“Hunt, what is it going to take to get through to you on this?

I own this property. Temple Territory is going to become Moore House. You can roll with the punches or punch out. I will meet my opening deadline, with or without you. So which will it be?”

Hunt folded his arms, did an about-face and seemed to study something outside the window. His white knit shirt stretched tight across solid shoulders, revealing the body of a man who could have played professional baseball—if everybody who ever mentioned him to her was to be believed. Those powerful arms could definitely swing a bat.

Or hold a woman close.

Maybe she’d been hasty. What if he walked away? She’d be out more than an executive chef.

Oh, knock it off. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of your plans.

“Well, what’s it going to be?”

Dear Reader,

“In the great oilfield piracy trials of 1960, many were tried, many were sued, many faced a jury, many heard the prosecutors condemn them as thieves and crooks and pirates. But no one went to jail. No one went to prison… When it came time for a jury of twelve good men to make a decision that would forever affect the lives of their community, they no longer talked about the thieves and crooks and pirates. They felt a close kinship with a bunch of good, hard-working, and unfortunate neighbors, businessmen, and church deacons who weren’t guilty of anything but hauling out a little black gold that the Good Lord had put in the earth.”—Author Caleb Pirtle III

As an oil-well survey engineer and witness for the prosecution, my father was part of the trial proceedings mentioned above. Daddy told me stories of being chaperoned by a Texas Ranger, sitting in local restaurants with his back to the wall and his face to the door and of having his expert testimony challenged on the witness stand as if he were the one on trial for oil piracy. In the end, no one went to prison for the crimes committed against the major oil companies. But my daddy’s memories fueled my writer’s hunger to tell a “what if” story about the lives of brothers, two generations later, who’d grown up in a small East Texas town in the shameful shadow of their grandfather’s scapegoat conviction.

My Deep in the Heart series is about brothers Hunt, Cullen, Joiner and McCarthy Temple. Each brother, in his own way, struggles with their family history and, in his own way, rises above the past to create a life and future worthy of the Lone Star State. Please enjoy Hunt’s story, Cowboy in the Kitchen.

Until we meet again, let your light shine!

Mae Nunn

Cowboy in the Kitchen

Mae Nunn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MAE NUNN grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman living in Atlanta, she moved to Georgia and made an effort to behave like a Southern belle. But when she found that her husband was quite agreeable to life as a born-again Texan, Mae happily returned to her cowgirl roots and cowboy boots! In 2008 Mae retired from thirty years of corporate life to focus on her career as a full-time author.

MILLS & BOON

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This book is for my daddy, Ward Cooper, whose life experiences inspired me to create the Deep in the Heart series. And it’s also for my aunt, Lucille Cooper Perry, who inspired me to keep writing when I was quite happy to rest on my laurels. Daddy and Aunt Lucille, you are each amazing in your own right, and I thank God that I still have both of you in my life.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

GILLIAN MOORE STOOD between Hunt Temple and the morning sun of a cool September day as effectively as she stood between him and his heritage. It wasn’t enough that she’d cast a shadow across his life by purchasing his grandfather’s estate, she had to block his reading light, too. Hunt’s quiet moments on the back steps of what was once Pap’s home had come to an end.

Possibly for the last time.

“Would you mind if I join you?” she asked.

Without waiting for his response, the lady gracefully folded her tall, slender body to perch on the edge of the step nearby. She shrugged off the shoulder strap of a glitzy red-leather handbag and settled it beside her on the fieldstone ledge—where she had not been asked to have a seat.

But as the property’s future owner she hardly required his invitation.

Slanted rays of East Texas sunlight glinted off her fancy dark glasses. Even a guy like Hunt, who’d spent most of his life in a kitchen, recognized the pricey logo on the rich-girl shades. Besides, he’d noticed it splashed all over Paris during his recent trip to visit old friends at Le Cordon Bleu.

The attractive woman offered a smile his way that he might find charming under different circumstances. Instead of returning it, Hunt lowered his gaze to check out her long bare legs. French manicured toenails were poking through high-heeled sandals that she’d pulled close to the step beneath them. She tugged at the hem of her knee-length skirt and sat with her spine ramrod straight, expectant as a high-strung bird dog waiting on shotgun fire.

She was uncomfortable. Good.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Her question was rhetorical, just something to break the silence.

“I’ve always thought so,” he responded anyway. “Since I was old enough to drive, I’ve been coming to this spot to enjoy the quiet. Alone.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she apologized. “But I didn’t expect anyone to be here, Mr. Temple.”

“Mr. Temple was my grandfather,” he corrected her. “Mason Dixon Temple to be exact, nickname was Pap. My daddy was Dr. Temple, and my name’s Hunt. And since I can’t stop you from buying my family home out from under me, I don’t guess there’s any point in trying to keep you off Pap’s patio. So, by all means, have a seat.” He glared at her to acknowledge the fact she’d already done so.

If she was embarrassed by his bluntness, it didn’t show on the fair skin of her face.

Hunt lifted a disposable cup to his lips and took a sip of coffee while he considered the situation that had him over the proverbial barrel. Pap would surely be disgusted if he was aware his grandsons were sitting by calmly while a stranger took possession of the home he’d built with his own two hands. Well, maybe somebody else had done the building, but Pap had drilled the wildcat wells that ultimately paid for Temple Territory, the infamous Kilgore estate gossiped about by everybody who was anybody for the past fifty years. The thirty-eight-room mansion was a legendary landmark, even though it had been vacant since way before Hunt and his brothers were born. The overgrown acres came complete with an oil derrick that served as a monument to the world-renowned East Texas reserve.

Gillian Moore slipped her sunglasses to the top of her head, causing honey-blond bangs to poke up in spikes. She fixed a gaze the color of violet pansies on his cup, and then angled her eyes toward his thermos.

“Is there any chance you have a little more in there?”

“I drink it black and very strong,” he warned.

“Me, too.”

Hunt set his cup aside, twisted the top off the thermos and filled it nearly to the brim. “What’s mine is yours.” He offered her the steaming brew. “And as much as I hate to say it, mi casa es su casa.”

“Excuse me?”

“My home is your home.” He jerked his chin toward the Italian renaissance-style structure that had never really been his at all.

She reached over the paper bag on the step between them and accepted the coffee.

“Might as well have these, too.” He elbowed the sack, shoving it in her direction.

Shame on you, Hunt. He imagined Alma scolding him. The grandmotherly Mexican woman who’d fed the four Temple boys all their lives would be mortified by his rudeness. She’d kick his ankle with the side of her sneaker and hiss, “How many times have I warned you to check your ego at the bus station? You’re a chef, not a heart surgeon. Use the manners you learned from your madre, God rest her soul.”

Hunt knew better than to argue with Alma, even in his imagination.

Gillian Moore leaned close, unrolled the bag and sniffed the pastries.

“Are these from a local bakery? They smell incredible,” she complimented.

“Alma makes fresh sopaipillas every morning.”

“Alma?”

“The woman who’s been lookin’ after my brothers and me since long before our parents died. She’s an awesome cook. She might be interested in helping out here when you start hiring your management staff. You’d be lucky to have her,” he muttered, imagining his surrogate mother as she wandered about his brother Cullen’s quiet kitchen, with so little to do these days.

“Alma knows every nook and cranny of this old place. She brought me here most days during the summers when I was a kid so we could scout the house and outbuildings.”

“I hadn’t planned on hiring locals for the hotel’s management.”

Hunt whipped his head toward the comment.

“You can’t be serious! Why, that’d be like buying the Alamo and filling it with Russians.”

Gillian took a sip from the plastic thermos cap that doubled as a cup. She willed her hand not to shake, determined she wouldn’t let nerves caused by Hunt Temple give her plan away.

Only two days ago she’d toured the property with her Realtor. Standing in the windows of what had once been the library, she’d marveled at the potential below. Gillian was sure without a doubt that destiny had led her to this peaceful place to fulfill her dream.

At fifteen her father had gotten her a job working the weekend housekeeping shift at a local Marriott. And even at that young age, she had begun to envision her own boutique hotel. Gillian had no intention of giving her future to a huge corporation and risk being ordered around by some bossy manager who would always want to tell her what to do, just like her father. All these years later, however, thanks to her parents’ generosity and faith in her experience and vision, it would only be a matter of a few months before Temple Territory would officially become Moore House.

Gillian raised her eyes to meet the dark gaze of Hunt Temple and couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever been mistaken for David Beckham. She’d been warned that the celebrity chef sitting beside her on the steps could be as temperamental in private as he was in the kitchen of a three-star Michelin Guide restaurant. The vein in his throat throbbed as he waited for her response to his insistence that she should hire his friends.

“It’s one thing to come in here and snap up a piece of Texas history, but it’s another altogether to deny jobs to the local folks,” he insisted.

“Allow me to state for the record that I’m hardly snapping up this property—it’s been on the market since before I was born.”

“So, what’s the big hurry? My brother says you’ve insisted on a fast closing and meanwhile I should observe the no-trespassing signs for the first time in my life.”

“I presume your brother is McCarthy Temple.”

Hunt nodded.

“As a courtesy to your family, my local attorney asked for a few days to notify your brother that the bank has accepted my offer.”

Hunt rolled smoky gray eyes skyward and raised his hands in surrender.

“I rest my case,” he huffed.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t have any say about all this, it’s just secondhand information to me. But at least give me a chance to say goodbye to Pap’s place.”

“If the estate means so much to you, why haven’t you bought it yourself?”

“Honestly?” He lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “As you said, it’s been on the market for decades. I guess I always figured my brothers and I were the only people who might ever want it.”

“Well, you figured wrong. I didn’t even need to sleep on it overnight before I made my offer. As the old saying goes, ‘When you snooze, you lose.’”

“What’s your hurry?” Hunt drummed the fingers of his left hand on his knee, impatient for her answer. How ironic that he wanted her to rush her response, just not her actions.

“I have an endless to-do list to get underway and deadlines to meet. Renovations will begin as soon as building permits can be approved.”

Hunt folded his arms, the negative body language stretching a snug-fitting T-shirt tighter across the chest and shoulders of a former athlete. His mouth clamped as if pinching in an argument. She hurried on.

“And regarding your comments about hiring locals, I’m sure I’ll have opportunities for hourly employees, but I had handpicked my management staff before I ever started researching the right property. They’re experienced people I trust, men and women I’ve worked with over the years who are prepared to relocate.”

“Was McCarthy notified about this, as well?”

“There’s no reason why he should have been,” Gillian countered. “Mr. Temple, people are not fixtures that come with real estate just because they happen to live in the same zip code.”

“Will you look around, for cryin’ out loud?” He held both arms out, and then turned his head from side to side, giving Gillian a chance to appreciate his handsome profile.

“This place is huge! No matter how much you trust your handpicked buddies, they won’t figure out in a year what an old-timer in these parts forgot last week. Alma and her husband, Felix, have had their whole lives to become experts on this place, and they’ve taught my brothers and me everything there is to know about Temple Territory.”

“Moore House.” The correction slipped out.

“I beg your pardon?” There was disbelief and an angry edge to the way he asked the question.

She hadn’t meant to bring it up in this conversation. But she couldn’t unring the bell so she might as well get it over with.

“The name for the estate will be Moore House. And that’s just the first of many changes I’ll be making. This old place has to be modernized so it will appeal to my guests.”

Hunt pushed to his feet. He shoved both hands through his tidy crop of dark hair, and then drew in and expelled several deep breaths as he glowered down at her.

“Since you have so many objections to Temple Territory in its historic condition, what is it that actually appeals to you about this place, Ms. Moore?”

Gillian mirrored his action, stood and stretched her spine, determined to deal with Hunt Temple eyeball to eyeball. She’d done her homework, certain this moment would come. She desperately needed his help, but it would be financially fatal if she tipped her hand or let him intimidate her.

“Mr. Temple, these are tough times, and this is strictly business. If you understood anything about running one, maybe you wouldn’t be taking this so personally.”

“And by what right do you assume I don’t understand how to run a business?”

She smiled, armed and dangerous.

“It’s not about assumptions. It’s about the facts.” She began to recite his résumé. “You passed up a full ride to the University of Texas on a baseball scholarship to work your way around the U.K. and Europe as a line cook. You eventually earned your cuisine diploma from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris—though it took longer than usual because you struggled with classic French techniques. You shifted continents, became a pretty hot sous-chef in Costa Rica and finally settled into an executive chef position at the Four Seasons in Cancun. But that doesn’t appear to have worked out since you’re in Kilgore again.” She tilted her head. “And unemployed.”

The gleam in his eyes said she’d made an impression.

“Did I get the facts straight, Chef?”

“Except for that wisecrack about techniques. I didn’t struggle. I just didn’t practice. The French preoccupation with peeling vegetables is moot compared to the perfect searing on a tender strip of flank steak.”

“I happen to disagree. You can get a hunk of grilled meat on any corner in Texas, but fine continental cuisine is not so easy to come by around here.”

“And that’s what you plan to serve in your restaurant, of course.” He lowered his eyes, shook his head.

“Of course,” she answered, convinced she was absolutely on the right track. “Being unique and a cut above the rest is precisely why our dining experience will be appealing. We’ll offer our customers a menu with exquisite choices. In less time than it takes to sing ‘The Eyes of Texas,’ the private celebrations at Moore House will be the talk of the state.”

“Is that a fact?” He was working at being unimpressed.

“It is, indeed. I’ve employed an extremely high-profile event planner who has guaranteed fabulous bookings and media coverage if Moore House is operative by the holidays.”

“Since you have this rush job all figured out, I’m sure this experienced staff of yours includes a classically trained chef, correct?”

Aha! The opportunity she’d hoped for. She raised her chin and smiled to cover the quivering in her stomach.

I have to appear and sound more confident than I feel. I need this man’s help in a big way, and he has no reason to cooperate and every reason to refuse.

She took a deep breath and chose her words carefully.

“No. Not at the moment, anyway. My first choice hasn’t worked out, but I’m still hoping he’ll reconsider,” she lied.

Once Gillian had discovered the connection between the property and culinary celebrity Hunt Temple, she’d realized she was on to something big. Having the TV-acclaimed Cowboy Chef in her kitchen would guarantee the success of her restaurant, even if she could only afford him temporarily.

“Alma’s quite an amazing cook, and she’s friendly with all the local produce suppliers.” Hunt’s mouth curved with the suggestion Gillian could sense was coming. “If you should change your opinion about a hunk of grilled meat, I’m sure she’d consider running your kitchen.”

Gillian shook her head.

“I have no doubt your friend Alma would make an excellent addition to the kitchen staff. But until my first choice becomes available, I have a substitute in mind. An executive chef with a name and reputation that will draw clients to Moore House like flies to honey. A chef who inherited the ability to do things in a big way. An attractive man who can charm a female diner’s eye as well as her palate.”

Hunt checked his watch. “So, what time does Jamie Oliver get here?”

Gillian grinned at the idea of the English cooking superstar ordering the staff about in what would soon be her state-of-the-art kitchen.

“I had somebody closer to home in mind.” She tipped her head in Hunt’s direction.

His gray eyes widened. A shaft of sunshine shot highlights across his hair as the notion lit his brain. He lifted his right hand, touched his index finger to his chest.

“Me?” Hunt’s one-word question was incredulous. She couldn’t tell whether he was shocked, flattered or offended.

“What do you say, Chef?” Gillian tried to sound self-assured. “How about hanging around Kilgore for a while to help me get Moore House up and running?”

CHAPTER TWO

THE WOMAN STOOD there grinning, obviously pleased with her insulting suggestion. Hunt wondered how on earth she could believe he’d even consider jumping at the bone she’d tossed in the air like a treat for a desperate dog.

Gillian Moore was giving him the opportunity to cook in what should rightfully be his own kitchen, bless her heart.

And as second choice, for crying out loud! But even then it was only until the chef she really wanted was available.

Hunt’s head began to throb as if a plunger had just pushed the Columbian espresso he’d been drinking straight into his brain. He had to shake the caffeine buzz, clear his mind and concentrate. Somehow he had to turn this situation to his advantage, but that wouldn’t happen if he reacted by giving words to the bitter taste in his mouth.

When his family had first learned of the sale, his brother Mac had said it was time to accept what was over and done with because they couldn’t change it. The facts were that their grandfather’s shady deals had cost him fifteen years of freedom in a Texas prison, his wildcatter’s fortune, his home and his relationship with his only son, Hunt’s father.

Hunt couldn’t change the shame that had been left to them as a family legacy, but he could still make a difference in the present and salvage his own name. That is, if he kept a cool head, not exactly the strong suit of the men in the Temple family.

Gillian continued to smile, waiting on his answer.

“Well?” She had the nerve to sound perky.

How was it that rich folks seemed to have a knack for morphing somebody else’s pain into their gain?

He settled down again on the patio step. She evidently took it as an encouraging sign, because she did the same.

“Say something. What’s your gut reaction?” The infernal woman was expecting a positive response.

He held in the rude scoff that threatened to spew. His gut reaction, as she’d put it, was to end this ridiculous conversation, get into his old Jeep and drive away.

And then what?

There was no way to reverse the clock. She’d be the new owner of Temple Territory, no matter how he and his three brothers felt about it. And, as Mac had said, her hotel was better than having the acres leveled for big box stores. And as the eldest brother, Mac had the ultimate say.

Hunt had no choice but to roll with the punches, and that included returning to his hometown, and once again without a place of his own.

“You’re always welcome to bunk with me,” Cullen had mentioned the night before. “But how long do you reckon you might be hanging around?”

That was an odd question coming from Hunt’s identical twin. Weren’t they supposed to have some weird compunction to be together? That was the conventional wisdom, but even as boys the two had had little in common. Things were no different today between him and his book-nerd twin. Cullen was perpetually over at the university working on another degree or traveling somewhere to lecture to his fellow history geeks. They wouldn’t see much of one another if Hunt stayed with him for a while, so that was a plus. But at thirty-two years old, he couldn’t move in with his brother indefinitely.

Gillian tapped the edge of her cup with the tip of one short nail, reminding him she expected a response. She was a decisive woman who’d made a multimillion-dollar purchase after a few hours of consideration. He was nothing more than a speed bump in the parking lot of her plans. He had to make up his mind before she moved on to a third choice. There were excellent chefs in Dallas and Houston who would jump at the chance to get out of the city.

Hunt leaned forward, an elbow on each knee, one hand gripping the other to brace himself for the counterproposal he was about to offer.

“I hate to fly. I’d rather have a root canal. Once during a flight from Greece to Costa Rica, I got vertigo. Those were the longest and most miserable hours of my life.” Hunt closed his eyes for a moment against the recollection. “There was nothing I could do but let the world spin around me while the plane thumped through one pocket of turbulence after another. Once the aircraft landed in San José, I still had to suffer a wild ride with a Nigerian taxi driver to the nearest clinica. When I finally got enough medication in me to calm the vertigo, I prayed I’d never be in such a vulnerable position again.”

Gillian listened with her sandy blond brows pulled together in concern, a “what’s your point?” question in her all-business eyes and a not-so-surreptitious glance at her wristwatch.

“I know.” He bobbed his head in respect for her busy schedule. “But I told you that story so I could tell you this story. When I sat down with my three brothers yesterday morning, and McCarthy gave us the news that Temple Territory had been purchased, it was like being on that awful flight. For the past twenty-four hours, the world has been spinning out of control.” Hunt smiled. He needed to appear and sound sincere. “I guess, in a way, you’ve given me some hope, and for that I should be grateful.”

Her shoulders relaxed and a glimmer of relief appeared on the face that he had to admit was Katherine Heigl beautiful.

“So, you’ll accept my offer?”

There was cautious expectation in her voice. Maybe she didn’t have a third option up her sleeve after all.

“It’s more complicated than that.” He squinted and pressed his molars together, trying to seem stressed, as if he had a big decision to make. “You’re not the only person who’s aware I’ve left the Four Seasons. I have several other opportunities on the table already, so staying here even temporarily could cost me a much bigger deal.”

It might have been true. There was no offer at the moment, but his agent was working on it. He’d had a steady stream of offers since winning a reality cooking show that had given him the nickname “the Cowboy Chef.” Something would come along soon. Sadly, that something would likely take him far away from his hometown. And this is where he needed to be, if he was ever to become as close to his brothers as he’d once been.

“I’ll make it worth your while financially.”

He held a palm outward and shook his head.

“If I hang around, it won’t be because of the money, it’ll be for my family’s sake. Dad would want one of his sons to keep an eye on what you’re doin’ with Pap’s place.”

Gillian crossed her arms, and lowered her pointed chin a bit, causing long strands of blond hair to fall across her shoulders. “You do understand you’d have no vote in my plans, correct?”

“I didn’t ask for a vote, just a voice. An astute businesswoman should be open-minded, willing to listen to another opinion.”

She nodded, seemed to accept his logic. “So, do we have an agreement?”

“Not yet. I do have one condition, and it’s a deal breaker.”

“Let me guess. You want an offer in writing.”

“Yeah, but I want the offer in writing to Alma and Felix. You make them part of your staff for as long as you own the property, and I’ll stick around for a while. Between the three of us, we can teach you the history of our neck of the woods.”

* * *

FINALLY. THE MAN got to the bottom line.

Fair enough. Gillian appreciated a rousing negotiation and admired his family loyalty. She’d benefit from Hunt’s ability to help her design a state-of-the-art kitchen, then cook fabulous food and charm her well-heeled patrons with his Cowboy Chef persona for as long as she could afford him. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the man’s opinions, and she definitely hadn’t asked for his historical mentoring.

“As I’ve mentioned, I do my homework, and I’m pretty confident that I’m up to speed on Texas history.” She lifted her cup and took another sip.

“Is that a fact? So you’ve heard all about the monster sea snake that lives in Lake Cherokee, have you?”

Gillian sloshed a few drops from her cup. The dark brew splashed on her scarlet bag, a treasure from her favorite resale shop in Old Town Alexandria.

“And you’re aware that this very parcel of land was farmed for hundreds of years by members of the Caddo Nation?” He pointed toward the ground beneath their feet. “What’s left of the Caddo tribe regularly tries to lay claim to Temple Territory, pointing to the well their ancestors dug as proof of their rights. Pap built the mansion around the well out of respect for the spirits they believe still abide here.”

She shook her head, wondering if she should speak to her lawyer concerning this nonsense about that nasty old well in the courtyard.

“And, of course, you’ve heard Temple Territory is cursed, right? In all these years, no honest business would touch it because my Pap was branded as a thief who made his fortune stealing a few hundred million barrels from a major oil company.”

“No, I wasn’t aware of any of that,” she admitted. This was all fresh news.

It was true she’d been reading about East Texas in general but hadn’t yet found the hours to dig into local folklore. He was right. She could definitely use area experts and storytellers who’d share the fantasies as well as the facts of the place. Like Hunt himself, some of it could become part of the new ambience she’d use to entice and entertain the guests at Moore House.

Gillian pulled a tissue from inside her bag and swiped at the drizzling droplets of coffee atop it while she considered the appeal of Alma’s homemade pastries, made fresh each day. A smart hotelier offered her guests an experience they could not have elsewhere. What was the use in having the Cowboy Chef in her kitchen even short-term if she didn’t have the tall Texas tales to go along with him?

“Say something. What’s your gut reaction?” Hunt mocked her earlier question.

She shifted her attention from the coffee stain on her favorite purse to the alluring face of the youngest Temple brother. She’d never considered she could attract the reality television celebrity, but that was before her real estate agent had insisted Gillian get on the next flight for a visit to Temple Territory. Finding the perfect property that just happened to be connected to Hunt Temple couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than providence.

Gillian recognized her equal in the man beside her. He’d turned a problem to his advantage, just as she’d have done. Another item on the list of critical information she’d keep to herself.

Hunt still had the body of an athlete, was slap-your-sister hot and possessed a cache of local secrets. He was well traveled in spite of his fear of flying, and probably spoke a few phrases in several languages. So she steamrolled ahead with her plan, just as her father would do in her shoes.

“My gut tells me to meet your condition—if you promise to stay for as long as I require your help.” That would help her rush a grand opening during the holiday season and establish her no-nonsense reputation. Maybe she’d even convince him to stick around longer. Or not.

“I’ll have the agreement drawn up by my lawyer, and he’ll be in touch with you later today.”

She offered her hand to make it official. “Deal?”

He took her fingers gently in his, raised them to his face and kissed the backside of them lightly.

“Deal,” he murmured.

A shiver ran from her knuckles to the pleasure center of her brain. She gave a nod to acknowledge the gesture, and then slipped her hand away from his touch.

Needing a distraction from the warmth of his lips still on her flesh, she glanced down at the paper sack and then reached in for a homemade sopaipilla.

The crispy pastry melted on her tongue, leaving a hint of honey and earthy sweetness.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No,” she mumbled, savoring another bite.

“My brother Cullen’s place is only a couple miles from here. If Alma’s there, she’ll be happy to whip up some killer huevos rancheros. Her tortillas are always made from scratch.” His eyes sparked at the mention of the Mexican favorites.

“Maybe another morning. Today I’m in the mood for something French prepared by my new executive chef.”

“Does an omelet au fromage appeal to you?”

“Does Limburger cheese stink?”

“Well, then, let’s go.” Without hesitation he stood and offered his hand to help her to her feet, then swept his palm toward the side drive where both their vehicles were parked. She stepped toward her rental car with his footsteps a respectful distance behind.

“I’ll follow you in my car.”

He was being suspiciously agreeable. Over the course of their brief negotiation, the man had morphed from righteous indignation to effusive gratitude. Somewhere in that pendulum swing of emotion was the real Hunt Temple, and given long enough she might be able to sift through the chaff and find the grain. If not, that was okay, too.

She’d come to Texas to realize her dream, not analyze a man.

* * *

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Gillian stepped across the threshold of Cullen’s home and followed his lead straight to the kitchen. The hacienda-style room was cozy and welcoming. Hunt pulled a tall hand-tooled stool away from the mosaic-tile counter and held the chair while she stepped up onto it and settled in to watch him work. He took a knee-length white apron from a drawer and secured it around his waist. Then he reached for a skillet, sprinkled it with oil and positioned it on a lit burner.

He grabbed two eggs from the fridge and cracked them against the side of a clear mixing bowl. A shard of white shell fell atop the golden yellow yolks.

“Glad I’ve already got the job,” he said as he fished out the fragment.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“In a way,” he admitted, above the fury of his whisk. “It’s a bit unusual to be hired before you ever serve a meal to the boss.”

“Oh, you’ve served me before.”

Hunt turned puzzled eyes her way, the brows above his slate-colored irises raised in question.

“I was checking out the small hotels in Cancun last summer. I had the opportunity to eat in your restaurant on an evening when you were expediting the kitchen.”

“And how was your meal?” He was fishing for a compliment.

“The snapper was overcooked and underseasoned. I sent it back to the kitchen.”

The ultimate insult hit the chef like a dart to his chest. Hunt melodramatically clutched his heart with both palms and mock-swooned against the kitchen wall, and Gillian could swear her own heart reacted, as well.

Being around this man was either going to be great fun or a great big mistake.

CHAPTER THREE

“DON’T HOLD BACK, little brother. Tell us how you really feel about your rich boss lady.” Joiner, the middle Temple brother, poked fun at Hunt’s diatribe over his new employer.

“I can’t help it. The more I listen to her big ideas, the more they worry me.” Hunt sank deeper into the sofa in McCarthy’s office. McCarthy sat behind the desk, and Joiner sprawled on the sofa beside Hunt. Cullen was in a corner, his nose in a book. “She’s determined to import a bunch of strangers so they can create a new ‘culture.’” He made quote marks in the air. “This is Texas, for pity’s sake. Why would anybody in their right mind want to replace the historical culture of Temple Territory that already exists? She’s on a collision course with reality, and I’m afraid my reputation as a chef could go down in flames with her.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Cowboy Chef,” Joiner said, making fun of Hunt’s television identity. A lifelong lover of horses, Joiner was the closest thing to a real cowboy in the family. He’d always held it over the heads of his younger brothers, whom he’d berated as a bookworm and a kitchen mouse, regardless of the fact that both could have played professional baseball.

“Life will continue,” Joiner insisted. “You have to move on to another dream now that McCarthy’s let the estate get away from you.”

“Just wait a doggone minute.” McCarthy’s dark stare landed on each of his brothers. “I’m fed up with you three holding me accountable for seeing Daddy’s mission to clear our name accomplished. We’ve all wasted a lot of years talking a good game, but none of us ever put our shoulder to the wheel and made things happen. You can’t blame me because the bank finally found a buyer, and reclaiming Pap’s place is never gonna happen.”

Cullen took a break from the textbook he was thumbing through. “I’m not so sure Daddy would want a lot of attention drawn to the Temple name now anyway, not after all the years it took for the gossip to die down. Why, wasn’t he in agreement with Pap’s decision not to come home after he got out of prison?”

“Yes, but he never dreamed he wouldn’t see Pap again,” McCarthy said.

“It’s the old man’s fault for going out to West Texas and getting himself killed working on that dangerous gas well. Otherwise we might have grown up with the flesh-and-blood Pap instead of this infamous legend Daddy spent his adult life trying to live down,” Cullen insisted.

McCarthy sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He pushed out of his chair and moved to the foot of the desk.

“Pay attention while I spell this out for you knuckleheads one last time.” McCarthy slapped the tabletop to draw Joiner’s gaze away from his iPhone. “I was only a senior in high school when we had the conversation, but Daddy was clear on this subject, almost as if he sensed he wouldn’t be around to do it himself. Pap stayed away so Daddy and Mama wouldn’t have to raise us in earshot of constantly wagging tongues. Daddy was establishing himself at the hospital when Pap was paroled. Coming home would only have stirred the pot again. So he left well enough alone, and on the day he walked free, Pap went in the opposite direction.”

“So he pretty much abandoned Daddy.”

“Cullen, it’s not as if he was left on a doorstep in a basket. He was a grown man with four boys of his own. Pap did what he thought was right, and Daddy let him go. It was years before Daddy was finally able to put behind him the stigma that went along with Pap’s crime, and by then the old man was long dead. Still, Daddy felt he needed to forgive his father, and do something public to restore honor to our name.”

“Why didn’t Daddy just buy Temple Territory himself?”

“Like everybody else in Texas, he believed the place was jinxed, purchased and cursed by hot oil. But once he found out Pap had been killed, Daddy fixed his mind on going out to that well site to mark his father’s grave properly.”

“And they didn’t make it,” Cullen said quietly.

The private aircraft had gone down in the Apache Mountains, killing the two on board and leaving four teenage boys in Kilgore in the care of Alma and Felix Ortiz.

They all fell silent, and Hunt decided to change the mood of the room.

“Well, I never bought into that business about the property being cursed, and with any luck Pap’s place isn’t completely out of my reach yet,” Hunt announced.

Three pairs of expectant eyes waited for him to continue.

“How’s that?” McCarthy spoke up as he settled again into his chair.

“In case nobody’s been listening, I’ve got a job—at Moore House. I’m on the inside, and I plan to stay all up in that lady’s business to slow her down before she changes anything that can’t be put right.”

“Instead of fighting the inevitable, why don’t you tell some of those wealthy friends you’ve been feedin’ for free all these years that it’s payback time,” Joiner snapped. “Get them to invest in your own restaurant. You can call it Hunt’s Hangout or something equally sophisticated.”

“You have no idea how much capital that would require.” Hunt had already done the math for himself out of morbid curiosity and been depressed for days by the number.

“But I’m sure Gillian Moore does, and she didn’t seem to have any problem rounding up the cash. So instead of whining, why don’t you put on your big-boy boots and compete with her?” Cullen chucked a wad of paper at his twin.

It bounced off the center of Hunt’s forehead. He rubbed the spot where a pointy corner had poked his flesh. Instead of admonishing his brother for almost putting his eye out, Hunt marked the moment. He went all in. He’d always planned to have his own place one day. If somebody was going to change the fate of Temple Territory, why shouldn’t it be a Temple heir? And once Gillian Moore realized she’d bitten off more than she could chew, she might be willing to take a loss for the property and go home, leaving Pap’s place to its rightful owners. And leaving Hunt to repair the damage the made-for-TV Cowboy Chef had done to his real-life relationships in Kilgore.

* * *

“THESE RIDICULOUS DOORS have to come down,” Gillian instructed a prospective contractor as they went room by room through the mansion several days later. For the past two hours she’d itemized the work that would give the interior of the house a crucial face-lift. The Italian renaissance exterior and tile roof were still in amazingly fine shape. But inside the fifty-year-old home, it was dark and cavernous, in desperate need of modern lighting and plumbing, just for starters.

“Yes, get rid of these first thing,” she repeated.

“You can’t be serious.” Hunt’s voice echoed in the dining room. Obviously he’d returned sooner than Gillian had expected. The man who’d be an asset once they opened was becoming a pebble in her pump during the renovations, prying into every detail of her plan.

She tucked her small notebook into her shoulder bag, gave a nod of apology to the contractor and turned to address Hunt. “Of course I’m serious. I can’t have Wild West saloon doors in the entrance to a European-themed restaurant.”

“Do you at least plan to recycle the doors and use them someplace else?”

She flicked one of the heavy panels. It creaked to and fro on rusty hinges. “I plan to make these sad old things the first layer of the bonfire.”

Hunt’s jaws clenched, as they had frequently in the past several days. Color shot from his collarbone to his hairline. As was the case with many a temperamental chef, the man took himself way too seriously.

“May I speak with you privately, please?” Keeping his voice low seemed to take effort.

Gillian followed his lead as he crossed the soon-to-be-expanded dining room floor and headed for the front foyer. When they were a safe distance from anyone who might repeat their conversation, he spun to face her.

“This is the first of what I hope will be many teachable moments.” The mercurial man seemed to struggle for self-control.

Gillian’s schedule was tight. She had back-to-back interviews with contractors. She wanted to dismiss this interruption by Hunt, but she had agreed to at least listen to his objections.

“So what’s the big deal about those slabs of wood?”

“Those slabs of wood are ax-hewn heart of loblolly pine. Antiques dealers scour the countryside for such quality reclaimed lumber.”

“Okay, so they’re worth a few bucks. We’ll put them in the yard-sale pile instead.” She turned away. Hunt caught her by the wrist, but let go as soon as her eyes met his again.

“The historic value is greater than the price of the wood. Those boards came from Temple Number One, the first wildcat well Pap brought in. He pried the pine from the drilling rig floor. Built and hung those swinging doors himself.”

“Well, then, he should have been convicted on an extra count for his bad taste.” Gillian knew instantly that her sorry excuse for a joke was a mistake. But instead of the angry response she deserved and expected, Hunt got quiet and moved to stare out the cracked bay window.

The roots of Gillian’s hair flushed hot, a sure sign a woman in the Moore family was embarrassed. Any moment she’d break into a sweat and her cheeks would glow as brightly as taillights in morning traffic.

“I’m sorry, Hunt.” She wanted for all the world to dig a hole and crawl into it. “What I said was cruel and I apologize.”

“What you said was fairly accurate.” He faced her, a hint of a smile curving his full lips. “Alma always said that Pap’s interior design left a lot to be desired. But he did things his own way.”

Hunt tipped his head up. His gaze scanned the dark walls and shadowy high ceilings of the foyer. “No matter what people said about him in the end, our daddy told us Pap had guts in spades—and an ornery nature any mule would envy.”

“The family resemblance is strong,” she cautiously teased. Hunt had kindly let her off when she deserved a boot in the behind for her snide comment.

The cell phone in her pocket buzzed. She checked the caller ID.

Dang it, Father, what is it now?

She sent him directly to voice mail, making a mental note to get to his message before her next appointment. Her father was driving her nuts, questioning and second-guessing her every decision. At least he was over a thousand miles away. Having her controlling father any closer would have made this project impossible.

“So how about a stay of execution for the doors?”

For a split second Gillian was tempted to give in to Hunt’s hopeful voice and appealing eyes just to make him go away and let her return to work. But the moment passed. She’d do things her way, and neither Hunt Temple nor James Moore would tell her what to do. Still, there was a story behind the pieces that added ambience, albeit in the wrong place.

She offered a compromise. “We can use them in the spa. We’ll work the doors into the decor of the juice bar.”

“Spa? You haven’t mentioned a spa.” Hunt’s brows scrunched in concern.

“Phase II,” she explained. And that was all the explanation he’d get on her future plans. She could just imagine his objections when he found out that smelly Caddo well would be filled in and covered over with a tile floor when she enclosed the courtyard. She’d keep that to herself until he needed to know, if ever.

Hunt squinted in thought, as if he was considering her alternative suggestion for the doors. Not that she could let his opinions matter too much in the end. Gillian would only get one grab at the brass ring. She hadn’t put her reputation and her parents’ retirement fund on the line to have her plans questioned by a professional foodie.

Even if the foodie was the talented, unpredictable and quite handsome Cowboy Chef.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I HAVE A better idea for the doors.” Hunt tilted his head and motioned with his hand for Gillian to follow him. He smiled at the tapping of her heels behind him. He was making progress with the boss lady already.

“Hunt, I’m too busy for this right now.”

Maybe not so much progress after all.

He continued toward the old kitchen.

“You’re not listening to me,” she insisted, but remained close behind. “I’m booked solid this afternoon, and I have to return that call. Your granddaddy’s rustic old doors have been collecting dust for decades. There’s no reason to get in a dither about them right this minute.”

“All evidence to the contrary since you were about to put a piece of Texas history on the scrap pile. I’d say a dither is exactly what’s called for, and you might agree in about thirty seconds.”

He crossed the scuffed terra-cotta tiles that led to the large walk-in pantry. Once inside, he reached up to tug a length of kitchen twine dangling from overhead, weighted decades ago by a lead swivel sinker from somebody’s tackle box. A single bulb lit the space dimly, but the light was sufficient to make Hunt’s point. The roomy closet was lined with thick slabs of knotty pine, the golden color deepened with age to the hue of maple syrup.

Gillian stepped forward, ran her palm across the smooth wall, her face giving away her appreciation of the reclaimed timbers.

“I hadn’t given this closet any attention. Is this the same wood?”

Hunt nodded. “When the drilling derrick at Temple One was torn down to make room for a mechanical horse-head pump, Pap hauled the lumber here to be used in the construction of his home.”

“So, Mason Dixon Temple was a conservationist before conservation was cool.”

“I guess that’s as good a way to put it as any. How about if we hang those doors here? I presume you plan to offer an in-kitchen dining experience, and this pantry could be a focal point with an interesting story.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t considered the idea of special seating in the kitchen but I understand it’s become quite popular. If we include that in the plan, won’t the diners be in your way?”

“We’ll have plenty of additional space once that far wall is blown out to accommodate the walk-in cooler.” He pointed toward the row of windows she’d marked for demolition to expand the footprint. “We’ll put seating for eight along the south wall, and the pine pantry will be storage for our selection of fine wines. A dinner party in our kitchen will be on every hostess’s wish list for the New Year.”

The nod of her head was nearly imperceptible, but it was enough. He’d scored a point. She stepped into the open space he’d envisioned for the prep stations and cooking surfaces.

“Have you given any thought to the layout of the countertops and appliances?”

It took every shred of manners his mama taught him to hold back the rude response that rushed to his lips. Gillian Moore wasn’t stupid, and he was pretty sure she wasn’t downright mean. He could only surmise it hadn’t crossed the woman’s mind that he’d wandered the halls of Temple Territory for countless hours, dreaming and planning of what he’d do with the place. But he’d never imagined it would all be for somebody else.

“I’ve laid out this kitchen nine ways from Friday and I’ve planned out exactly how it should operate. I’ve been remodeling it in my mind since I was sixteen and fried my first green tomato.”

“Then why didn’t you make it happen yourself?” There was annoyance in the way she barked the question.

“I never imagined anybody would make the investment in this place, given its reputation.” Hearing his excuse made Hunt feel like the whiner his brothers had accused him of being that very same morning.

“Well, you were wrong. It only took me one walk-through to realize this property could be spectacular.”

“So you’ve already told me.” He scuffed his hand through his hair, Gillian’s aggravation spilling over to him. “Just give me the budget and I’ll get the best return for your investment.”

She retrieved a notepad from her purse, flipped over a few pages and then held it up so Hunt could read the bottom-line figure, circled in red ink. “We must stay within that amount.”

Hunt exhaled a soft whistle. He’d be bitter about her ability to exercise such generosity if he wasn’t going to enjoy spending the rich girl’s money.

“Well, can you make it work?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He feigned uncertainty. “There’s wiggle room, of course.”

“None whatsoever.” She flipped her notepad closed and poked it into her bag. “I don’t intend to rob Peter to pay Paul during this project. I’ve worked this budget out with my financial advisor nine ways from Friday, as you so eloquently put it. There’s no reason we can’t open Moore House on schedule and without breaking the bank.”

Moore House. Cold chills rippled up Hunt’s spine each time he heard the name. Surely the sensation was caused by Pap rolling over in his unmarked grave.

* * *

MOORE HOUSE. JUST the mention of it comforted Gillian like a thick quilt on a bleak winter day. Her parents’ investment of their years of vigilant saving simply had to bear fruit, and in a big way. There could be no other outcome, or her folks would be working the rest of their lives, and she’d never hear the end of it from her father.

Gillian loved the hospitality business and would work in corporate service if there was no other choice. But caring for her own guests under her own roof was her dream.

She’d been short with Hunt just now about his ambitions, but the man had dragged his feet and let a golden opportunity pass him by. That was his issue. She had plenty of her own.

Highest on the list was to meet her grand opening deadline to make the most of the holiday season. To do it, she’d personally have to watch every penny, and that meant keeping a close eye on Hunt. Everything he put on his inventory list had to be absolutely necessary and the best value possible. She’d drive a rental truck to Dallas and pick up the stainless-steel appliances herself if it would save a buck.

“You’re the boss,” Hunt reminded Gillian, returning her attention to their discussion. “Far be it from me to argue if you want to cut corners.”

“You can’t be serious.” His crooked smirk revealed that the man was intentionally goading her. “That’s a very generous budget. If you’re not able to handle the job, I’m sure I can find a capable chef, even if I have to take a risk on an unknown,” she bluffed.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. We made a deal, and I intend to keep my end of the bargain.”

Her cell buzzed again. Gillian slipped her hand inside the pocket of her shoulder bag, retrieved the phone and, no surprise, noted her father had called twice in the past fifteen minutes.

“My knickers are none of your concern. But our contract certainly is, so speak now or be legally bound through the end of the year.”

He held his palms outward. “I apologize, that comment was inappropriate. How can I make it up to you?”

The phone sounded once more. She held up her index finger to indicate she needed a minute to take the call. With the phone to her ear, she turned away, briefly but firmly telling her father she would call him shortly. Then she faced Hunt again, the enormity of the undertaking hitting her. Maybe she could delegate.

“Since you offered, would you meet with the kitchen designer for me? He’s on his way, and I still have a lot to cover with the contractor in the other room who’s probably charging me by the hour for this meeting. So I’ve got to go. Can I trust you to handle things with the designer and report to me as soon as your meeting is finished?”

“Of course. How about if I give you a full rundown over dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?” She wasn’t sure it was wise to spend an hour with Hunt away from the workplace. Tongues would wag in this small Texas town. “Where?”

“My brother’s house, unless you’d rather go out.”

“Actually, a home-cooked meal sounds wonderful.”

It had only been a week, but Gillian was already tired of the small restaurant in the chain hotel where she was staying.

“Any special requests?” Hunt asked.

“I’m game for something local, whatever’s in season.”

“Right now, squirrel is in season.” He clamped his lips together to suppress a grin.

She slanted her eyes at some invisible point above him and considered how to respond.

“Surprise me,” she finally challenged.

“Consider it done. Now go take care of your remodeling man, and I’ll deal with the kitchen guy. What’s his name, by the way?”

She checked her notes. “Steve Froehlich.”

“Froehlich? I don’t know of any Froehlichs in these parts.”

“He’s from Houston. Since he’s working another job in Tyler at the moment, he agreed to drive over.”

“Did you invite anybody local to bid? I’m sure I could make a good recommendation if you’ll give me a day to ask around.” He snapped his fingers. “I played ball with a guy named Karl Gates who works with his dad. They’re the best carpenters in Rusk County. What do you say I give him a call?”

She raised a palm against his offer. “Don’t start with that good-old-boy network business. I’m aware of how you guys operate.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your suspicion.” Hunt took offense.

“You haven’t done anything yet.” Gillian motioned with two fingers from her eyes to Hunt’s, then turned and hurried away. The clock was ticking and she was spending her parents’ money.

But in her rush to get things done, had she put too much trust in Hunt too soon?

* * *

THE MAN WHO answered the front door of the home that evening was the mirror image of Hunt, but Gillian realized instantly it was his twin. Hunt’s dark brown hair was neatly cropped; his face always clean-shaven.

This man’s hair was on the shaggy side with a couple days’ worth of very appealing stubble on his chin. And in contrast to Hunt’s GQ style, this twin was dressed comfortably in a flannel shirt and jeans faded by years of wear.

“Gillian Moore?” he asked. When she smiled, he offered his hand and drew her across the threshold. “I’m Hunt’s older and better-lookin’ twin brother, Cullen.”

“Go ahead and admit that you’re also smarter than the rest of us,” Hunt called from inside the house. “You’ll reveal your brilliance eventually, you always do, so get it over with up front.”

“He’s right,” Cullen agreed, lowering his chin modestly. “I am the best-educated of the Temple brothers, but I’m not so sure that makes me smarter than anybody besides Hunt, which ain’t sayin’ much.”

“Whoa, I always heard twins were kindred souls, each protective of the other.”

“Yeah, that’s what the experts say, but if Hunt didn’t resemble me quite so much, I’d figure our folks had brought home the wrong kid.”

Gillian followed Cullen across the herringbone entryway and into a family room. The floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls were so tightly packed with hardbound volumes that the space resembled a library in need of organization. An oversize sofa and chairs occupied the center of the room that was strewn with newspapers. A large partner’s desk laden with a desktop computer, a laptop and many more books crowded one corner. As she took in the homey clutter, she knew this was definitely not the meticulous lifestyle of her executive chef.

Hunt emerged from behind the kitchen bar where he’d served her breakfast a few days earlier. An apron covered his clothing from the waist down, but the stark white seemed to accentuate the fit of his red polo shirt and the definition in his arms. The man was a feast for the eyes.

“I’d apologize for my brother’s cluttered home if it would make him change, but this mess is part of who he is. His quirky personality just happens to have tipped over and spilled everywhere.”

Hunt’s gaze swept the room, followed by a disbelieving shake of his head.

“While our mama was alive, she made Cullen keep the books in his bedroom. But once we lost our parents, all restraints were off. And instead of growing out of his obsession for academia, this big galoot and his size-twelve feet grew into it.”

Gillian stepped close to one shelf and stared in awe at the private collection, many of which were textbooks.

“If you must have a touch of OCD,” Gillian said, “I agree that the printed word is a great obsession to choose. And if you’ve read each of these, you must be very smart, indeed, Cullen.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Hunt said that you were sharp as a new pickax and pretty as a baby goat, but he didn’t mention you’re a good judge of character, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunt cleared his throat, making the point that the conversation had gone on long enough.

“Yes, little bro. I remember the instructions you gave me. Let the pretty woman into the house and then make myself scarce.”

Cullen glanced at Gillian and raised his gaze to the rafters overhead. “This is the thanks I get for taking in my sibling and letting him have the run of my kitchen.”

“If you expect to share in this meal, you’ll get out while the gettin’ is still good, or I’ll put you to work.”

“I sure hope you’re partial to squirrel, Miss Moore,” Cullen said with a grin before ambling down the long hallway and turning out of sight.

CHAPTER FIVE

“SQUIRREL?” GILLIAN SQUEAKED the question and Hunt smiled inwardly.

“Yep, and you’re in luck. These two tree-dwelling rodents were flying through the pines just this morning. Felix was honored to donate them for our dinner.”

He saw her swallow.

“Well, I did leave the menu up to you, and whatever it is you’re preparing smells divine,” she said.

“That’s nice to hear. Some say people eat with their eyes first, but I believe the aroma sets the mood for the meal. May I start you off this evening with a drop of the grape?”

He stooped to open a wine cabinet and pulled out two uncorked bottles. “When Cullen was working on one of his degrees, French history maybe, he became a wine aficionado. I gotta admit he keeps a pretty nice selection in the house.”

Hunt angled the bottles for her to inspect the labels. Her violet eyes widened with recognition.

“I’d love to sample the Rothschild Bordeaux, but I’m driving, and I have a lot more work to do tonight, so I hope you’ll give me a rain check. Some sparkling water will be fine, if you have it.”

“That we do.”

He returned the wine bottles to the rack and busied himself dropping ice into two chilled glasses before filling both with Perrier. He set Gillian’s glass on a cocktail napkin and motioned for her to have a seat at the tall counter tiled with a hacienda-style colorful mosaic.

“Pardon my backside, but I should see how the braising is coming along.” He lifted the lid off a deep cast-iron skillet and poked at the contents inside with a long-handled fork. “Tell me about the rest of your day.”

“You first,” she countered. “How did things go with Mr. Froehlich?”

Hunt replaced the lid on the skillet and transferred the pan to a hot oven, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not convinced your fellow from Houston is the right man for this job.”

“Now, why was that exactly what I expected to hear from you?”

“I beg your pardon.” He gave her a wide-eyed glare for a moment, then reached for the panko bread crumbs. He upended the box into a mixing bowl.

“Cut the innocent act, Hunt. Did you even review his drawings?”

“I certainly did, but Froehlich doesn’t share our vision for retaining the integrity of Pap’s original design.”

She slapped her palm on the tile countertop.

“Listen to me! There is no such thing as our vision. I can’t afford to pacify your need to maintain some emotional connection to a place that was your grandfather’s half a century ago.”

Her words stung. Not because she was right, but because she was giving Hunt credit he didn’t deserve.

If he truly felt a deep-seated yearning to bridge the family connection to Temple Territory, wouldn’t he have made it happen long before now? Wasn’t all his talk at this point more selfish than selfless?

Man, he hated moments of revelation. It was why he avoided psychotherapy like a swarm of mosquitos.

So now what? Let the boss lady continue to believe he might be altruistic, or admit he’d only been pursuing his own aspirations? He wasn’t ready to tip his hand quite yet.

“You’re right.” He reached into the fridge for the colander of zucchini, keeping his eyes averted so she couldn’t read the lie he was about to voice.

“This isn’t about me and my warped sense of family pride. My obligation is to you and to doing everything in my power to help you meet your deadlines.”

She was quiet while he busied himself slicing the dark green squash and tossing uniform discs into the bread crumbs.

“Cat got your tongue?” He glanced up from the cutting board.

“For a moment, yes.” She took a sip from her glass. “I seem to be criticizing you a lot. That’s not fair or normally my nature to be so judgmental. But I’m out of my element right now, and I’m determined to keep a laser focus on the prize.”

Hunt set a small bowl of spiced pecan halves on the ledge before Gillian. “Alma says these are good for the digestion.”

“Am I going to require digestive help after this meal?” She scooped up several pecans and popped them into her mouth.

He took one of the homemade treats as well and savored Alma’s special combination of cinnamon and cloves.

“Only if you eat too much squirrel,” he warned. “So, what is your element? You can tell mine is a kitchen. How would you describe your comfort zone?”

“That’s a question without an easy answer.” She reached for more pecans.

“And that’s a stall tactic.”

“Not this time.” As she shook her head, the blunt tips of silky blond hair brushed her shoulders. “I love everything about the boutique hotel business. The buzz of a reservation line. The hush of a linen closet. The madness of a busy front desk. The clink of silver on china in the dining room.”

“The cha-ching of the cash register,” he interjected.

“That, too,” she laughed.

He enjoyed the sound of her laughter, so relaxed and different from the way she barked orders.

“The point is that I’m more at home in a hotel than I’ve ever been in our family’s house. Now I’ll have both under one roof.”

“So you plan to live there?” He hadn’t considered the possibility.

“Oh, certainly. I can just imagine the luxury of coffee on that back terrace every morning.”

He raised his brows. “Can you now?”

She dipped her chin in apology.

His guest seemed to keep forgetting he’d had many years to consider what life at the landmark mansion had to offer.

He tossed the mixing bowl to coat each slice of zucchini with bread crumbs and then eased the silver-dollar-sized pieces into hot canola oil where they would fry up crispy and light.

“Can I do anything to help?” she offered.

“You can set the table, if you don’t mind. Cullen keeps his dishes and flatware in that hutch against the wall.” He motioned with a slotted metal spoon, and then stooped to check the flame beneath his frying pan. “I hope it won’t offend you to eat in the kitchen. There’s a perfectly good dining room across the hall, but my doofus brother uses it to store his research files instead of for the purpose God intended.”

Cullen appeared, relaxed and lazy, as always. How he’d managed to get four degrees without breaking a sweat was a mystery to Hunt, who stressed over every element on a plate.

“Are you talkin’ about me again, little bro?”

“Guilty as charged. How about giving Gillian a hand? And if you own a cloth napkin, could you show her where you hide them?”

Cullen reached over Gillian’s head to retrieve colorful Fiestaware plates from the top shelf. “I only own a couple, and they’re in the hall bathroom.”

Gillian’s eyes gleamed with humor as they met Hunt’s.

“Is there any point in asking why?”

“I should do laundry soon. All the company hand towels are in the hamper, and the napkins fit that little short bar in there.”

“Il n’est pas juste,” Hunt muttered.

“I could write a book on Louis XIV, but I don’t speak a word of French, and Hunt knows it,” Cullen complained to Gillian.

“He said you’re not right.”

“Oh, he says that regularly.” Cullen waived away his twin’s comment and carried the dishes to the pedestal table that had come from their childhood kitchen. “Hey, where’d you find this?” Cullen ran his fingers over the white cloth that was draped across the scarred family heirloom.

“In one of Mama’s trunks.” Rummaging through the linens Alma had saved for him was always bittersweet. It was still surprising that he missed his folks so much after all these years. “Thanks for letting me store her things here until I have a permanent place of my own.”

“Hey, what are big brothers for?”

“That’s a question I ask myself frequently.”

* * *

GILLIAN LISTENED TO the banter between the men and wondered what it must have been like with a house full of siblings. Being an only child was lonely. Probably another reason she enjoyed the hotel business so much. There was always someone to talk with, someone to learn from, someone to help out.

This good-natured rivalry was so different. Nice. Evidence that Hunt had been reared by people who loved him and in a town where he felt at home. No wonder he’d found it hard to settle down in another city, much less another country.

“Gillian, would you please do the honors?” Hunt handed her the open bottle of Perrier and gestured toward the fresh stemware on the table Cullen was clumsily preparing. As she moved to each place setting to fill the goblet, she rearranged the cutlery and positioned the plates just so.

Hunt rewarded her surreptitious efforts with a smile that showed even white teeth. His appeal struck her with a fresh punch each time he caught her eye. No wonder he’d been such a hit on reality TV.

The heat of attraction crept up her neck. To cover her discomfort, Gillian dropped into a chair and took a sip from the glass she’d just poured.

“Hunt, our guest has claimed her spot at the table, so can we sit down and eat now?”

“By all means.” Hunt motioned for Cullen to take a seat, and then put serving bowls and a woven basket on the table. With care he placed a thick trivet in the center to protect his mother’s cloth, and then transferred the heavy iron skillet from the oven to the table. He whisked away the lid to reveal the steaming, mouthwatering contents.

“What do you think, Gilly? Do you mind if I call you Gilly?” Cullen asked what seemed to be a rhetorical question. “That’s a Texas-sized squirrel if I’ve ever encountered one.”

She leaned toward the skillet and peered at the bubbling cream sauce and mystery meat that was not so mysterious after all.

“That’s not a squirrel.” She cast an accusing glare at Hunt.

“Most folks say squirrel tastes like chicken anyway, so I figured I might as well fix the real thing.”

“Chicken fricassee!” Cullen exclaimed. “Now that’s some French I understand.” Cullen grabbed a long-handled spoon, served Gillian a hearty portion, then did the same for himself. Hunt suppressed a grin as he took the bread basket, unfolded one corner of the warming towel and offered her the basket.

“Hot biscuit, Gilly?” Hunt mimicked his brother.

“Ms. Moore or Gillian on the grounds of Moore House, please.”

She waited until he nodded agreement and then gave her attention to the meal before her. He was right. The tempting aroma won her over before a morsel had even passed her lips.

“Oh, Chef,” she mumbled with her mouth full. “This sauce is incredibly silky.”

“I thicken the sour cream sauce by whisking in an egg yolk.”

“It’s decadently rich.” She closed her eyes, savoring the flavors.

“Believe it or not, this is my light version—no heavy cream.”

“Well, I’m sold.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say. I’ll make it a featured item on my menu.” Hunt smiled and winked at his brother, a signal between the two.

Gillian paused in her feeding frenzy to consider what had just occurred. She rested against the chair to settle a heart that thumped hard in her chest. She’d unwittingly fallen for an impromptu tasting and been drawn in completely by her talented and wily chef.

She’d expected to discuss the menu with Hunt and, when absolutely necessary, to defer to his experience. But Gillian hadn’t intended to fall under his culinary spell so quickly or in the name of chicken fricassee.

It seemed her earlier fears about trusting the man were well-founded.

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