make one thing absolutely clear. I don’t accept bribes. I evaluate every establishment strictly on its merits. And then I write about the best of the lot. No amount of caviar or steaks or bourbon pecan tarts—not even a damn Deepfreeze!—is going to sway me. Is any of this getting through to you?”

Eric looked like he’d been poleaxed. His mouth worked and finally he spread his arms and hollered, “You
asked
for a bribe!”

From bow to stern, all eyes turned toward them.

“What?” she said, eyes bulging. “I never!”

“Don’t deny it. You stood right there in that parking lot and demanded I pay you off for reviewing The Cookhouse. Something more original than a few free meals, you said. You said—”

“I know what I said. How was I to know you’d take it seriously?”

“How the hell was I supposed to take it?”

“Yeah!” cried a man a few yards away, gesturing with his beer can.

Lowering her voice, she asked Eric, “Don’t you know sarcasm when you hear it?”

“Didn’t sound like sarcasm to me. Sounded like you had this whole bribe-taking thing down—while belittling my offer of meals on the house. Which, by the way, was a friendly gesture, nothing more. Certainly not a payoff.”

He was flushed with outrage, and Lina saw it all clearly for the first time. She wanted to hurl herself overboard. “You—you said it was in exchange for my review. That’s what you said.”

“And you took it literally.” His droll expression made her feel even more foolish.

“The same way you took my sarcastic response.”

Eric scrubbed at his jaw. A full minute passed. Finally he said, “Took me a whole damn day to make those tarts.”

“You don’t know how hard it was to send them back. And the chocolates,” she groaned.

A hint of the toe-curling smile. “Never claimed I fight clean.” Facing her, he leaned one elbow on the railing and asked, “What made you so jumpy about this whole subject to begin with?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your response to my innocent offer was nothing less than a monumental overreaction. Right away visions of graft are dancing in your head, when anyone else would’ve been saying, why, what a swell, generous guy that Eric Reid is.”

She replayed the conversation in her mind. He was right. How could she have so thoroughly misconstrued his words?

He angled his head to look her in the eye. “Well?”

“I guess...I’m a little sensitive on the subject.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he asked gently, “What happened?”

“It’s nothing I want to talk about.”

“Tell me anyway. You owe me.”

She sent him a challenging look.

He said, “For two weeks I ran myself ragged—and nearly bankrupt—trying to satisfy your avaricious urges.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s not all that complicated. I was very close to Mercy Litton. She helped me get started in this business. I guess you could say she was my mentor.”