“You’re wicked with that knife.”

“Knife skills are one of the best weapons in a chef’s arsenal,” Remy said.

Remy found the same comfort of working in the kitchen with Staci as he did in his own kitchen back home. But that didn’t surprise him; he’d always known he was meant to be a chef. He just wasn’t sure he was meant to follow his father’s and uncles’ culinary vision.

Staci distracted him and that intrigued him. He’d had affairs before—he was too passionate and his sexual drive was too high for him not to. But he’d never allowed himself an affair with another chef. It seemed to him that life was best served by keeping his personal and professional lives separate.

Now, he wasn’t sure. He watched her dip her spoon into the sauce she was preparing and that tiny pink tongue of hers darted out to lick it. In his mind, he moved closer to her and tested the sauce, not from the spoon but from her lips.

“Want a taste?” she asked.

He snapped back to the present and nodded. He wanted way more than a taste, but that would be a good place to start. She held the spoon out to him but he took her wrist and drew her closer to him.

Her lips parted and her tongue darted out again, this time to wet her lips. Her pupils dilated and there was a rosy flush that climbed up her face.

“Delicious …” he said.

Dear Reader,

I’m obsessed. Not about anything naughty but about televised cooking competitions. I can watch them from the US, the UK and Australia and I do. I love the subtle nuances of each of the different shows. And I admire how, no matter what the country, the competitors are fierce. I can’t get enough of watching the interaction of the contestants and wondering what if …?

What if one of the contestants was the son of a famous chef? What if he lied about who he was and what if, as happens in real life, he falls for a woman while living this lie? These are the seeds of the story that became Sizzle.

I hope you enjoy it!

Happy reading!

Katherine Garbera

About the Author

KATHERINE GARBERA is a USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty books, who has always believed in happy endings. She lives in England with her husband, children and their pampered pet, Godiva. Visit Katherine on the web at www.katherinegarbera.com, or catch up with her on Facebook and Twitter.

Sizzle
Katherine Garbera

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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It’s funny how you can know someone her entire life and still be surprised by how much you still enjoy hanging out with her years later. This book is dedicated to my sister Donna. Love you, DD.

Special thanks to Kathryn Lye for insight in the early stages when I was going down a wrong path.

1

STACI ROWLAND RAN THE LAST block and a half to the Hamilton Ramsfeld kitchen and studios. She was late, more than late she was on the verge of blowing the chance of a lifetime—the chance to be on Premier Chef. And the chance to win half a million dollars and have her own television cooking show. The chance to get back into a Michelin starred kitchen and prove that all the raw young talent she’d had hadn’t been wasted.

She was running late because she was a little short of money this week, which was her own fault because she’d blown every cent of her disposable income on a new set of knives for this competition. Gas prices were high and she hadn’t been able to afford a tank of gas from San Diego to Santa Monica so instead she’d had to bus it.

Now sweat was dripping down her back, she was overheated and the knives she carried in her left hand were starting to feel as if they weighed a ton. She ran through the front doors of the building, air-conditioning immediately starting to cool her damp back. She glanced at the empty reception desk.

“Damn,” she said, under her breath, rushing to the desk to find a clipboard with a list of names, including hers and instructions to take the elevator to the fourteenth floor. She pushed the elevator button and opened her purse to search for the letter she’d received from the Premier Chef producers, hoping it had an exact room number on it. The bell pinged and she stepped into the elevator car, catching the toe of her shoe on the lip of the gap, which sent her sprawling forward.

Staci cursed as she tumbled through the air expecting to hit the floor and instead hit a warm solid person. She heard his curse as a stream of cool liquid washed over both of them. She glanced up, an apology on her lips, and froze as she stared into a pair of Caribbean blue eyes. She tried to push herself free but her hand slipped on his arm and he gripped her waist to keep her upright.

“Oh fudge,” she said. “I’m just not having a good day.”

He was tall and, she could tell from the way he was holding her, well built with a muscled chest and strong shoulders. His jaw was square with an almost bullish set to it and when he looked down at her with those brilliant blue eyes of his, they were frosty. Not frosty enough to dry the sweat dripping down her back but she felt a definite chill. Great, she thought, it was as if the universe was conspiring to ruin her day.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s cool,” he said, his southern drawl washed over her senses and she did a double take. He had casually ruffled dark black hair that curled over his forehead. His body was lean and muscular not typical of every chef she’d met. And she had no doubt that he was a chef. “Maybe next time you should look where you are going?”

“Thanks, I hadn’t thought of that,” she shot back. Not in a mood to be sweet and cheery since she was overheated and as the liquid dried on her skin it felt sticky. “What were you drinking?”

“Sweet tea,” he said.

Of course he was since his voice was all Southern plantations and magnolia trees she wasn’t surprised. She brushed her hands over her clothes and shook her head. “Someone up there really hates me.”

“Up there?” he asked, reaching around her to push the button for the fourteenth floor.

“The universe or heaven or whatever you like to call the fickle fates,” she said, tucking a strand of her short hair behind her ear.

“Why are you blaming an unseen power when you are clearly running late?” he asked. “If you’d been here on time none of this would have happened.”

“Touché,” she said.

Silence grew between them and Staci tried to just let it be, but she hated quiet … always had.

“Are you here for the competition?” she asked. It was an educated guess, but one she suspected would be confirmed since he held a bag of chef knives in one hand.

“Yes,” he said. “I hope you are better in the kitchen than you are in the elevator.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen me at my best in the elevator,” she said with a wink. Then holding out her hand to him, she introduced herself. “I’m Staci Rowland.”

“Remy … Stephens,” he said. His handgrip was firm and his hand was warm in hers. His hands showed signs that he’d been a chef for a while with burn marks and nicks that had long since scarred over. If his hands were any indication the man could cook.

She stared at his face perhaps a little longer than she should, unable to look away from the beard stubble on his face, which gave him a rugged sexy appearance. When she glanced back at his eyes she saw that he’d lifted one eyebrow at her.

She dropped his hand and rubbed hers on her jean-clad leg. What the hell was wrong with her today?

“Oh, like that little mouse in Ratatouille,” she said. Her niece loved that film and after they’d watched it together Louisa had insisted on having ratatouille for dinner.

“Ratatouille? The vegetable dish?”

“No,” she said. “The Disney-Pixar movie. It’s about a chef who is lost and finds his culinary way with the help of a little mouse named Remy.”

“Um … no like my great-uncle,” he said. “I don’t watch animated movies.”

She shrugged. “It’s cute. You should give it a try.”

She stepped further back to look at him. “Sorry again about bumping into you.”

“No problem. I get messier in the kitchens,” he said. “I’m just thinking about cooking today.”

“Me, too,” she said with a half-smile. “I’m the co-owner of Sweet Dreams, a cupcake bakery in San Diego.”

“The cupcake girl,” he said. “I read over the profiles of the other chefs this morning.”

“Cupcake girl? My partner and I own a very profitable bakery … I’d rather not be referred to as the cupcake girl.” She wished she’d thought to read the profiles as well, maybe then she’d know more about Remy. But as she’d been running late she hadn’t had time.

Now he was the one to step back and gave her a low bow. “My most humble apologies, baker.”

“Where do you work?” she asked.

“I’m sort of between gigs right now but I’ve worked in the best kitchens in New Orleans.”

“I suspected as much,” she said.

“How?”

“That slow Southern drawl of yours gave you away.”

He gave her a slow steady smile that made her pulse kick up a notch. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was but there was something familiar in his smile. Also something so damned sexy that she wondered if she should just get off at the next floor.

Some women were into men in uniforms, others into men with power and money but for her it had always been the earthy sensuality of a man who could cook.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his drawl even more pronounced than before.

She grinned back. “Maybe.”

He arched one eyebrow at her. “Most people find my accent charming.”

“Really?”

He gave her a measured look and then winked at her. “Cupcake girl, it’s a big part of my personality,” he said. “Some people underestimate me based on it, but I use that to my advantage in the kitchen. I can be very demanding.”

She knew he was talking about cooking but a part of her was thinking he’d also be demanding in the bedroom. She cleared her throat.

“I am, too,” she said. Running the bakery with Alysse was hard work and they’d only become successful by making sure the bakery always came first.

“Cupcake girl—”

“If you call me cupcake girl again I’m not going to be so nice.”

“This was you being nice?” he asked.

And though the tone was still there in his voice she glanced up at his eyes and saw a hint of a sparkle. She liked him and looked forward to kicking his butt in the kitchen.

“Guess you’re not the only one who is more spice than sugar,” she said.

The door opened and they were met with a long line of folks waiting to sign in.

“I’m surprised to see so many people here today,” she said.

“I’m not. The prize money is going to bring out everyone from executive chefs to prep cooks,” he said. “I’m going to wash up. See you in the kitchen.”

She watched him walk away before giving herself a mental slap. She wasn’t here to repeat the mistakes from her past, but to fix them. This time she was going to do it right and that meant no falling for another chef even if he did have a killer smile, sexy ass and a charming accent.

REMY CRUZEL HAD GROWN up in one of the most famous kitchens in New Orleans. Gastrophile—the three Michelin starred restaurant that raised the bar and set the new standard for American Creole cooking. His grandfather and great-uncle had shocked the culinary world by getting three Michelin stars—something hard to achieve outside of Paris and even harder to do when you weren’t French by birth. But the Cruzel brothers had done it and then passed that expertise on to their children.

Everyone quieted down as three men walked into the main room. He recognized Hamilton Ramsfeld, a popular American chef who his father said was a pompous ass who’d lost his love of food in his quest for notoriety. But then his old man was a hard man to impress.

“Hello, chefs, I am the head judge Hamilton Ramsfeld and the other judges in this competition are Lorenz Morelli executive chef and owner of a string of successful high-end Italian restaurants and Pete Gregoria, the publisher of American Food magazine.”

“We look forward to tasting the dishes you prepare for us,” Lorenz said in his heavy Italian accent. “Everyone on the left side of the room will come with me,” Lorenz instructed. “Everyone on the right will stay here with Hamilton.”

“Good luck to you all,” Pete said.

The field of chefs here today was as diverse as he’d expected it to be and he wasn’t surprised when the judges immediately divided the room in two.

He saw Cupcake Girl go with the other group and gave her a mock-salute. She was cute and funny but he wasn’t here to flirt with women, he was here to prove he had the cooking chops to take over as Chef Patron at Gastrophile in New Orleans. His family name was legend in the food world and it wasn’t Stephens. He’d lied on his application.

It was hard to know how much of the praise heaped on his head was due to his last name and how much was due to his skills. So Remy Etienne Cruzel had become Remy Stephens. He didn’t know how long he could keep up the ruse, but on his side was the fact that none of the celebrity chefs were friends of his father and Remy had kept a rather low profile at the Culinary Institute of America and while working at Gastrophile.

“Welcome to Premier Chef—the Professionals Audition. A love of food has brought you here today but we will only be accepting those of you who have real skill and ability in the kitchen. You might be the king of the kitchen back home, but here in this competition you will have to earn everything. Every new day will bring another chance to prove yourself and at the end of the 12 weeks if you have what it takes you will be the new Premier Chef,” head judge Hamilton Ramsfeld said.

Remy nodded knowing this was exactly what he needed to hear.

“Chefs, each of you will prepare a dish from our pantry in 15 minutes that demonstrates your culinary point of view. When the time is up your dish will be judged and only half of your number will make it onto the show.”

“Yes, chef,” was chorused by the cooks waiting to get in the kitchen. They’d set up a line of tables in a big circle around the room and Remy was anxious to get to his station and start his mis en place. He knew what he could cook well in 15 minutes and already he was prepping in his head.

Remy didn’t really care who the judges were as long as they scrutinized him for his dishes and not his pedigree, and by lying about who he was he’d ensured they would. They called start and the chefs all ran to the pantry to gather ingredients. It reminded Remy of a game his grandfather used to play with him when he was little. Hiding ingredients in the cupboard and then making him wear a blindfold to see if he could sniff out the items.

He had an image of Cupcake Girl in a blindfold and little else as he directed her around his kitchen back home. He shrugged off that thought and forced his mind back to the competition. It’d be embarrassing if he were sent home before filming even began.

He gathered his ingredients and prepared his dish, cooking easily under the pressure of the clock.

“Dude, this is intense,” said the shaggy blond guy next to him. “I’m used to working under the gun but not with this many people around.”

“It is crazy, but I think they do that to rattle you,” Remy said.

“It’s not shaking you,” the guy said.

“I’ve worked under some shouters in my day so it takes more than this to rattle me,” Remy said, thinking of his father who didn’t let blood temper his tongue when Remy screwed up.

“Me, too. I’m Troy, by the way.”

“Remy.” He didn’t want to chat but needed to get his dish finished and plated. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he was right on schedule.

Troy kept up a constant stream as he cooked and Remy had worked with talkers before and had to be honest and admit he didn’t like them. The kitchen was for cooking not for talking. He didn’t trust a chef who was busy rattling on instead of focusing on his dish.

“Time.”

Remy put his hands up and stepped back from his station. The judges came around to taste and he wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, as they tasted his dish. He couldn’t remember being this nervous since his first day at the CIA.

“Good. Nice balance of sweet and heat. I like it,” Hamilton said.

“Thank you, chef.”

The other judges also complimented him. And he realized he was good. He’d known it, but it was nice to hear it from someone else.

They called names of the contestants going home. Troy didn’t make the cut and gave Remy a wave as he walked out the door. Remy wasn’t surprised. This was a serious competition meant for those who were serious about their work. The other group rejoined them and he noticed Cupcake Girl in the center of the pack.

She was cute with her pixie haircut and her delicate features. Her hair was jet black and her figure petite but curvy. As Hamilton started talking to them again Cupcake Girl’s cute ass and the way her jeans fit distracted Remy.

“… teams,” Hamilton said.

Dammit. He should have been listening instead of staring at the woman. He had a feeling his sweet tooth was going to be his downfall. “What’d he say?” he asked the man next to him.

“We’re going to be put on two person teams and will cook against the other teams, at the end of the round half of us will go home and the remaining chefs will be going onto the show.”

“Thanks.”

“Come forward and take a knife from the cutting block. There are 15 teams, you will be given a number and A or B. The A knife is the head of the team. You will have thirty minutes to plan your dish and then an hour to execute it.”

Everyone moved forward to take a knife and Remy drew 7B. “My lucky number.”

“Mine too,” a soft feminine voice said from behind him. “And I get to be in charge. My fate has definitely changed since the elevator.”

“Cupcake Girl,” he said. “I hoped you’d make it through. I think I should be in charge since I’m a trained chef and you are a baker.”

“Southern boy, I’m the leader on this mission you can either follow me or perish in flames, but either way I’m not about to screw up a challenge.”

He liked her spunky attitude, but he wasn’t about to risk going home because of her. He’d let her think she was in charge but no way was he putting his fate in her hands. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I’m from LA and you’re from the south so I was thinking some kind of taco-po-boy combo. The dishes both have their roots in common street fare. Working class food that we can elevate to fine dining,” she said.

“I like the idea. Can you make your own tortillas?” he asked.

“I can,” she said with a grin.

“I’ll make the filling a shrimp and andouille sausage blend with some vegetables in it.”

She nodded. “Sounds good. What do you think of a hint of lime in the tortillas?”

“Yes, that’s what we need. But we’re still at street food level with this,” he said.

She looked over at him with those large chocolate brown eyes of hers. “We can do it three ways and have a plate with three different tacos on it.”

He could see that she was here to win but he still wasn’t sure she had the cooking skills needed to execute her plan. They discussed the other two tacos and then went into the pantry to gather ingredients. Staci talked to everyone she met and joked. She was easy going and that concerned him.

Could someone so laid back win? He wasn’t too sure about trusting her instincts on the dish. He’d seen other chefs going for lamb and beef.

He started working the dish allowing his experience and instincts to take over. He changed a few things from her original suggestion and felt her at his shoulder one time. She reached over and put her finger in his bowl.

“What are you doing?”

“Tasting. It’s all about layers. Thought you’d know that, Southern man.”

He did know that but he’d been busy trying to make sure he got everything done in the allotted time. She brought her finger to her lips and her small pink tongue darted out to taste the sauce on her finger. He mentally groaned as all thoughts of cooking took a back seat. She was damn sexy and he had the feeling she knew it when she winked at him.

“A little spicy, but then I like things hot,” she said, walking back to her station.

He watched her for another second before someone called out that they only had ten minutes left and Remy forced his mind back to the competition and off his sexy competitor. He had to stay focused or everything he wanted to prove would be lost. He only wished that Staci wasn’t such a distraction.

2

DESPITE WHAT SHE’D SAID about being in charge, Staci knew that Remy had done some of his own things. But since this was a competition and neither of them wanted to go home, she gave him a pass. Plus, his additions were delicious.

When they started plating their dish, he reached around her to adjust the garnish on the middle taco and his arm brushed hers. Staci took a deep breath, forcing herself to ignore the man and focus on the chef.

“Not bad, but you didn’t do what I said.”

“I’ve been cooking a long time, chère, I don’t necessarily follow instructions.”

“If we go home you’ll wish you had,” she said. “I didn’t take a ninety minute bus ride only to be sent home today.”

“I’m not planning on going home which is why I simply perfected your idea.”

“You’re cocky,” she said, not at all impressed with his attitude. She tried a bit of the filling left over from the plated dishes. Dammit, it was good. Better than she’d anticipated because she hadn’t thought, she sheepishly admitted, that someone who looked like he did could cook.

“Well?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow at her.

“It’ll do.”

That startled a laugh out of him and she caught her breath as he smiled at her for the first time since they’d met. Really smiled so that his whole face lit up.

“Oh, it will more than do. Let’s see if you are up to snuff, chère.”

She knew the flat bread she made was the best that he’d ever taste. “Angels weep because they can’t get my bread in heaven.”

He quickly tore off a piece of the bread still on the tray and popped it in his mouth. He chewed slowly and she found herself watching his mouth. She wondered how his lips would feel on hers.

“It’ll do.”

“I know,” she said. She glanced around and noted that the judges were getting closer to their station. They had been directed to stand back from the table until the judges approached them.

Hamilton was the first judge to reach them. He motioned Staci and Remy forward with an arrogant wave of his hand. Staci remained where she was before Remy nudged her with his foot. She hated arrogance in a man. It was okay to be proud of what you accomplished but it was something else entirely for a person to act like such a jerk.

“Your dish looks interesting,” Hamilton said. “A little plebian.”

“Our taste is anything but,” Staci said.

Remy elbowed her. She glared at him.

“Once the camera crew is in place we will ask you about your dish, then taste it,” Lorenz said coming over.

The cameraman got into place, a make-up person arrived and brushed something off of Staci’s cheek. “What was that?”

“Flour,” she said, then with a final whisk of her make-up wand she walked away.

Great, Staci thought, she’d been standing there looking like a messy little girl with flour on her face. She wished she’d known … but then it was a good thing she hadn’t. It might have affected how she’d acted toward Remy and Hamilton and she didn’t want that. She was serious about her food and this competition and she wanted to let the boys know she’d come to win.

“I think we are ready,” the director said. “Go.”

“Tell us a little about yourselves,” Pete invited them. “Staci, you’re a baker?”

“Yes, I co-own a cupcake bakery in San Diego called Sweet Dreams. I was trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.”

“And Remy?” Lorenz asked in that sexy Italian accent of his.

“I’m from Nawlins,” he said, combining the two words into one with his smooth southern accent. “I learned to cook at my granddad’s elbow. I’ve been working down there but am currently between gigs.”

“Staci, you were the leader on this dish, tell us what you prepared for us.”

“We combined what makes both of our culinary influences so great. A mixture of street food from the Big Easy and So Cal. Its a trio of po-boy tacos.”

“Remy, what did you make?” Hamilton asked as Lorenz cut the first taco into thirds.

“The filling,” he said.

“What’s in them?” Pete asked.

“Shrimp and andouille, lime crusted tilapia and Portobello mushrooms Vera Cruz style.”

“Sounds interesting,” Lorenz said. “We are going to taste now.”

All three men sampled the tacos and Staci felt her heart in her throat as she waited for them to give their critique. She’d tried the food. She knew that she and Remy had put together a good dish but now she was so nervous. She reached over and grabbed his wrist, as the silence seemed to grow.

Hamilton glanced at Lorenz and than at Pete.

“I really enjoyed this. The mixture of spiciness with the lightness of the bread. Well done,” Pete said.

“I liked it too,” Lorenz said. “The sausage was delicious and the seasoning layered and complex.”

“Well that’s three of us who’d come back for more of this. You two worked well together,” Hamilton said.

With that the judges moved on, Remy’s hand turned in her grasp and he briefly held her hand before dropping it. She wanted to jump up and down but Remy didn’t seem to think it was time to celebrate.

“What’s the matter? You look almost nervous.”

“I’m hardly that. I just don’t believe in counting my chickens before they’re hatched.”

“Um … all three judges liked our food. It’s a safe bet that we’ll be asked to stay,” Staci said.

“I want to hear what he’s saying to the others. This is a competition. Just because we made a good dish doesn’t mean the other competitors didn’t as well,” Remy said.

She nodded. And for the first time really looked at the other chefs and the dishes they’d put together. Everyone wanted this chance to make it to the next level. Everyone wanted to win and she had to remember that.

The chefs next to them had made a dry rubbed brisket that they had sliced thin and steamed. “Sounds iffy to me,” Staci said. “Brisket needs to be slow cooked.”

“I agree, but Pete seems like he’s enjoying it.”

She had to admit the restaurant critic did seem to be enjoying the meat. But Hamilton made a face and spat his portion back out. “Dry.”

“It is dry,” Lorenz agreed. “But it’s admirable that you tried to do a brisket in the time allotted and I love the spice combination in the rub. Whose recipe is that?”

“Mine,” the tall, skinny chef said.

“Good job, Dave. It really flavors the meat and to be honest makes up for the dryness,” Lorenz said.

“I enjoyed it,” Pete said. “The barbecue sauce you made covers up the lack of moisture in the meat.”

“Thanks,” Dave said.

The judges finished up their tasting and they were all told to clean up their stations while a final decision was reached. Remy was introspective as he worked quickly and efficiently. She watched him moving and then realized what she was doing.

She always had the worst timing in her infatuations and it seemed the worst taste in men. She’d let a man ruin her cooking career once. Was she really going to let that happen again?

“Don’t worry, chère, whatever happens today, you can cook and no one can take that from you,” he said. “I enjoyed working with you today.”

“Me, too,” she said.

They were all told to move back to their stations as a final decision had been reached. Remy stood next to her and this time he squeezed her hand as Hamilton started talking.

“We’ve sampled some truly fine dishes given that we asked you to work with a chef whose style was different from yours and gave you a time restraint. We know you can all cook; this competition is designed to take you beyond that. Therefore the winners of this challenge and staying in the competition are …

“Staci Rowland and Remy Stephens,” Lorenz announced.

Remy tugged her close for a victory hug but he held her a little longer than he should have and when she pulled back there was a new awareness in his eyes.

REMY MADE SURE HE WASN’T in the same Escalade as Staci when they left the studio and were driven to the Premier Chef house in Malibu. They were in a luxury home that overlooked the Pacific.

The water was bluer than his beloved Gulf of Mexico but the scent of salt in the air reminded him of home. There were production assistants in the house when they arrived. And they were all directed where to go in the eight-bedroom house. They’d be sharing two to a room to begin with and the producers had already assigned them into pairs. Remy was in a room overlooking the ocean with Quinn Lyon.

“Dude, do you mind if I take this bed?” Quinn asked.

Remy shrugged. “That’s fine. Where are you from?”

“Seattle. I’m the executive chef at Poisson … one guess what our specialty is?”

Remy smiled. There was an easy-going nature about Quinn and he reminded Remy of one of his Cajun uncles who was a shrimper. “Fish, right?”

“Hell, yes. Your accent says you’re from the south—where?”

“Nawlins’,” he said.

“Where do you work?”

“Currently, I’m between jobs,” he said. It was sort of the truth since he’d taken a leave of absence from Gastrophile.

“That’s cool. I saw you working today, you keep a neat station,” Quinn said.

“I began cooking with my dad and he’s a tyrant in the kitchen.”

Quinn laughed. “My old man was a logger, didn’t know anything about food.”

“How’d you come to be a chef?”

“Dropped out of high school,” Quinn said. “Started as a dishwasher and worked my way up. I never thought I’d be a chef when I was a kid. I mean, girls cooked where I came from, you know?”

“No, I don’t. The women in my family can cook but the kitchen has always been filled with men. I can’t remember a time when anyone thought I’d be anything but a chef.”

“What’s your family think of you being unemployed?” he asked.

“Not too fond of that. But getting on this show will probably help ease their minds,” he said. The truth was his parents didn’t know where he was right now. But he figured that Remy Stephens’s family would be happy that he was cooking with the chance of employment at the end of the show. “What about your family?”

“My wife’s great. My dad moved to Alaska so he’s not that involved with my day-to-day life,” Quinn said. “I don’t know if I should unpack or not.”

“I am,” Remy said. “My grandmère is superstitious and she’s always said that if you believe you’ll succeed you will and vice versa.”

“Ah, that’s confidence not superstition,” Quinn said, unzipping his suitcase and starting to unpack. “But I think you’re right. Better to act like I’m here for the long haul.”

“Definitely,” Remy said.

Quinn had a picture of his wife and one of him with his dad holding up the biggest fish that Remy had ever seen. Quinn kept up a quiet conversation while he moved around the room and Remy learned the other man was thirty-eight and was contemplating an offer to become the chef owner of Poisson. Something he wasn’t too sure he wanted to do.

Remy didn’t give the other man any advice. He’d learned that decisions that significant had to be made intuitively. Otherwise doubt and resentment followed.

Quinn’s cell phone rang and he smiled. “It’s the wife.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” offered Remy.

The bedrooms were all on the second floor of the house, which sat, nestled on a cliff overlooking the Pacific ocean. Remy went downstairs and saw that several contestants were on the balcony smoking. But he didn’t see Cupcake Girl. He wasn’t looking for her, he thought, but part of him knew he was.

She’d been good in the kitchen today and he was happy enough that her direction had resulted in a win, but there could only be one winner of Premier Chef—The Professionals and he needed to be that winner.

His future hinged on it in his mind. He envied Quinn and his easy relationship with his father. The older Lyon hadn’t pressured and bullied Quinn into cooking. In his early twenties, Remy would have been happier to make up his own mind and to find his own path. Instead, it had been done for him. Hence his doubts now.

Remy headed toward the kitchen for a bottle of water. Quinn would be tough to beat in any seafood challenge but Remy had grown up on the Gulf so he wasn’t too worried, but he wanted to get an idea of what else he was up against.

“You smoke?” a heavily tattooed man with a Jersey accent asked him as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” Remy said.

“Good. So far everyone who’s come downstairs is a smoker. I’m Tony. Tony Montea,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Remy Stephens,” he said shaking the other man’s hand. “I’m guessing you’re from New York or Jersey.”

“Jersey—born and bred. But I work in Manhattan. You’d think I’d cook Italian but my grandmother is French.”

“Mine too … well, French Creole,” Remy admitted.

“Cool. Did she cook?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yours?”

“Yeah. She’s the one that taught me to cook. But you can only go so far in a home kitchen,” Tony said.

“True. Do you have any formal training?”

“CIA,” he said with a smile. “This might be the only place where I don’t have to explain that it’s the Culinary Institute of America not the Central Intelligence Agency. Though to be honest there are a few from my hood that think I’m with the government.”

Remy laughed. “Where do you work?”

“Dans La Jardin,” he replied, naming one of the most popular French restaurants in the city.

“Head chef?”

“Nah, junior, but I’m hoping to learn some skills here that will give me a leg up when I get back home.”

“Not here to win?” Remy asked.

“Sure I want to win, but I have heard of some of these other chefs,” Tony said. “They might be hard to beat.”

“They might be,” Remy agreed, writing Tony off as a nice guy but not much competition. Anyone who was more concerned about what would happen when he got home versus what needed to happen here wasn’t going to win it. And Remy was definitely here to win.

“You’re not worried?” Tony asked.

“Nah, but I have been around celebrated chefs before,” Remy said.

“Me, too,” a tall thin girl with skin the color of cappuccino said, joining them. “I’m Vivian Johns.”

“Tony Matea,” Tony said. “This is Remy Stephens. Whom have you cooked with?”

“Troy Hudson,” Vivian said flashing them both a grin. “I work at The Rib Mart in Austin and he came down there for one of his cook offs.”

“How was it?” Remy asked.

“Interesting. He’s a solid cook but a lot of his talent gets lost in filming the show. He had a staff with him for the challenge,” Vivian said.

“Did you win?” Tony wanted to know.

“Hells to the yeah,” she said. “It’s hard to beat Austin ribs in Austin but my dish was good. Really good. It’s interesting how people act around celebrity chefs. Who’ve you cooked with, Remy?”

“Alain Cruzel,” he said. His grandfather was one of the most famous chefs to come out of New Orleans.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. He’s one tough guy in the kitchen.”

“Yes, he is. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes,” Remy said. “However, sharing the kitchen with him made me realize even the greatest chefs make mistakes some times. That’s why I’m not worried about anyone’s reputation.”

“You don’t have to,” Tony said.

“What do you mean?” Remy asked wondering if he’d somehow given away his real name and pedigree.

“You won today. I think that means most of the participants will be gunning for you.”

“Not just me,” he said. “Cupcake Girl was pretty impressive as well.”

“I don’t think she’s going to take kindly to being called that,” Vivian said with a grin.

He didn’t think so either but Remy would do whatever he had to in order to avoid the chemistry between them. And to preserve some kind of edge over her. The nickname bothered her so he’d keep using it.

“We need everyone gathered in the living room,” the director said.

Everyone moved into the spacious room that had a big screen television on one wall and three long sofas and a number of assorted armchairs casually placed into conversation groups. He saw cupcake girl across the room and forced himself to look away from her.

“The winners of today’s challenge are going out to dinner tonight at Martine’s where they will have a private tour of the kitchen and talk with their chief sous chef. The rest of you will be participating in a grilling workshop.”

Remy shook his head. The last thing he wanted was more time alone with Staci. If he were as superstitious as his grandmother he’d believe that fate was pushing them together.

But he wasn’t.

Really.

DINNER ALONE WITH REMY and Chef Ramone wasn’t what she’d anticipated when she’d started the day off by spilling tea all over the hottie in the elevator. However, she was happy enough for it now. She got dressed in the one nice dress she’d brought with her.

The instructions for Premier Chef were pretty explicit. She’d had to bring her cooking gear but also jeans, a dress, a skirt, a bathing suit and a number of other expected items. Still, it was the specific clothing that had struck her as funny.

She knew it was a television show and that they’d want them all to look a certain way but beyond that she hadn’t given what she wore much thought. Now that she was heading to one of the LA areas nicest restaurants she was glad she’d gone shopping with Alysse last weekend.

She enjoyed spending time with the co-owner of Sweet Dreams, especially since Alysse was so busy—engaged to be married and busily determined to expand their cupcake business. Staci had decided to take a break from the day-to-day running of the bakery to get ready for this show. Staci was the first to admit her dreams lay in a different direction now.

The bakery had saved her sanity when she’d first come back to California but that was a long five years ago and given that she was almost thirty, Staci felt it was time to figure out what she wanted from life. And she couldn’t until she made up for her past mistakes. Until she resolved her lingering doubts about her abilities as a chef. This show was her chance to do that.

She did a double check of her make-up, although she knew that the production person would re-apply it and make it heavier for the television cameras.

“You look good,” her roommate Vivian said.

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure that I’d be wearing this dress on TV. Do you think it’s too low cut?” she asked. She’d tried it on in the store but had been wearing a sports bra so she hadn’t noticed how much cleavage it revealed.

“Not at all. Sex sells, baby. It also distracts. If Remy is staring at your chest it should give you an edge over him.”

She sighed inwardly. It was a contest after all. She wanted Remy distracted and off his A game. But at the same time using her body to win, well, why not? Remy hadn’t hesitated to use his sexy southern accent to distract her.

She grabbed her handbag and made sure she had her moleskin recipe journal in there. The journal had seen better days and was bulging with pages and photos she’d added. She never went anywhere without the journal. She liked to make notes about the meals she ate and she found eating out always inspired her palate.

“Knock ’em dead,” Vivian said.

“I hope so,” Staci replied as she left their room. She was used to living alone, cooking alone and spending most of her time by herself, so this living with the other contestants could be a strain.

Remy was waiting in the foyer with Jack, the director and one of the producers. She almost missed a step on the stairs staring at Remy. His thick black hair was slicked back. He wore a white dress shirt left casually open at the neck and a navy dinner jacket and gray pants. He glanced at his watch and then at the stairs, his mouth dropping open when he saw her.

She gave herself a mental high five and forced herself to smile at him in what she hoped was a casual way. To be honest, he was oozing sexiness in his dinner wear, so she wasn’t entirely sure what impression she gave off.

“Now that you are both here we will head over to the restaurant. We won’t be filming until we are there so you can relax.”

“Thanks,” Remy said. “Will we be driving ourselves?”

“No. We have a production assistant who will take you and pick you up. During the course of the show you will always be in our hands. Chef Ramone doesn’t like cell phones and he has requested you leave them with us.”

“Okay,” Staci said, opening her handbag to retrieve her phone, which she handed to Jack.

“What’s that book in your bag?” the producer asked.

“Just my food journal. I like to write down the meals I eat.”

“I’m sure that will be fine. Though we will check with the chef before you arrive and if it’s not, you’ll have to give it to one of our staff at the location.”

She didn’t like the thought of letting anyone else have her journal but she wasn’t going to argue about it right now. Jack directed them out the door and into a Mercedes sedan.

“How many vehicles do you have?” Remy asked.

“Enough. In this case Mercedes is sponsoring one of the upcoming challenges and giving away this car as a prize.”

“Nice. I hope I win,” Staci said. “I’ve been riding the bus for too long.”

Remy laughed. “Ah, without the bus I wouldn’t have that great first impression of you.”

She shook her head remembering how she’d landed in his arms. “I could have done without that.”

Soon they were both seated in the backseat and being whisked across town toward the famous restaurant. Instead of thinking about the evening or even the contest, Staci’s thoughts hadn’t drifted any further than the man sitting next to her.

She wished she’d made a better first impression on him but she knew that her skills in the kitchen had made up for her stumble. And if she were honest, she wouldn’t trade their first meeting for anything.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“A little. But not really,” she said. “You?”

“No. I’m curious to see his techniques. I haven’t cooked much outside of the South.”

“I was trained in Paris,” she said.

“Really? Pastry?” he asked.

“Yes and everything else,” she admitted.

“Then why are you the co-owner of a cupcake bakery? You should be working in the finest kitchens in the world.”

“That is a long story,” she said.

“Well, we do have a long drive ahead of us,” he replied.

3

THE WARMTH OF THE CAR’S interior felt like an intimate cocoon and it would have been easy for her to forget that Remy was her competitor. Yet, this situation was so far removed from what she knew life to be like. Remy might be an out-of-work chef but he was clearly used to luxury. He sat relaxed next to her in his expensive clothes.

What was his story? Did she want to know? A lot of people said it was better to know your enemy but given her personality flaw regarding men, she thought a little mystery was probably in order.

“You were going to tell me how a Cordon Bleu chef ends up owning a cupcake bakery,” he said in that sultry southern way of his.

It would be easy to dismiss him as an innocent were it not for the shrewd look in his eyes. She didn’t have to guess to know that he was one of those who subscribed to the know-your-enemy theory.

“Was I?” she asked, turning toward him. The fabric of her skirt slid up her legs and she waited to see if he had noticed.

He had. But he arched one eyebrow at her to let her know that he knew she’d done it deliberately. She shrugged and he smiled.

“It’s clear that neither of us is going to forget this is a competition,” he said.

“I’m here to win,” she said. “I have to assume you are too.”

“Indeed. Why else would I travel across the country with just my knives and culinary training?”

“Where did you train?” she asked, turning the tables back to him.

“CIA. But we’ll learn about that during the competition. I want to know more about you. The things you aren’t going to reveal in front of the camera,” he said, as he shifted to stretch his arm along the back of the seat. His fingers just inches from her shoulder, she felt the heat of his body against her skin.

“But those facts aren’t ones I’ll give up for nothing. What are you going to offer me in return, what secrets do you keep, Southern Man?”

She realized that the attraction ran both ways and that Remy wasn’t afraid to turn the tables on her. She cleared her throat.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he said.

“That hardly seems fair unless I know what you’re offering to give up,” she said.

“Okay, tell me how you got started cooking. Where did your culinary journey begin?” he asked, running his finger along the side of her cheek.

She turned her face away from his touch. “And you’ll do the same?”

“Oui, chère,” he said.

She rubbed one finger along his beard-stubbled jaw just to try to keep him off-balance and because she was longing to know what it felt like. He seemed to just reach out and touch her whenever he wanted to.

“Good. I grew up in here in southern California. I’m an only child and was always in the kitchen with my grandmother who practically raised me,” she said. “Your turn.”

“I grew up in Louisiana. Though I live and work in New Orleans now, I spent a lot of time in the bayou as a young boy with my grandmother’s people. I learned to shrimp and cook off of what we found each day. I didn’t realize how great a gift that would be as a chef.”

“I bet. My grandmother used to buy whatever was on sale at the grocery store when we went. She never had a menu and when we’d get home she’d combine the ingredients in different ways.”

“Sounds like we are similar in our upbringing,” he said.

“Maybe. You seem very comfortable surrounded by luxury,” she said.

“Do I?”

“Yes. This is probably the nicest car I’ve been in unless you count the limo I took to prom. I don’t think that’s the case with you.”

He laughed. “Who did you go to prom with?”

“A boy who thought he loved me,” she said.

“Why did the boy think he loved you?” Remy asked.

She was not about to start talking about her rocky past and the loves that might have been. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“What was the question?”

She frowned at him. “You’re difficult and cagey. What exactly are you hiding, Remy Stephens?”

“I believe that some things shouldn’t be spoken of. But you are right, I did grow up in a comfortable home financially. However, that’s not as interesting as a boy who thought he loved you. Didn’t you love him?”

“I’m not talking about that,” she said. She hadn’t allowed herself to really care about anyone when she’d been younger because she’d had big dreams of leaving California and going to Paris. She was going to be the next Julia Child.

“What about emotionally? Was your home as comfortable in that way as it was financially?” she asked. She’d met more than one person who hid behind evasion and had grown up in a difficult home. Having money didn’t always mean that someone had an easy upbringing.

“It was good. My family are all Cajun or French so there is a lot of passion and tempers flaring, but I always knew I was loved.” His voice revealed the truth of those words. And she thought about how he’d been in the kitchen. There was something very controlled about Remy. She doubted he’d be the sort of man who’d let passion for a woman interfere with his desire to win.

She needed to remember that.

“Spoiled?” she asked.

“A little. But I can’t blame my parents for that. I just like to get my way,” he said.

“Like you did in the competition this afternoon. Doing what you thought was best instead of what I told you.”

He shrugged again. “I have to give my all in the kitchen. Even if that means making other chefs mad.”

“Is that why you are between gigs right now? Do you have a hard time taking orders?” she asked.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and pulled his arm off the back of the seat to his lap. She guessed that she’d asked a question that cut too close to whatever he was hiding from her. Whatever his emotional vulnerable point was. Interesting.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Mostly it’s that I have been praised for my cooking but by those who’ve known me my entire life. I want to know if I’m really good.”

“Why? Did something happen to shake your confidence?” she asked.

“Did something happen to you?” he asked, focusing that intense blue gaze of his on her. “I bet it did. No one goes from Paris to a cupcake bakery without a big event forcing the change.”

“True. I guess we both have our secrets,” she said. “But I will tell you this, I’ve never doubted my ability to put a good dish on the table. I know when I’m done cooking that the person eating my food is going to be blown away.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I think you must be the same,” she said. “Otherwise why would you come here?”

“Why indeed,” he said.

She leaned back against the leather seat and looked out the window again. This time the answers she sought had nothing to do with her, but with him. “You want external praise.”

“Don’t you?” he asked.

“I guess. Really I want a chance to get back what I once had,” she said, speaking from the heart.

As much as the success she’d had with Sweet Dreams validated her as a chef and businesswoman, she wanted to know that she had the chops to go head-to-head with the best cooks in the world. She’d competed years ago to get that original role in the kitchen of a top Parisian chef, and then she’d thrown it away for love. No, that wasn’t right. There hadn’t been love between them, but there had been passion and danger, she thought. It had been very dangerous to give in to her passions.

Yes. That was what had been missing from her life. That was what she was afraid she’d never find again. Her passions for living and for cooking. It was only when she embraced both, that she really did have balance. Yet that was the very thing that frightened her the most.

“You look like you just solved the problems of the world,” he said.

“Nah, just the problems of one woman. It’s funny how you find answers when you didn’t know there was a question,” she said.

“What did you figure out, ma chère?” he asked, lifting his arm against the back of the seat again and touching the side of her face.

No way was she sharing the truth with him, but she knew that if she were going to reclaim her passion in the kitchen she’d have to reclaim it in her life as well. She needed to figure out a way to balance her personal passions with her professional ones and a part of her felt like maybe she could do that with Remy. But another part of her warned that the last time she’d attempted this she’d been burned. Could she survive another dance of passion with a chef?

REMY HAD COME TO COOK but he found most of his time so far had been taken up with thinking about the sexy little woman seated next to him. Her perfume was elusive but tempting, and he found the scent distracting as they worked next to Chef Ramone in the kitchen. Remy shook his head, forcing his attention back to the cutting board in front of him. The executive chef moved off to take care of an emergency on the other side of the kitchen and Staci moved closer to Remy.

“He’s so low-key I almost don’t believe he could prepare these spectacular dishes.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve never met a chef who doesn’t yell,” Remy said. “Certainly never worked with one who didn’t.”

“Me either. Even Alysse and I yell back and forth at the bakery.”

“That’s your partner?” he asked.

“Yes. She’s funny. Usually we’re just telling each other stories from the night before or I’m bossing her around,” Staci said.

“Do you do that a lot?” he asked. He’d finished dicing the vegetables he’d been assigned to work with by the chef. Staci still had half her pile to go. He reached over and took the carrots from her.

She smiled her thanks. “Yes, I do boss her around a lot. But not just her, anyone who needs my advice.”

“Do I need it?”

“I don’t know. A part of me wants to say yes, but I don’t know you well enough. You’re wicked with that knife.”

“Knife skills are one of the best weapons in a chef’s arsenal,” he said.

“Yes, they are, Remy,” Chef Ramone said returning to them.

“You’ve done well with the task I assigned you. Ready to assemble our dish?”

Remy found the same comfort of working in the kitchen with Staci and Chef Ramone as he did working in his own kitchen back home. It was telling he thought that this was home for him even though he was thousands of miles from New Orleans.

And he wasn’t sure he could find his own way. Staci messed with his concentration and that intrigued him. He’d had affairs before, he was too passionate and his sexual drive too high for him not to. But he’d never allowed himself an affair with another chef. It seemed to him that life was best served by keeping his personal and professional lives separate.

Now, he wasn’t sure. He watched her dip her spoon into the sauce she was preparing and stared at her full lips and saw her eyes sparkle. He suppressed a groan. In his mind he moved closer and leaned in to taste the sauce but not from the spoon, from her.

“Want a lick?” she asked.

He snapped back to the present and nodded. He wanted way more than a lick but that would be a good place to start. She held the spoon out to him, but instead of taking it from her hand, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and drew her to him.

He brought their hands up and then he leaned down to run his tongue over the sauce, keeping eye contact with her the entire time. Her lips parted and her tongue darted out again, just as it had before. Her pupils dilated and there was a rosy flush that climbed up her face.

“Delicious,” he said, letting his hand drop and stepping back to his station.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice thready, husky even and he knew that in the game of flirtation, he’d just won the round.

It was at that moment that he knew he wasn’t leaving California without taking Staci Rowland to his bed. He’d thought that she’d distract him from cooking but he was coming to realize that if he didn’t have her, it would be more of a distraction.

She was temptation incarnate and he was from The Big Easy. He’d been raised to indulge his passions in the kitchen and out and even though this would be the first time that he combined the two, he found the anticipation exquisite.

“Remy?” she asked.

He glanced over at her and saw the confusion in her eyes. And for a second he wondered if he’d misjudged her but then she licked her lips again and he smiled. He knew that he hadn’t.

Staci seemed as if she were dealing with some issues in this competition, much like the rest of them. And though tonight it was just the two of them, he knew that whatever knowledge he gleaned about her would be useful for the rest of the weeks ahead.

He closed the gap between them. Put his hands on her shoulders and leaned down as he drew her closer. He brushed his lips over hers and tasted the buttery sweetness of the sauce but also the indescribable taste of Staci. It was unique, mysterious and so addictive he didn’t want to stop kissing her.

Yet he knew he had to. He stepped back and saw her watching him with an unfathomable expression. He’d shocked her. Hell, he’d surprised himself because he’d thought the young impulsive man he’d been was gone forever. But he was glad that he was back.

He thought he needed to be a little impulsive if he was going to find the right path forward for himself and for Gastrophile.

He had an idea of a seasoning to add to the dish and turned away from Staci and returned to his station. Cooking with renewed enthusiasm, when he was done and they both presented their dishes to the chef, he knew he’d prepared something different.

Something unique and something that he couldn’t have come up with if he hadn’t kissed Staci. It was as if she were a muse.

She was quiet and stole sideways looks at him, but he didn’t face her. He waited for the verdict on the dishes, unsurprised when his was pronounced the winner.

He felt a balm of satisfaction and realized that he owed Staci a big thank you, but more than that he wanted to keep cooking with her by his side. Earlier today he’d been resentful of having to listen to someone else in the kitchen but tonight he acknowledged that only with outside input could he move to the next level.

Chef Ramone stepped away again and Staci put her hands on her waist as she turned to him. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“Kissing me like that. I thought we were both professionals,” she said.

“We are,” he admitted. “That kiss had nothing to do with our cooking and everything to do with the fire burning between us. I thought it would be distracting …”

“Wasn’t it?” she asked. “It was for me.”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t distracting. It was inspiring.”

He leaned over and kissed her again. “Thank you for that.”

She semi-glared at him and he felt her displeasure. “You’re welcome, I guess. I don’t want you doing that again.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he said.

STACI KEPT HER DISTANCE from Remy for the ride home. She’d thought flirting with him would give her an edge and it had surprised her how easily he’d flipped the tactic on her. But as she watched him moving easily around the living room of the house and talking to the other competitors she knew there was more to it than that.

There was something about Remy that was shaking her to her core. She had to tread carefully. Where kissing her had spurred him and inspired him to make a creative and unique dish, it had floored her and made her put up something mediocre. She was lucky that tonight hadn’t been a judged cooking session that counted. She was lucky that it had merely been a learning experience. She wasn’t going to forget it either.

“How was it?” Vivian asked, coming up next to her and handing her a glass of wine.

Staci took a swallow of the dry white wine as she weighed what to say to Viv. They were roommates so the impulse to share what had happened was strong, but she also knew from watching these kinds of reality television shows that close personal relationships often backfired. Even friendships.

“It was fantastic,” she said. She also knew that she wasn’t going to ever say anything negative about anything.

“I knew it. I’m going to win the next challenge,” Vivian said.

“Are you?”

“Hell, yes. I wouldn’t mind being whisked away for a private dinner with dreamy Remy.”

“He might not be the runner up,” Staci warned.

“Why? Did he show you some weaknesses tonight?” Vivian asked.

No, she thought. She’d shown herself some weaknesses and she knew that she had to figure out how to turn that into a strength. She could do it. She just had to remember … what? She had no idea how to handle Remy and she knew it.

She’d known it from the moment she’d crashed into his arms in the elevator. He rattled her and she’d thought that by being her usual bold self she could gain the upper hand, but he’d turned that against her. How had he known that would work? But she thought maybe he hadn’t known for sure and had only chanced upon … wait, a second, she thought. He didn’t realize he’d thrown her. He’d been too engrossed in what had been going on with himself.

She had to remember how her grandmother had admonished her many times when she’d been growing up. Not everything was about her.

“So?”

“Sorry, Viv. He’s a great chef and it’s going to take a lot of skill to beat him,” she said. “He took the chef’s dish and made it taste even better. You know that’s saying a lot.”

“Dang. Well, I will tell you that Dan doesn’t have any butchering skills. He made a mess of the fish tonight. He couldn’t get a steak out of a salmon. I mean that’s first year skills, right?” Vivian asked.

“Yes, it is. But he did make that rub that Lorenz liked. We might have to watch out for his flavors.”

“True. I’m ready for the individual challenges but the team ones worry me,” she admitted.

“Me, too,” Staci said. “I hate having to depend on anyone other than myself.”

They chatted a while longer about the competition until slowly everyone got ready for bed. Vivian put in her iPod headphones and switched off her light. She drifted off to sleep a little after midnight, but Staci was still wide awake.

Questions ran through her head and images of the dishes she’d eaten that night flashed through her mind. She took her journal and got out of bed. Pulling on a sweatshirt, she then walked through the quiet house to the deck that overlooked the ocean. The moon was full, lending some light to the evening and she sat down on one of the padded deck chairs, letting the soothing sound of the ocean ease her confusion.

She opened her notebook and started writing about what she’d eaten and cooked that night. She wasn’t too surprised to see that Remy featured in her notes. She focused on him, finding the part that made sense and the many things that didn’t. Her sauce had been her downfall. Kissing him … no, that had been the thing that had knocked her off her game. Until that moment she’d been fine.

She’d teased him and it had backfired. But only because she hadn’t been prepared for him to be as bold as she had been. And that had been a mistake she wouldn’t make again.

“Can I join you?”

She glanced around to see Remy standing in the doorway. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a long sleeved black t-shirt that molded his upper body. He held a mug in his hand and had bare feet.

She nodded and gestured toward the chair next to her.

He sat down, leaning against the back of the lounge chair and saying nothing for a long minute or two. He sipped his hot drink and she felt that he was toying with her, but when she looked over at him she saw he wasn’t.

Not everything is about you, she reminded herself again.

“Why can’t you sleep?” she asked.

“Quinn snores,” he said. “But I’m too restless from cooking tonight. If I was home I’d be in the kitchen trying all the different dishes that are in my head.”

“Same here. It was inspiring to see what Chef Ramone had done. I mean he started from really humble roots.”

“Yes, he did. My grandfather says all good cooking comes from the heart,” Remy said.

“Was that what inspired you tonight? I’ve never tasted that combination of spices before.”

He shrugged and took another sip from his mug. “I think I was inspired by something a little lower than my heart.”

That startled her and she stared across the space between them trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth or not. And she saw in his eyes that he was. He wanted her.

She put down her notebook, stood up and moved over to sit facing him.

“Are you trying to say that your groin inspired the dish?” she asked, putting her hands against the back of the chair on either side of his face.

“Yes, I am. There was something fiery in that kiss I stole from you,” he said. “My dish was a pale imitation of it.” He leaned up, tunneling his fingers through her hair and drawing her head down to his and this time when their lips met, she opened her mouth over his, running her tongue along the seam of his lips before thrusting it teasingly into his mouth.

He moaned, angling his head to the right to deepen their kiss. His hands slid down her shoulders to her waist and he drew her closer to him. She straddled his lap, tried to taste more of him. God, he was addicting.

And addictions seldom were a good thing, she tried to remind herself but for the moment, logic wasn’t in control and she wanted more of the passion Remy inspired.

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