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“You won the cab.” Broad shoulders lifted and his gaze lowered to her lips again. “As for anything else, I’m not beating myself up over it. It was...nice.”
“Nice?” She replied too quickly to edit the incredulity from her tone.
“You have a better adjective for it?” His tone held a dare.
She shook her head and he went on.
“It’s a little inconvenient, though.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.
He smiled, looking as satisfied as Lara had felt after that amazing kiss. “I think you do.”
Oh, yeah. She did, all right.
He went on. “I want you to know in advance that I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Taking you down.”
The grin that stole over his face now was worthy of a plundering pirate.
“Damn, you’re arrogant.” But she said it without any heat. In fact, she couldn’t hold back her own smile.
Ahead of them, Tristan was saying, “Each of you has been randomly assigned a workstation. All of the stations are identical with identical supplies. Today, you will have one hour—no more, no less—to acquaint yourself with the space and set it up as you see fit.
“If something is missing or an appliance doesn’t work properly, it’s your responsibility to tell one of the staff before you leave today. Once filming starts on Monday, no adjustments will be made. None,” he stated firmly with a steely glance around. “You will just have to make do.”
Tristan had walked while he talked. The group now stood outside the studio. Over the double doors a red light was encased in a metal cage. It was off now, indicating that no taping was going on. Soon enough the set would be hot and filming would be under way.
As a food stylist, Lara had spent a great deal of time under bright lights and around cameras. She’d considered that good training for this competition. She’d even figured it might give her a leg up on her opponents—until Tristan pushed open the doors and they all filed inside.
The overhead lights glared off the appliances as well as the stainless-steel-topped prep stations.
Someone yelled, “Sweet!”
And she heard a few oaths, some uttered in awe, others laced with foreboding. Hers fell into the latter category.
“It looks different on television,” Finn said.
It certainly did. On TV it seemed smaller, almost intimate. It looked like a real restaurant kitchen rather than a massive set riddled with cables and camera equipment.
Ovens and prep stations lined two of the walls. The third wall boasted a pantry, an impressively stocked wine rack and a double-door refrigerator, as well as an ice-cream machine, blast chiller, anti-griddle and other specialized appliances.
The setup allowed for the contestants as well as the camera operators to move around freely. And, of course, come Monday, the show’s on-air host, Garrett St. John, would be there as well, roaming the set while he narrated the competitors’ actions and performed spontaneous on-air interviews as they worked.
On-air interviews.
Bile threatened to creep up the back of her throat at the thought. She’d scored a C-minus in public speaking in high school. Too much lip-smacking and too many ums, according to her teacher. Oh, and she talked too fast and failed to make enough eye contact with the audience.
“If anyone suffers stage fright, I suggest you get over it now,” Tristan said. “In addition to the twelve of you, this set will be crowded with several dozen other people next week. A number of them will be operating cameras trained not only on what you are making, but on your faces. You may have as many as a dozen focused on you at any given time. Every grin, every grimace, every little dot of perspiration on your forehead will be recorded.”
“Gee, that makes me feel better,” Lara murmured thickly.
Next to her, Finn grunted out what passed for a laugh.
Tristan was saying, “When the show airs, the fans will be rooting for their favorites. We want to give them as much of you as possible. That’s why a lot of what doesn’t make it into each week’s televised episode will wind up on the show’s website.”
Tristan’s cell rang. He glanced at the display.
“Sorry. I need to take this. And while I do, I need for all of you to wait here. No searching for your workstations until I return,” he added before walking out in the hallway to talk on his phone.
“Nervous?” Finn asked.
Heck, yeah, she was nervous. But she shook her head and tried to look unconcerned.
Her denial was met with one raised eyebrow. “And I thought you were honest,” he chided softly.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” she allowed. “Not about cooking for the judges or having to do it while facing down a clock, but—”
“Liar.”
She ignored him and continued. “But about the entertainment component. I’m a chef, not an actor.” She gestured around her. “I think we’re all nervous about working in front of the cameras.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Are you telling me you’re not the least bit anxious?”
“I can’t afford to be if I want to win. And I want to win.”
“Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”
The smile her word elicited was illicit. He leaned closer, and his tone was matter-of-fact when he clarified, “I’m going to win.”
Another time she might have found such self-assuredness sexy, especially when paired with smoky eyes and a devilish grin. Since it ran counter to her own plans, however, she told him, “In your dreams, Paper.”
Finn chuckled. “I was right about figuring you for a rock. But the only thing I’m dreaming about right now—” His gaze flicked to her lips and he hesitated before clarifying, “The only thing I can afford to dream about is being the last chef standing in this kitchen.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Try a dozen of us,” scoffed the young man standing to Lara’s right.
She’d forgotten about him—she’d forgotten about all of them—as she and Finn had engaged in a quiet battle of words that carried an undertone of flirting.
Kirby Something-or-other. From where she stood, she wasn’t able to make out the last name on his badge. She pegged him to be in his early twenties. His shaggy hair stuck out at odd angles and gave the overall appearance of having been hacked off with a meat cleaver.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t all be friendly, y’all.” The speaker this time was a middle-aged blonde whose waist was as thick as her Southern accent. Her badge read Flo Gimball.
“That’s right. We can be friendly. Course, it won’t change anything. I’m going to win,” boasted a gravelly-voiced man who sported a shaved head, gauged ears and a five-inch-long goatee.
Thanks to two full sleeves of tattoos, he would have looked right at home in a biker bar. Rebel that he was, he wasn’t wearing the name tag he’d received from the security desk in the lobby, but the Gothic lettering on the side of his neck spelled out Ryder. Lara assumed it was his name—whether first, last or otherwise, she couldn’t be sure.
“Right,” she muttered half under her breath.
Sorry, but she couldn’t see Ryder in her father’s kitchen. For starters, Clifton wasn’t a fan of body art, which was probably why she had gotten a yin-yang symbol the size of a half-dollar inked on her lower back as soon as she’d turned eighteen. Her dad had been livid when he found out. She’d been smug and secretly pleased to have gotten his attention. Now, every time she wore a bathing suit, she just felt stupid.
“You got something to say?” Ryder asked in a voice as gritty as cornmeal.
The guy easily stood six-six and carried his fillet knife in a sheath attached to his belt. Fish and prime cuts of meat probably weren’t the only things he used it on. Lara gulped, a purely reflexive action that she regretted immediately when the huge man grinned as if he could smell her fear.
“Down, boy.” Finn surprised her by stepping between them. “Pick on someone your own size.”
Ryder’s laughter chewed through the silence that followed Finn’s valiant admonition like the rusty blade of a chain saw.
“I musta missed the memo that said we’re competing in pairs. What, pretty boy? Are you gonna be her sous-chef?” Ryder taunted.
The barb earned snickers from some of the other competitors.
Lara appreciated Finn’s gesture, but she couldn’t afford to be perceived as weak. Stepping around him, she told Ryder, “Actually, I do have something to say, but I’ll let my food do the talking on Monday.”
For that matter, she hoped that whatever she prepared in the allotted time would speak volumes to the trio of judges, which would include a different celebrity chef each week.
“Should be pretty quiet, then,” said a statuesque brunette whose name badge read Angel Horvath.
Her overinflated lips curved into a smile that was too menacing to be perceived as friendly, and Lara was left with the impression that it wouldn’t be smart to turn her back on the woman—or any of her fellow competitors, for that matter.
That included Finn, their kiss in the cab and his recent act of gallantry notwithstanding. They all had the same objective: winning. As Finn already had pointed out, that made them adversaries.
Tristan had returned for part of the exchange. He clapped his hands together again in a gesture that Lara was already starting to find annoying.
“Hey, chefs. I have no problem with trash talk. In fact, undermining another contestant’s confidence can be a good strategy. But save it for the cameras, please. We have too much to do over the next couple of days to waste time on your egos.”
Lara cast a sideways glance at Finn. The easygoing smile he’d sported was gone, replaced by an expression more in keeping with the intensity she’d spied earlier in his gaze. His game face, she thought, and experienced a flicker of disappointment that they hadn’t met under other circumstances.
THREE
Mix well
The competitors had one hour, not a minute more, to familiarize themselves with their surroundings. Finn had to restrain himself to a brisk walk when Tristan finally released them to go find their workstations. He wanted to run like a couple of the other chefs were doing, but he knew better. Haste in a kitchen was often met with disaster. So he moved quickly, but safely as he searched for his name on the white placards affixed to the stainless-steel vent hoods.
Finn had spent his entire adult life in and around professional kitchens—some of them better equipped and better run than others. For a while, he’d presided over his own in a restaurant dubbed Rascal’s, which he’d owned with his wife and best friend. Ex-wife now. And former best friend.
He was at home amid pots, pans and appliances, but he wasn’t exactly in his element here.
Finn hadn’t admitted it before, but he shared Lara’s trepidation about cooking in front of a slew of cameras for a television audience that ultimately would not taste his creations. He had no problem preparing his signature dishes in a crowded restaurant kitchen where well-ordered chaos reigned, but this was different. So much in the Cuisine Cable Network’s kitchen was unknown, unaccounted for and just plain beyond his control.
It came down to a hand of cards. Literally. At the start of each competition the host would deal three oversize cards. One specified the amount of time the chefs had to cook. Another gave the course they had to prepare—appetizer, entrée or dessert. The final card revealed the identity of the celebrity judge.
And then there was the plainspoken and pretty Lara Smith.
If the first blow of attraction had landed like a sucker punch, the second, when he’d stumbled upon her in the waiting room, had delivered the knockout.
Wouldn’t it just figure that the first woman to arouse his interest—and then some—since Sheryl had buried a knife in his back would be one he was competing against for the chance of a lifetime?
Priorities, Westbrook, priorities, he silently admonished.
Sex and his social life rated lower on the list than getting back what he’d lost. And thanks to Sheryl and Cole, he’d lost everything.
Of course, all of the chefs here were determined to win. But it was different for Finn. For him, it went deeper than bragging rights and securing a coveted position with a paycheck to match. Being crowned the Chesterfield’s executive chef wouldn’t be a stop as much as a stepping-stone. He needed it to launch his comeback.
Nothing and no one would stand in his way.
He found his station and smothered a bemused laugh. So much for putting distance between himself and Lara Smith. They would be working side by side.
At the moment, however, it wasn’t her side that had Finn’s attention. She was bent at the waist, inspecting the oven. It was all he could do to hold back a groan at his first unrestricted view of her butt. Overall, she was too slender to be considered voluptuous, but her rear had a definite curve that filled out her fitted pants nicely. If she liked to sample her cooking, as chefs were wont to do, she worked off the extra calories later. When his libido started to fantasize about exactly how, he swallowed hard and reeled it in.
She glanced over as she straightened, and smiled.
“We meet again,” he said in a lame attempt to cover his embarrassment over being caught ogling her butt.
The bright lights teased streaks of copper from her otherwise auburn hair, and idly he wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared.
“That reminds me. I never properly introduced myself.” She rubbed the palm of her right hand on the thigh of her pants before holding it out. “I’m—”
“No need.” A handshake? Really? They’d already kissed. “Besides, I know who you are.”
“Y-you know?” Her eyes rounded at that and her face paled to the point he thought she might pass out.
It was a curious reaction. She didn’t only sound surprised but, well, guilty.
“You’re wearing a badge with your name on it,” he pointed out.
“I... A badge. Right. I’m wearing a badge.” She laughed awkwardly as she patted the rectangular sticker affixed to a chest that, in his estimation, was neither too large nor too small, but just the right size. She motioned to the prep table that they would be sharing. “It looks like we’re going to be working together.”
The idea, like the woman, was way too appealing for his peace of mind, so he clarified, “We won’t be working together, Lara. We’ll be competing against each other.”
“Adversaries,” she said, parroting what he had said earlier.
“Yep. And as I already told you, I intend to win.”
She notched up her chin, not appearing to be cowed in the least by his bravado.
He found her arrogance a surprising turn-on when she replied in a haughty voice, “You keep telling yourself that, Paper. You just keep telling yourself that.”
* * *
Smooth.
Lara patted the badge even as she wanted to give her forehead a slap. She supposed the fact that she was so lousy at lying was a testament to how rarely she did it. Deceit did not come naturally to her. No, that would be her mother.
Even with her father—especially with him—Lara had always been truthful. Blunt and tactless, yes, but truthful all the same.
At least Finn was no longer staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was going about his business, as should she, since they had only an hour in the kitchen studio.
Satisfied that the oven and stove-top burners worked, Lara turned her attention to the prep table. While all of the contestants had their own ovens, the tables, which ran parallel to them, were ten feet long and intended to accommodate two chefs. All of her preparations, including plating the finished product, would take place on that single length of stainless-steel real estate, and she was going to have to share it with the handsome man who had her mind wandering to other uses for a handy horizontal surface.
“Something wrong?” He stopped what he was doing and looked over at her.
Lara felt a flush creep over her cheeks, one of the curses of having a redhead’s fair skin.
“No. Nothing’s...wrong.” She forced her gaze from him to the prep top, where a couple of containers filled with spatulas, slotted spoons and the like, and some bottles of oil were all that delineated one chef’s side from the other. “It’s just not a lot of space for two people.”
“Worried I’ll take advantage of you?”
She felt her face flame anew as a couple of more inappropriate thoughts threatened to storm the gates of propriety. Worried? More like wishing.
“I just hope you’re not one of those chefs who like to spread out.”
“I’ll keep all of my stuff on my side if you’ll do the same.” To illustrate his point, Finn moved a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to his section.
“Actually, I think we’re supposed to share the oil.”
He glanced at the trio of bottles, which were filled with different varieties, some of which were intended for cooking, others for adding flavor afterward.
“Ah. So I see.” He moved the bottle back to the dividing line. “Are we good?”
“That depends.” She canted her leg out to one side and settled a hand on her hip. She was only half kidding when she said, “When you’re cooking, are you neat? Some chefs aren’t and it’s a pet peeve of mine.”
Indeed, it was one of the rare points on which Lara and her father actually saw eye to eye.
“As a pin. What about you?”
“A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“Then I’d say the two of us will get along fine.”
“Yes, we’re...” Her gaze homed in on his mouth as she recalled their kiss. “We’re very...”
Finn’s smirk told her he knew exactly where her mind had wandered.
“Compatible? Is that the word you’re looking for?”
Oh, she had a feeling they would be that and then some.
She looked away and blurted out the first thing she could think of. “The knives aren’t bad.”
Five of the most essential blades clung to magnetic strips that were mounted on the wall behind each contestant’s stove. Even at a glance, she could gauge the quality. The network had spared no expense.
“Will you be using them?” he asked.
“Please.” She snorted at that. More so than any other utensil in a chef’s kitchen, knives were personal, their weight and balance suited to the user. As such, they were the one item the contestants were allowed to bring with them from home. “Are you kidding?”
He shrugged. “Just trying to get a feel for what kind of chef you are.”
She was the kind who deserved to be heading up the Chesterfield’s kitchen, a job she was going to do her damnedest to earn.
Tristan, apparently having overheard their conversation, said, “Remember, chefs. You’re limited to seven.” He’d been making the rounds in the studio, hands clasped behind his back, his expression reminiscent of a warden’s. “Are you finding everything to be in working order at your stations?”
“So far so good,” Finn said.
She nodded in agreement.
Once Tristan had moved on, Finn said, “I wonder if Ryder will show up next week wearing all of his knives on his belt. The guy’s a trip.”
The visual nearly had her smiling.
“I was going to say scary. Thanks for earlier, by the way.”
She might not have needed Finn’s interference, but she’d appreciated the gesture.
“He was just trying to psych you out.”
Mind games.
For a sobering second she wondered if Finn was playing one now, being nice, friendly, lulling her into complacency with words that were every bit as enticing as his good looks. She didn’t want to think so, but as Tristan had mentioned earlier, a chef could use trickery and deceit as part of his or her overall strategy.
Underhandedness made for good television. Still, Lara couldn’t see her father condoning such behavior in the person tapped to run his kitchen. Of course, Clifton wouldn’t have much of a choice—at least not for one year. She’d read the fine print in the rules. The winner was ensured employment as the head chef for that long, although he or she could be fired for cause before then.
“What made you sign on for this?” Finn asked.
Lara opted for the most obvious answer, which also saved her from having to lie. She felt like enough of a fraud already. “I want the job. You?”
“The same.” He said it quickly, a little too quickly.
They eyed one another.
“It’s a great opportunity. The chance of a lifetime.” She smiled.
“It’s also a lot of hoops to jump through to run your own kitchen.”
“It’s not just any kitchen, though. It’s the Chesterfield. Two American presidents have eaten there, as well as an assortment of state and federal lawmakers. On any given night you can find a Tony-Award-winning actor or Hollywood A-lister seated in the dining room raving about the roasted duck or—”
She broke off, becoming aware that she sounded just like her father used to when Lara or her mother had dared to complain about the amount of time he spent there.
Meanwhile, Finn didn’t appear overly awed, even when he leaned closer and added, “You forgot its Michelin rating. Three stars.”
Okay, now she was confused. “You’re not impressed?”
“Oh, I’m impressed, all right. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He was holding one of the knives, and he used it to make a sweeping motion around the studio. “Even so, I’d bet you the title that more than a few of the chefs here have a reason beyond the Chesterfield’s prestige for signing up for this show.”
Lara glanced around, considering. Perhaps Finn was right. He certainly was right about her. She had something to prove. To her father. To herself. And, okay, maybe she could perform a little bit of penance in the process.
He was saying, “It’s those reasons you have to worry about.”
Intrigued, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“That’s where passion comes from.”
Finn returned the knife to the magnetic strip, offered the same smile that he’d given her after he’d surrendered the cab and asked for that kiss. The effect was every bit as mesmerizing. Lara’s skin felt as if it had been splattered with hot grease.
With her gaze on his mouth, she almost corrected him. It wasn’t passion’s only origin.
* * *
They didn’t talk for the next several minutes as they acquainted themselves not only with their immediate stations but also the set’s overall configuration. Indeed, the kitchen was unnaturally quiet. All of the chefs were alert and on edge.
The pantry consisted of several freestanding, metal-framed shelving units. An assortment of bins and containers, contents clearly labeled in bold lettering, filled them.
“So, that’s a red onion,” the quirky-haired Kirby said.
Lara, Finn and several of the other chefs laughed.
Tristan adjusted his glasses and allowed a moment for their mirth before saying, “Obviously, the labels are intended for viewers at home. Although in the heat of battle, some of you also might find yourselves grateful for them.”
“I notice that several of these are empty, Tristan.” Flo pointed to a bin marked Bell Peppers.
“Not to worry. They’ll be full on Monday with fresh produce.”
“How fresh?” Lara wanted to know. “And where does the show do its shopping?”
“You’re the food stylist, right?” Tristan asked.
Other than her pseudonym, Lara had tried to be as truthful as possible on her application to the show. So, in addition to her education and professional background, she’d jotted down her current job title.
Ryder snickered, apparently sharing her father’s derogatory opinion of her profession.
She squared her shoulders. “That’s my current job, yes. And, as a food stylist, I know that the fresher the ingredients, the better-looking the finished product. The same, obviously, goes for taste. There is a huge difference between the flavor of a tomato allowed to ripen on the vine before it’s picked and shipped to a nearby market, and a hydroponic pretender trucked to a grocery store half a dozen states away. I don’t want that difference to cost me with the judges.”