About the Author

KRISTIN HARDY has always wanted to write and started her first novel while still in school. Although she became a laser engineer by training, she never gave up her dream of being an author. Kristin lives in New Hampshire with her husband and collaborator. Check out her website at www.kristinhardy.com.

The Chef’s Choice

The Boss’s Proposal

Kristin Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Chef’s Choice

Kristin Hardy

Dear Reader,

My name is Kristin and I’m a cookaholic. I used to think I could quit anytime I want, but now I have to admit it—I’m obsessed. Maybe I should blame my mother, who let me watch Galloping Gourmet reruns when I was home sick as a kid, or my high-school teacher, who introduced me to Julia Child. At any rate, it was only a matter of time before I wrote a book about a chef, which, of course, required me to finagle my way into a five-star-restaurant kitchen. Purely for research purposes, of course. Several months and several hundred dollars’ worth of cooking gear later (Japanese turning mandoline! Timbale molds! Immersion circulator!), this book was born.

I’d love to hear what you think of Cady and Damon and the rest of the McBains, so drop me a line at Kristin@kristinhardy.com. And don’t forget to watch for the stories of Max, Walker and Tucker, coming soon. In the meantime, stop by www.kristinhardy.com for news, recipes and contests or to sign up for my newsletter informing readers of new releases.

Enjoy!

Kristin Hardy

Dedication

To Shannon, for the dreams, to Teresa, for everything

to Gail and Charles (may he live forever) for not

hunting me down and strangling me and, of course,

to Stephen, who understands the true secret ingredient

Acknowledgments

Thanks go to Chef Jonathan Cartwright and his staff at the White Barn Inn, for giving me a window into their world, to Eric Lusty at the Dockside Guest Quarters, for taking me behind the scenes and Joe DeSalazar, food blogger extraordinaire (www.blog. foodienyc.com), for the ramps.

Chapter One

“Mind the front desk? Me?” Cady McBain looked up from where she was planting a flowering kale to stare at her mother plaintively.

“Only a few hours. Just until your father and I get back from Portland,” Amanda McBain added hastily.

Cady almost smiled. McBains had run the Compass Rose Guest Quarters for four generations. For her parents and even her brother and sister before they’d moved away, tending to guests at the Maine inn was second nature, effortless.

For Cady, it was usually excruciating.

There were times she was sure there’d been a mix-up at the hospital when she was a baby. Give her a hedge to trim or pansies to plant, and she’d go at it with gusto. She kept the grounds of the Compass Rose impeccable, from the flower beds to the trees to the emerald back lawn that ran down to the lapping waters of tiny Grace Harbor. Cady could make sense of plants. She understood them, they were predictable.

She couldn’t make heads or tails of people.

It wasn’t that she didn’t try—although dealing with guests was right up there with root canals on her list of fun things to do. Somehow, though, she always said or did the wrong thing.

“Where’s Lynne?” she asked now, thinking of the brisk, efficient woman who worked as their desk clerk.

“She called in sick but we can’t reschedule your father’s appointment."

“Didn’t Dad go to the doctor last week?” Cady rose, brushing the dirt off her hands.

“He did, but Dr. Belt wanted him to have some tests.”

“Tests?” She frowned. “What kind of tests?”

“You’ll find out after you turn fifty,” Ian McBain said darkly as he walked up behind them. “Suffice it to say you’ll never look at fruit juice the same way again. Anyway, it’s all a waste of time. I’m as healthy as a horse."

“And we want to keep you that way.” Cady smoothed his hair where the morning breeze off the water had ruffled it. “Go to your appointment."

“I hope we’re not messing up your schedule too much,” her mother said.

Cady shrugged. “I was planning to work the grounds all day, anyway. I can keep an eye on the place.” She didn’t add that she’d anticipated spending at least half of it in the gleaming greenhouse she’d put up earlier that spring at the back of the property, the heated greenhouse where bedding plants for her fledgling landscaping business were already stretching their heads aboveground.

Ian looked from Cady to Amanda. “You’re leaving her in charge?"

Amanda raised a brow. “You have a better idea?” “Cancel my appointment?” he offered hopefully.

“Nice try.” She turned toward the house.

“You’re not going to run off all our guests, are you?” Ian gave Cady an uneasy look. “We do actually need to make some money. That new roof isn’t going to pay for itself, you know."

“Leave it to me, Daddio,” she soothed. “I’ll take care of everything."

“Why do I get nervous when you say that?” he asked, but he slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked up the steps to the back deck of the inn.

The Compass Rose Guest Quarters had been built in 1911 to provide rooms for the clientele of her great-great-grandfather Archie McBain’s main business, the marina next door. For four generations, the sprawling white clapboard inn had perched at the edge of Grace Harbor. The original neo-Colonial style had long since been obscured by almost a century’s worth of additions. Now, the building stretched out in all directions, rising three stories to a roofline festooned with dormer windows and red brick chimneys. It should have been a fright, but wrapped by a broad porch and softened by rhododendrons the height of a man, it somehow managed to look warm and friendly and welcoming.

Family lore held that it had been Archie’s wife, Jenny, who’d planted the maple that spread its branches over the little spit of land at the back, and Donal’s wife, Manya, who’d added the white gazebo. Donal’s son, Malcolm—Cady’s grandfather—had contributed the quartet of four-room guesthouses that clustered around the main inn. There, guests who wanted more privacy could enjoy their own decks overlooking the harbor.

White sailboats still bobbed at the docks of the Grace Harbor marina next door, but it was owned these days by Cady’s uncle Lenny and run by her cousin Tucker. She saw Tucker on the docks, dark and lanky, and raised an arm to acknowledge his wave before they stepped inside.

“Now, we’ve only got three rooms full at present,” Amanda told her, crossing the lobby to the Dutch door that served as the inn’s front desk. “Six guests."

Cady didn’t miss the frown that flickered over her father’s face. In early May, the Maine tourist season was weeks away, but they still should have had at least double the number of occupied rooms. Especially with the new roof, her parents needed every penny they could get.

The clank of spoons on china had Cady glancing down the hall off the lobby in the direction of the morning room. “What about breakfast? Where are you at there?"

“Just started,” Amanda said. “One couple is eating, the rest are still in their rooms. Everything’s set up, though. All you need to do is keep an eye on things, stock up whatever needs it. Make nice, clean up afterward. You know the drill."

“For about the past twenty-seven years,” Cady agreed.

“Fresh,” her mother said.

Cady’s lips twitched. “This is a surprise?”

“They’re a pretty easy bunch,” Amanda continued, ignoring her. “With any luck, things will be quiet while we’re gone."

Ian’s snort sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. It was an inn. Things were never quiet, Cady knew, unless it was empty, and often not even then. Hope could spring eternal, though.

“Anyone coming in today?” she asked.

“One guest. He’s not due until after we get back.”

“Where’s his registration, just in case?”

“His paperwork and keys are right here.” Amanda opened the Dutch door and went into the tiny office and kitchenette behind to pull an envelope from a wicker organizer. “You shouldn’t have to deal with him, though."

“Perish the thought,” Ian muttered.

Amanda elbowed him. “Hush, you. She’ll do fine. Won’t you, Cady?”

“I’ll be the milk of human kindness,” she promised, tongue firmly in cheek. “Now get going or you’re going to hit traffic."

She followed them outside and watched them walk toward the parking lot, hand in hand, like always. Since she’d been a child, the two constants in her life had been the inn and her parents’ quiet love for each other. For an instant, she felt a tug of wistfulness. She’d always assumed that someday she’d find a love like that, at least until she’d hit high school and discovered that what guys wanted were curvy, blond cheerleader types with Pepsodent smiles, not opinionated, auburn-haired tomboys.

Well, she was who she was, for better or worse. The day she’d given up looking for romance with a good-looking charmer had been the day she’d finally started to get comfortable in her own skin. And at twenty-seven she wasn’t about to change for anyone.

She washed her hands and tied on an apron. Even though the Compass Rose boasted a separate restaurant, breakfast had always been in the morning room of the main building. Despite the fact that the inn’s restaurant employed a half-dozen cooks, responsibility for breakfast had always fallen on Amanda and Ian and the front desk staff.

And on that particular day, the front desk staff was Cady.

She sighed. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be polite, exactly, it was just that she had strong opinions. And maybe her patience was a teensy bit limited. Okay, maybe a lot limited. Her father, now, he could be interested in just about anyone for as long as they wanted to chat.

Cady tried—sort of—but somehow it never worked. The problem was her face. It always showed exactly what she was thinking, and if she was thinking that the person she was talking with was a bore or a fool, well …

It could be a problem.

Shaking her head, she pasted a smile firmly across her face and walked into the morning room to begin refilling the stocks of coffee, hot water, muffins and fruit. One pair of the missing guests had arrived and were tucking in with gusto. A little too much gusto, she realized—the orange juice pitcher was nearly empty. Unfortunately, so was the carton in the little refrigerator tucked back in the office.

Perfect. An hour left to run on breakfast, one pair of guests still to arrive and her with no orange juice. Time to get resourceful, she thought, grabbing the carton and hurrying out the door.

Outside, the air smelled of the sea and the pines that grew up around the cedar-shingled restaurant building. Cady slipped stealthily through the back door to the pantry and dishwashing area, heading toward the walk-in refrigerator. She’d just liberate a little juice, enough to refill, that was all.

“Don’t you be tracking dirt on my clean floor,” a voice said.

Cady jumped and looked guiltily through the doorway to the kitchen. “Roman, what are you doing here?"

“Writing my memoirs.” The young, mocha-skinned sous chef glanced over from where he was mincing onions. “There’s nothing to eat here. Go over to the breakfast room if you want food."

“That’s where I just came from. I’m on desk duty.”

He stared. “You?”

Cady rolled her eyes. “Yes, me. Lynne’s sick, Mom and Dad are out for the morning. I’m pitching in. I can do it, you know."

“Your parents gotta get some more help.” He resumed chopping, shaking his head.

“The way I hear it, you’re the one who needs more help,” she countered as she ducked into the little passage that led to the walk-in.

The restaurant’s head chef, Nathan Eberhardt, had moved on three weeks before, leaving Roman to run things in his stead. While Roman was both a talented line cook and a tireless worker, he was barely twenty-three. He hadn’t anything like enough experience to be suddenly managing the complicated dance of running a kitchen. To his credit, that hadn’t stopped him. He’d kept things going, mostly by dint of practically living at the restaurant.

“You’ve got assistants for prep,” she called over her shoulder. “You’re running the joint, Roman. Delegate. Either that or you’re going to drown in it."

“Still breathing air, last time I checked,” he grunted. “And anyway, I might—wait a minute, what’s that noise?” He came around the corner in his chef’s whites. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?"

“Just getting some orange juice for breakfast.” Cady hastily stepped out of the icy refrigerator.

“Oh, no, you’re not. Get your own.”

“It’s not for me, it’s for the breakfast bar. Come on, it’s just a little juice,” she wheedled.

“I got twenty pounds of salmon to marinate. No such thing as a little orange juice.” He shook his knife at her.

“I brought you tomatoes yesterday,” she protested.

“Don’t think that gets you off the hook.” For a big guy, he moved fast.

Lucky she was small and faster. “Think of the headlines. Juicing Chef Offs Plucky Desk Clerk.” Cady made a break for the door. “What will Malika do while you’re in jail?"

“Buy her own orange juice, I hope,” Roman growled, but she saw his grin before she escaped out the door.

She’d say this for working the desk: the time went quickly. She’d blinked once, maybe twice, and it was going on one in the afternoon. Of course, time had a way of flying when you were lurching from crisis to crisis.

Every time the door opened, it seemed, it heralded another person with a problem or question or emergency for her. As always, living a bit of her parents’ life only increased her respect for them. Roman was right; they needed more help, whether they could afford it or not. A few hours into one of their days and already she was worn-out.

She’d cleaned up breakfast dishes, folded bedspreads and sheets in the laundry, vacuumed the lobby, baked scones for afternoon tea. She’d handed out directions, jumped the car of a guest who’d left her dome light on all night and calmed the hysterics of a maid who’d found a mouse in the linen closet. Smiling, always smiling, even talking to the guest who’d plugged his toilet trying to flush a washcloth.

A washcloth.

What was it about people in hotels? she wondered for the thousandth time as she hurried back to the office behind the reception area to call the plumber. They did things that they would never do at home. What kind of ninny put a washcloth down a toilet? And now, here she was with another maintenance bill to further stretch the inn’s budget, already strained to its breaking point.

Like her patience.

The door jingled again and she flinched.

“Anybody home?” A man’s voice carried in through the open top of the Dutch door. Cady could hear his boot heels thud on the lobby floor with each step. Not one of the staff. It didn’t sound like one of the guests she’d packed off to go shopping in Freeport or Kennebunkport, either, which probably meant that it was the day’s arrival. Perfect. The fact that check-in was clearly listed as 3:00 p.m. never stopped guests from showing up an hour or two early and blithely expecting to be shown to their rooms, whether the maids had finished their cleaning rounds or not.

“Hello?”

“Just a minute.” Suppressing the urge to snap, Cady walked to the opening. “What do you—” And her voice died in her throat.

His was the face of a sixteenth-century libertine. Lean and angular, with razor-sharp cheekbones, it was a face that knew pleasure. She could imagine him dueling at dawn or seducing high-born ladies. She could imagine him slashing paint over canvas in an artist’s garret or bending over a keyboard, pounding out impassioned blues in a smoky, late-night club.

His dark, straight brows matched the wavy hair that flowed to his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning and the shadow of a beard ran along the bottom of his face like the artful shading of a charcoal sketch, drawing attention to the line of jaw, the strong chin, framing his mouth.

His mouth.

Temptation and mischief, fascination and promise. It was the kind of mouth that offered laughter, the kind of mouth that offered an invitation to decadence.

And delicious, lingering kisses.

Sudden color flooded her cheeks. Look at her, standing there staring at him like an idiot.

Get it together, Cady.

She cleared her throat. “Welcome to the Compass Rose. Are you here to check in?"

“Kind of. I’m looking for Amanda or Ian McBain.”

“They’re not around just now, I’m afraid. I’d be happy to help you, though."

The corner of his mouth curved up a bit. “My good luck.”

It was said with the casual ease of a guy who turned every woman he met into putty, the kind of guy who charmed as second nature. Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t big on good-looking guys in general, and she was in no mood to be charmed, not after the morning she’d had. “Your room’s probably not ready this early, but I’ll check with housekeeping.” When she got around to it. “Here’s your paperwork, anyway. It’s Donnelly, right? Scott Donnelly?"

“Hurst,” he corrected. “Damon Hurst.”

“Welcome to the Compass Rose Guest Quarters, Mr.—” Cady stopped. Stared at him blankly. “Damon Hurst?” she repeated. “The Damon Hurst?"

“The same.”

She saw it now—the famous cheekbones, the Renaissance hair, the face that had graced a hundred magazine covers.

And a thousand tabloid stories over his half decade of infamy.

Damon Hurst, the enfant terrible of the Cooking Channel, the charismatic star who’d sent the upstart network soaring against its entrenched rival before he’d flamed out the year before. Known more for his baroque personal life and volatile kitchen persona than for his undeniably brilliant cuisine, he’d been the subject of speculation, rumors, spite and stories too outrageous to be believed.

Except that they were true.

Cady cleared her throat. “Yes, well, welcome to the Compass Rose, Mr. Hurst,” she said. “It’ll take a little time to get a room put together for you but we do have a vacancy. If you’ll just fill out the registration form, please?” She put the paper on the little counter that topped the lower half of the door.

“I’m not checking in.”

Cady frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The restaurant.”

“Ah. I see.” She hadn’t realized that the Sextant, the Compass Rose’s restaurant, had a reputation that stretched all the way to Manhattan. Then again, with his shows very publicly canceled and his restaurant doors shuttered, maybe Damon Hurst had little else to do than run around obscure eateries in Maine. She dredged up a faint smile. “The Sextant is just across the parking lot. I believe they’re still serving lunch."

“I’m not here for lunch, either,” he said. He was laughing at her, she realized, and she felt her face flame.

“If you’re hoping for a tour of the restaurant, I think you’re out of luck.” Even she could hear the tartness in her voice. “We’re shorthanded and I doubt our chef has any interest in letting you go traipsing around his kitchen.”

“My kitchen, now,” Hurst corrected. “I guess you haven’t heard. I’m the new chef."

Chapter Two

He was used to having a strong effect on women. Attraction, arousal, jealousy, anger. Rarely horror.

“Our new chef?” She stared at him, dismay writ large on her features, as though he were a fry cook from some seaside clam shack, Damon thought in irritation.

“The restaurant’s new chef,” he corrected. And tried not to wonder yet again what the hell he was doing.

“You want to get your life back in gear?” his mentor, legendary chef Paul Descour, had demanded over port at his landmark Manhattan restaurant, Lyon. “Make a fresh start. Go away from here. Find a good restaurant with room to grow and turn it into something. Remind yourself that you’re still a chef, instead of a …” He’d waved at the air in disgust and dismissal.

Dismissing what? A top-rated cooking show four years running? A bestselling cookbook? A Michelin-starred restaurant, Pommes de Terre, deemed the best of Manhattan by the Times?

And a very public firing, the voice in Damon’s head reminded him. A restaurant backer who’d walked away from those Michelin stars and left him hanging. The wreckage of a dozen friendships that littered the wake of his career. The hundred meaningless liaisons that had been poor substitutes.

And the morning he’d woken and looked back at himself in the mirror, knowing there needed to be more.

“You’re our new chef?” the feisty-looking redhead before him repeated incredulously. “I don’t believe it. This is a family business. I can’t imagine they’d do something so … so …"

“So?” he prompted, letting the annoyance show. He topped her by more than a head but she stared back at him, not giving an inch. It was the eyes that did it, a hazel that wasn’t quite green, wasn’t quite brown, eyes that stared back at him unimpressed, daring him to justify himself.

He didn’t need to justify himself to anyone.

Descour and his big ideas. Nathan Eberhardt, the new sous chef at Lyon, had left the Sextant minus an executive chef. The perfect opportunity, Paul had said. Sure. The perfect opportunity to come up to the sticks and get dissed at the front desk by some clerk in a dirt-smudged work shirt and shaggy hair.

Find a good restaurant with room to grow and turn it into something.

“Look, whether you believe it or not, it’s happening,” he said shortly. “They probably just forgot to tell you.” Or didn’t bother, he thought, diagnosing her as a troublemaker on sight.

“Oh, trust me, they didn’t forget.” Temper snapped in her eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’re Nathan’s replacement?"

“Looks that way,” he agreed. “And you are?”

“Cady McBain. Amanda and Ian are my parents.”

“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She was ticked because she’d been blindsided. “I guess they forgot to run it by you."

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” “Maybe not,” he said, “but it’s bugging you.” She scowled at him. “Does Roman know?”

“Roman?”

“You have met Roman, right? Your sous chef?”

“Oh, right.” He shrugged. “I haven’t met any of the staff yet. I was down in New York.” None of her business that he’d taken the job sight unseen, and happy to get it. He hadn’t been foolish, exactly, with the money he’d made. At least not all of it. The problem was, you couldn’t eat a TriBeCa loft or a Le Corbusier sofa. For form’s sake, he’d taken a few days to think over Amanda and Ian McBain’s telephone offer, but he’d already begun making arrangements to be gone for however long it took to fight his way back.

The hazel eyes were narrowed at him. She might have had lashes that a few of his model-actress ex-bedmates would have killed for, but they did nothing to soften that stare. “Listen to me. Roman Bennett is the most talented, hardworking line cook you’ll ever meet. He’s been killing himself twenty hours a day since Nathan left to hold this place together. You give him a hard time, you’ll answer to me."

His lips twitched; he couldn’t help it.

She glowered. “Don’t laugh at me.”

It took all he had not to. Here she was, a head shorter than he was and she was threatening him. And she was dead serious, he realized, the smile fading.

“I’m not a jackass,” he said.

“You’ll pardon me if I prefer to wait and see on that one.” The snap in her words stung. Now it was his turn to step a bit closer. “Wait and see about what?” “Whether you live up to your reputation.” Taking his time, keeping control of the irritation, he leaned down to rest his elbows on the counter so that they were eye to eye, lip to lip. She smelled faintly of apples. And he could see her decide not to budge. “It’s a good thing we’ll have lots of time, then.”

For a minute, neither moved. And he couldn’t help wondering what she would do if he shifted just a bit closer, tasted that mouth of hers while it was open and soft with surprise. He saw her shoulders rise slightly as she took a breath, saw those hazel eyes darken to caramel brown.

And flicker with alarm.

She did move then, abruptly. “Stop playing games.” Her voice was sharp.

“Stop playing hardnose.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Really?” He watched the pulse beat in her throat. “This could get interesting."

Just then, the door behind him jingled. “We’re back,” a voice announced from the door and he turned to see a woman with Cady’s eyes walking in.

He could almost hear Cady’s sigh of relief. “This has been fun, but here are my parents. I guess it’s time for you to finally meet your staff."

“I guess you’re right,” Damon said. “See you around.”

“Not if I see you first.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve taken on here?” Cady stared at her parents across their kitchen.

“Of course,” Amanda said pleasantly, glancing over her shoulder as she stood at the counter with bread and cold cuts. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich, too?"

“No thanks,” Cady muttered.

“You can give me hers,” Ian said cheerfully. “There’s nothing like fasting for a couple of days to make a guy appreciate food.” “You’re changing the subject,” Cady returned, although a sandwich was starting to sound increasingly good for someone who’d skipped lunch. “Why Damon Hurst, of all people? There have to be tons of qualified cooks out there.”

“Cooks, maybe, but not chefs, and not as many as you’d think. At least not who’d move up to Grace Harbor."

Okay, so a tiny tourist town, even one an hour from Portland, wasn’t for everyone. Still … “There has to be someone. Why Hurst? Why him, of all people?"

He’d leaned in and stared at her with those eyes and she’d almost forgotten how to breathe. This could get interesting. Just thinking of it made her furious.

Just thinking of it made her shiver.

“We hired him because he was recommended by Nathan, for one thing,” her father said, pulling a bowl of potato chips toward himself.

Cady blinked. “Nathan knows him?”

“Well, the chef Nathan works for now does. He told Nathan, Nathan told us."

“He said he hadn’t even been here. What, he couldn’t even be bothered to come interview? He made you go there?"

Her father coughed. “Not exactly.”

“You took him on sight unseen?” she asked incredulously.

“We took him on recommendation. We talked to him by phone, several times. We’d seen him cook on Chef’s Challenge, where he has a winning record, I might add. What more did we need to know?"

“I don’t know, chemistry? See if it feels right?”

“Chemistry?” Ian repeated in amusement. “We don’t want a date, we want a chef. I don’t see the problem. He needs a job and he can give us what we need, which is visibility."

“Or notoriety.”

“You know what they say. There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Amanda put in mildly as she set the sandwiches down on the table and sat.

“Mom, you know the stories. I mean, he used to throw customers out of his restaurant, for God’s sakes. He gave one of his chefs a black eye. Do you want that happening at the Sextant?"

“Of course not. But he says that’s over. He wants to build something here."

“Sure, until he finds something bigger and better and walks out on his contract.” There was a short silence while her parents suddenly became very interested in their napkins. “You do have him under contract, don’t you?” Cady asked with dawning dismay.

Ian met her eyes. “We thought about it but we decided it was smarter not to. A contract is a double-edged sword, you know. This way if he doesn’t work out, we can walk away."

“You do admit there’s a chance of that, then?”

“Of course we do,” Ian said impatiently. “It’s a calculated risk."

“I agree with the risk part.”

“No matter what, we’ll get a lot of exposure from him. People know Damon Hurst. They’ll want to know why he’s here. They’ll come to see if he’s still got the magic. I mean, think of it, even you’ve heard of him and you barely pick up a paper or turn on the TV."

“Cable’s too expensive,” she muttered, moving to sit at the table with them.

“Our occupancy is down. It has been for the past two years. We need to get publicity and we can’t afford ads right now.” Ian picked up his sandwich. “Hurst’s our answer. We send out a few press releases, maybe get a review or two in the papers or magazines."

And start a media feeding frenzy. “That publicity’s not going to be worth much if your line staff quits and your diners start staying away."

“I think that’s unlikely.”

“I don’t trust him.” Cady reached out for a chip. “Why would a guy like him come all the way up here to work? You know the stories—he dates fashion models and pop tarts. I can’t imagine Grace Harbor’s going to thrill him.”

“Maybe he’s grown up. It can happen, you know.” Amanda gave her a bland look.

“All right, all right, I get the point,” Cady grumbled. “But he’s got to be costing you a fortune."

“Not as much as you’d think. We’ve caught him at a good time. And he’s got big plans for the Sextant."

“For now, anyway.” Then again, as much as she desperately wanted her parents’ inn to succeed, Damon Hurst couldn’t be gone soon enough for her peace of mind.

“We need him, Cady.” For once, there was no humor in her father’s voice. “We’re in a deep hole. We need all the bounce we can get from him and if you don’t trust him you’d better hope that you’re wrong and Nathan and Descour are right. We need you to do everything you possibly can to make this work."

“But—”

“We’re not asking you to marry the man, just keep a civil tongue in your head,” Ian shot back, temporarily silencing her. “If you can’t do that much, then just stay away."

Cady looked at them both and sighed. “Of course I’ll help however I can. I think you’re both nuts but if Damon Hurst is what you want, Damon Hurst is what you’ll get. God help you,” she added.

“Tell me again why having a gorgeous man who’s a fabulous chef and a celebrity working at your parents’ restaurant is a bad thing?” Cady’s best friend since childhood, Tania Martin, peered at her from the other end of the couch.

Cady scowled and scooped up some sesame chicken from one of the myriad takeout containers that littered the crates-and-boards combination that could charitably be called her coffee table. It was their weekly movie/gossip/junk food night, or at least Tania’s.

Cady believed in eating junk food as often as possible.

In a crowded room, nobody would ever have picked the two of them to be friends. Unlike tomboy Cady, who pretty well lived in jeans and a T-shirt, Tania kept on the cutting edge of hip with her black spiky hair and tinkling silver jewelry and her scarlet—or sometimes blue—nails and lips. They’d known each other since second grade and were as close as sisters.

“Why is Damon Hurst a bad thing?” Cady repeated, sprinkling soy sauce over her chicken with a free hand. “He’s irresponsible. He’s temperamental. He got fired from his TV show and from his restaurant for not taking care of business. He makes scenes. You, of all people, should know because you’re the one who told me about all of it."

“Besides all that.” Tania crunched into an egg roll.

“Besides … Tania, the guy got caught boinking one of his customers in his office—by the woman’s husband. You want to tell me again how you think him being here could in any way be a good idea?"

“Okay, so he has some rough edges,” Tania allowed, forking up some fried rice. “Anyway, that boinking story was from years ago. Maybe he’s past it by now."

“God help us if he’s not.” Cady squeezed a dollop of hot mustard out of its packet and swabbed her egg roll in it.

Tania watched her a minute. “Do you know you’ve probably burned off every taste bud you were ever born with by now?” she asked as Cady tore open a second packet. “How can you eat that stuff?"

“Puts hair on your chest.” Cady bit into the egg roll with a little hum of pleasure.

“Just what I’ve always wanted. Anyway, back to Damon Hurst—and I expect an introduction to him at the first possible moment, by the way—what are you going to do?"

Cady aimed the remote at her DVD player moodily. “Not much I can do. Mom and Dad seem to think he’s the answer to their problems."

“And you don’t agree. You know you’re only prejudiced against him because he’s good-looking."

“I’m prejudiced against him because he’s trouble. He’s one of those guys who thinks he can get anything he wants."

“Can he?” Tania asked curiously.

“Watch the movie.”

“It’s just previews.” Tania turned to face her. “This is much more interesting. Come on, what’s he really like?"

What was he really like? “A charmer, like it’s second nature. He knows exactly what to say and how to say it. He’s got this way of looking at you so that even when you’re ready to strangle him all you can do is just stand there staring up at him like an idiot."

Tania became very still. “'You’ like hypothetical or ‘you’ like you?” she asked carefully.

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“I’ll pass on answering that just now.”

“He’s so cocky, he thinks he’s God’s gift and he can get you to do whatever he wants you to. ‘This could get interesting,’ my ass,” Cady burst out in frustration. She sprang up from the couch and began pacing.

Tania just watched. “You’re getting awfully excited about a guy you hardly know."

“It doesn’t take long with him. I mean, he leans in and gets right in my face, deliberately, when he knows I’m pissed about him. And he does that thing with his eyes—“

“What thing with his eyes?”

“Like he wants to eat you up,” she responded, moving restlessly to the window. “Like you’re the only person in the world. And he makes you want to believe it.” It was irritating. Beyond irritating, infuriating.

“Let’s go back to the ‘eat you up’ part,” Tania ordered. “You mean he tried to kiss you?"

Cady stopped and flopped back down on the couch. “Give me some credit, will you? I would have stopped that one way before it ever happened."

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated.

Tania forked up a dumpling. “You ask me, you could use kissing. How long has it been, anyway?"

“You know how long it’s been.” Cady took a drink of her Coke. “Since Ed Shaw."

Tania stared. “Ed Shaw was what, three years ago? Cady, sweetie, you’ve got to get out more."

“Maybe I don’t want to,” she retorted. “I mean, it’s fine for you. You’re gorgeous, you’ve always got guys after you. It doesn’t work that way for me."

“That’s because you scare ‘em off with that mouth of yours.”

“Maybe I want to scare them off. Maybe I just don’t want to deal with it.” She didn’t want the nerves, didn’t like the anticipation, despised that feeling of having it suddenly matter whether some guy called or not. And having no control over whether or not he did. Somewhere along the line it had just become easier, more comfortable, less nerve-wracking to avoid guys altogether.

“I think you’re nuts,” Tania pronounced. “I mean, what about Denny Green or Stan Blackman? You’ve had guys interested in you before."

“Not the ones I wanted interested.”

“Maybe that’s because you chose the ones who wouldn’t be.”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy, Ms. Freud?” Cady glanced over from the menu on the screen.

“I just think you haven’t given guys in general much of a chance. Why not try with Hurst?"

“Are you nuts? That would be like sticking a kid with a learner’s permit in a demolition derby. No thanks."

“It would be interesting.”

“So would skydiving without a parachute, at least for the first couple of minutes. Damon Hurst is in and out of here. And no,” she said as Tania’s eyes brightened, “before you start, I don’t need in and out, either metaphorically or literally."

“Well, I think that you’re the one who’s nuts,” Tania said, picking up the carton of broccoli beef. “I’d go for him in a heartbeat."

“Then why don’t you?” Cady asked tartly.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll just …” Tania trailed off, staring at Cady. “You’ve got a thing for him,” she said with slowly dawning delight.

“I don’t have a thing for him,” Cady retorted. “I told you, I don’t want any part of him."

“Oh yeah, you do.”

“I want him gone.”

“Liar.”

“Watch the movie,” Cady grumbled.

Chapter Three

“No tuna at all?” Damon asked. He sat in the tiny nook off the kitchen that served as his office. Smaller than a phone booth, the space held a little counter just wide enough for a laptop and a phone, high enough that he could either sit on a tall chair or stand and look out across the kitchen.

“No more tuna, not today. We’re already out,” the fish vendor said over the phone.

“How about skate wing?”

“We got some nice scallops,” he offered.

It was an education in what was possible, Damon told himself. “Fifteen pounds of that."

“I got you down for haddock and lobster, also. Standing order. You still want it?"

“For now. Things will be changing soon, though.” He hoped to God. With a scowl, Damon ended the call.

He wasn’t used to not being able to get whatever he wanted delivered to his door, from suppliers no more than an hour or two away. Of course, he also wasn’t used to getting off work at midnight to find that the entire town had rolled up the sidewalks. After hours of fast, hard, demanding work, he needed time to come down. In Manhattan, that had meant a bar or nightclub. In Grace Harbor, it appeared to mean his living room.

Then again, there was something to be said for getting enough sleep to be at work early. The kitchen, at this hour, was quiet. Only Roman was in, standing at the stainless steel counter that paralleled the row of stoves that ran along one side wall; together, the two formed the line, where the bulk of the entrées came together during lunch or dinner service. Opposite the end of the line was the little corner bay where hot and cold appetizers were put together; between the apps station and the end of the line ran a crosswise aisle that led through a doorway to the dishwashing station and the back door and the walk-in.

Which brought him back to fish.

“What kind of a fish market sells out of tuna at seven in the morning, Roman?” he asked.

Roman glanced up, but his knife never ceased moving. “A fish market that sells a lot of tuna to Japan for sushi, Chef. You could probably get some shipped in."

“I’m not going to get it shipped in when it’s fished right here.” He walked past Roman to the boxes of produce that had been delivered that morning. Farm Fresh From California, the labels proclaimed, but how fresh could it be if it had been shipped across the country by truck or plane or train? And why were they getting goods from California when New Jersey and Florida were probably growing everything they needed by this time of year? Doing business in Maine was proving more of a challenge than he’d expected.

At least the kitchen was in good shape, all white walls and gleaming counters and terra-cotta tiled floor. The powerful fans at the ceiling were silent at this hour. When the stoves were fired up and the unbroken surface of their tops became one giant radiator, the fans and AC would kick into gear. Not that it would help much. Once the dinner rush was on and all the cooks were working on the line, all the air-conditioning in the world wouldn’t keep the temperature down.

At this hour, though, the kitchen was cool and empty, quiet save for the soft tick of Roman’s knife.

Damon turned back to his tiny office, the walls lined with clipboards that held the order sheets, a separate one for each day of the week. It was an organized system and Roman had kept it up, Damon would give him that. Actually, he’d give him a whole lot more, having seen the guy work the line during service the day before. A good man with a knife, Roman, and he ran a clean station. He moved easily from the grill to sauté to apps as necessary, turning out clean, consistently plated dishes each time.

Damon had the facility, he had the staff. Now it was up to him to come up with the right food.

The Sextant’s menu currently ran to entrées like baked haddock, steamed lobster, steak. Basic, satisfying fare, good enough for guests who didn’t want to deal with going into Kennebunk or Portland, but nothing that was going to bring anybody to the restaurant on purpose.

The thing to do was to hold on to the New England traditions but rework them, take the lobster and blueberries and turn them into something more than the sum of the parts. It was that aspect of cooking that he really loved, letting his imagination take flight, playing with flavors, mixing elements to come up with a new twist that made the taste buds sit up and take notice.

Of course, the thing to do was to go gradually. He’d ride with the current menu for a week while he developed the new dishes and Roman and the rest of the line cooks perfected making them. Then they’d rotate a few dishes in each night until at the end of the second week they’d be serving a revamped menu featuring the familiar flavors but taken to a new level.

The restaurant currently had two stars in the guidebooks. The McBains were hoping for three; Damon had vowed to get them four. Of course, that had been before he’d found out what kind of food stocks he had to work with. A look at suppliers and food cost requirements meant jiggering things a bit, but he could still do it. He was going to blow away Ian and Amanda McBain. And their daughter.

Especially their stubborn, opinionated daughter.

She was definitely an original. Nice enough looking, he supposed, though you’d hardly know she was aware of it. He was used to women who flirted, women who were experts at polishing their own allure. He wasn’t sure he could remember ever meeting a woman who just purely didn’t give a damn about making a good impression, on him or anyone else. As annoying as it was, he had to give her credit. Her redhead’s skin might look milky smooth but that tough, compact body could go toe-to-toe with anyone.

He remembered her scent and smiled. Going toe-to-toe with her could be kind of intriguing.

The phone rang and he picked it up absently. “Hurst.”

“Seven o’clock and already at work,” Paul Descour said in his lightly accented English. “I’m happy to see it."

“That makes one of us,” Damon said, stifling a yawn.

“You can sleep when you’re dead, my friend. You cannot build a world-class restaurant from the grave."

“Now, there’s a sprightly thought to start out the day. Was that the only reason you called, to cheer me up?"

“I called to see how your new venture is going.”

“Oh, great. I’m learning how to make meals without fresh produce."

“No green market?”

“I’m working on it. So far, I can mostly tell you what they don’t grow within a hundred miles of here."

“So it is a challenge. It will show you what you are made of.”

“It’s not what I’m made of that I’m worried about,” Damon said.

“You have always been resourceful. I am sure you will find a way. And how is the restaurant?"

“It’s got possibilities,” Damon allowed. “The kitchen setup’s good. A little small for the size of the dining room but it’s not a problem right now. We’ve got enough tables to do a hundred and fifty covers a night but we’ve had less than a quarter of that since I’ve been here."

“It is okay to start small. You are still working out the bugs.”

“Bugs are definitely not on the menu.”

“And that is a good thing. The health department just closed La Dolce Vida for violations,” Descour said, referring to Manhattan’s Italian restaurant of the moment.

Damon shook his head. “Marco never was much on taking care of the details."

“You may have had your faults, but you always kept a clean kitchen,” Descour said.

“I learned from a tough boss.”

“You did not learn everything from me, my friend. Some of what you know is a gift. Some of what you know I want no responsibility for,” he added before Damon could be pleased. “I did not like it when you were pissing your life away."

Funny how the rebuke didn’t sting the way it would have from Damon’s father. Then again, Colonel Brandon Hurst would never have leavened the criticism with a compliment, or meant the compliment if he had. It would have been one more condemnation in a lifetime’s worth, one more bit of proof that Damon had fallen short of expectations. Paul said it because he wanted better for Damon; the colonel would have said it because he wanted a better reflection on himself.

Which was an opportunity for its own kind of small revenge. However much Damon had squirmed at the exaggerations, rumors and outright lies the tabloids had printed about him, he’d always enjoyed imagining the colonel’s reaction, coming across them in some grocery store.

He never knew for sure it had happened because he hadn’t spoken to his father in nearly a decade.

If anyone had suggested to him that his drive for success stemmed from a need to prove himself to his father, Damon would have scoffed. Paul, though, Paul mattered. The problem was that Damon had no good answer for him. Mistakes, he’d probably—okay, certainly—made, but it was pointless to regret them now. The thing was to learn. If he’d done that much, then they could be filed under interesting experiences, no harm, no foul.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “I can’t change it. I’m more interested in what happens next."

“I shall be curious to see,” Descour said.

“I’m even more interested in finding a way to get produce that hasn’t spent the day soaking up exhaust fumes in some cargo bay."

“I shall be curious to see how you manage that, too.”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

After he’d ended the conversation and hung up, Damon stared at the phone before him for a moment. “Hey, Roman,” he said aloud. “What do you know about foraging?"

Early morning was Cady’s favorite time. The day felt fresh and new, the air so crisp, even in May, that her breath showed as she loaded bags of Compass Rose yard waste into the bed of her battered pickup. The guests were all asleep, the employees yet to show up. She had the grounds to herself, just her and Grace Harbor, the quiet lap of the water against the rocks punctuated by the cries of the gulls.

Some people took time to find their place in the world. Cady had always known she belonged in Maine. Her brother, Walker, might have moved to Manhattan; her sister, Max, might have tried out Chicago before coming back to settle in Portland. As far as Cady was concerned, there was nowhere else she’d rather be than on this particular bit of coast. Life down east might not always be easy, but it satisfied her soul.

Of course, these days she had a bit more than her soul to worry about. After six years of working for another landscaper in the area, she’d decided to hang out her own shingle two years before. Be her own boss, her thinking went, though she hadn’t quite realized at the time that being her own boss really meant thateveryone was her boss, particularly her clients. To date, the best thing she could say was that she was keeping her head above water.

Barely.

One challenge was that the population of Grace Harbor was a whopping five thousand people, though that quadrupled when the summer tourists descended in droves. Another was that the Maine growing season was so short. Hard to make a living growing things when those things only grew from May to September.

But that was the job she’d taken on, so from May to September, she worked, she cultivated, she pasted a smile on her face and made nice until her jaws hurt. And in the winter, she put a plow blade on her truck and prayed for snow.

Still, she was making progress. Her old truck would have to last a few more years but the new greenhouse gave her a critical advantage in growing her own stock that would pay off big down the line. She’d acquired a few steady clients—businesses, rental property owners, her uncle Lenny at the marina. She’d scrape along, even if the Compass Rose was still her biggest account.

Cady settled another bag in the bed of her truck and turned back to the pile. It didn’t matter that the inn was family owned, her parents had always treated it as a business, insisting on paying her just as they would any other groundskeeper. And because Cady was in business, too, she’d felt honor bound to negotiate long and hard with them over the terms. She still considered it something of a coup that she’d fast-talked her father so that he didn’t realize he’d signed a contract that paid her less than he had his last groundskeeper.

It was her business, and she’d do what she wanted, including offer a family discount, even if the family didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she was going to go broke.

Yet.

She wasn’t so sure about her parents, though. The past couple of years had been increasingly tight, even as repairs on the nearly hundred-year-old main building mounted up. They definitely needed to make a move to bring in more traffic.

Hiring an unstable guy like Damon Hurst wasn’t making a move, though. It was desperation.

Damon Hurst. Just the thought of his name had her fuming, and if that didn’t, the memory of his easy smirk did. Cady knew about him. Oh, she knew all about him whether she wanted to or not, courtesy of Tania, who was a complete junkie for his show.

“I don’t care about cooking, Tania,” she’d pleaded at one of their weekly get-togethers. “Can’t we just watch a movie?"

“It’s almost over. Besides, how hard is it? Don’t you want to look at that face?” Tania had returned, eyes gleaming. “Don’t you want to see how long it takes him to yell at one of his chefs during the competition?"

“No. I want to see vampires and car chases and preferably something blowing up. I don’t want to see Damon Hurst."

Well, she’d have to see him now, Cady thought, at least for the two or three weeks he’d probably stick around. She thumped another bag of yard waste into her truck. How he’d managed to con her parents into trusting him was anybody’s guess. Why, was even more perplexing. He had to have options in the city, job offers that paid a whole lot better than her parents could afford. Why come all the way up to a little dot-on-the-map Maine town? Could he really be that hard up? And if he was, did they really want him?

It was a fiasco waiting to happen. The guy hadn’t even bothered to come look at the restaurant and meet the people he was going to work with before taking the job. That wasn’t the behavior of a man who gave a hoot about his staff—or his performance. No way was he planning on being there for the long haul.

Gritting her teeth, she slammed another bag down.

“You’re going to split one of those open if you don’t watch it,” a voice said behind her, making her jump.

She knew before she turned it was him.

He wore jeans and the same bomber jacket he’d had on the day she’d met him, his dark hair loose and pushed back behind his ears. He still hadn’t bothered to shave; even in sunlight, his eyes looked only two or three shades away from black. Not that she was noticing. Good-looking guys didn’t get to her, Cady reminded herself.

She spared him another glance. “Well, you’re up and around early."

He smiled faintly. “Not a lot of nightlife around here.”

“Life in Grace Harbor. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

She bent back to her rubbish pile. “I’m so relieved.”

This time he laughed outright. “Nice to see you’re in good form again today."

“I’m in good form every day,” she said, tossing an armload of rhododendron branches into the bed. “Get used to it."

He looked her up and down. “I’m not even going to touch that one."

She flushed and grabbed another load of branches from the previous day’s pruning to toss into the bed. “So what brings you out here so early?"

“Maybe I just wanted some fresh air.”

“It’s all around you. Knock yourself out.” She turned to find him already handing her the next bag from her pile. She hesitated, then took the brown paper sack from him. “Thanks."

“Don’t mention it. What’s McBain Landscaping?” He nodded at the magnetic sign on her truck door. “I thought it was Compass Rose."

“The Compass Rose is my parents'. I’ve got my own business."

“Planting stuff?”

She scowled. “Yeah, I plant stuff, you fry stuff.”

“Okay.” Brown paper crackled as he handed her a bag of leaves. “Let’s start again. Along the lines of frying stuff, Roman says you’re the person to talk to about the farmers’ market."

“You’ve met him, finally. Good for you.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “The farmers’ market?”

“What do you want to know? Directions?”

“Among other things.”

“Kennebunk has a market but it doesn’t open until June. This time of year you’ll have to go to Portland.”

“How long’s the drive?”

“As long as an hour, depending on traffic.” At his whistle, Cady shrugged. “It’s in town. It’s tricky to find parking. If you’re smart, you’ll do like Nathan did. Skip the market and have what you want trucked in from suppliers.” Before she’d even gotten the words out, Damon was already shaking his head.

“No trucks. I want local. Fresh.”

“People in hell. Ice water,” she countered. “It’s too early in the season here to have much of anything to harvest unless it’s greenhouse grown."

He picked up an armload of lilac branches and tossed them over the side of the truck into the bed. “Roman says Nathan supplemented shipments with veg he bought locally."

“When he could.” Cady added an armload of her own.

“Roman says he’s been going with local stuff, too. Actually—” Damon flicked an assessing glance at her “—he said you were the one who went to the market for him. Said he’d never have made it through if it hadn’t been for you."

Cady shifted uncomfortably. “Roman talks too much.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Don’t get any ideas. He was shorthanded and working his butt off, so I pitched in to help. It’s not an ongoing program. I’ve got a business to run.” She shut the tailgate of the truck. “You want the farmers’ market, big guy, that’s your job. I’d be happy to write down directions for you."

“Better yet, go with me.”

“Hello? Business to run?” She tapped the side of the truck.

“Just this once, that’s all. Show me around, introduce me to the people you do business with."

“Money’s the best introducer there is.”

“And you know as well as I do that business is about relationships.” He gave her a second glance. “Then again, maybe you haven’t figured that out."

“I’ve got all the relationships I need.”

“You might be surprised. The right one could change your whole world view."

“My world view is fine, thanks very much.”

“Look, just give me tomorrow morning,” he said in exasperation. “I’ll keep it quick."

She reached in her pocket for her keys. “Tomorrow won’t work. They only hold the market twice a week—today and Saturdays."

“Twice a week? For a town with as many restaurants as Portland? You’re kidding."

“It’s May. It’s Maine. You’re lucky the market’s even open this time of year."

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

She’d promised to be civil, Cady reminded herself, and even for her, she wasn’t doing a very good job. She let out a long, slow breath. “All right. It just so happens that I’m working a job today for a summer client, so they won’t know if I push them off until later. If you’re obsessed about having me take you to the market, I’ll take you. One hour only,” she warned. “And you’d better be ready to go now. I’ve got a job site to be at this afternoon.” She opened her driver’s door.

Damon glanced at the rubbish-filled truck bed. “Are you going to take it like that?"

“What, you think people are going to steal my dead leaves?”

“No, because I figure it’s all going to blow out by the time we hit the highway. Let me drive."

“I didn’t know Manhattanites knew how to.”

“I’ve seen it on TV,” he said.

“Forget it. I know where we’re going. For your information, the dump’s on the way. I was already planning to stop."

He eyed her. “You just want to be behind the wheel.”

“That’s right,” she said, getting in. “Nobody moves me from the driver’s seat."

His slow smile set something fluttering in her stomach. “We’ll see about that."

Chapter Four

It was what she got for being nice, Cady thought as they drove up the highway to Portland. If she’d thought twice, she’d never have agreed to be stuck in the tight confines of a vehicle with Damon Hurst. He sprawled comfortably in the passenger seat, his lanky frame making the cab seem very small. It was impossible to ignore him. However much she tried to pay attention to the road, he was what she noticed.

He didn’t bother to make conversation. She wasn’t sure if that was a relief or if it left her to focus all the more on him. He just sat there in his leather jacket and stubbled chin, looking like something out of a blue jeans ad, looking like—

Cady cursed and stomped on the brakes as the car ahead slowed suddenly.

“A decent following distance might help with that,” Damon said mildly, though she noticed he reached up to grab the overhead handhold.

“If you’re going to be a backseat driver, change seats.” “You don’t have a backseat.”

“I know. So relax and enjoy the scenery.” She whipped over into another lane and onto the exit ramp.

“I can’t see it with my eyes closed,” he said through his teeth as the truck swayed with the quick succession of turns she made on the city streets.

Cady caught sight of a parking space and punched it to get through a yellow light and to the opening. “Well, you can open your eyes up now, sweet pea. We’re there."

“Thank God,” Damon said and slowly, carefully, released his grip. “Next time, I’m driving."

“There won’t be a next time.”

“I’m still driving.”

The square before them was filled with the color and hubbub of the farmers’ market. Canvas-tented booths in blue and green and yellow displayed boxes of lettuce in a bewildering variety, pyramids of the fall’s apples and potatoes and cabbage. Hothouse tomatoes provided flashes of red next to the vivid purple and green of rhubarb. Even though it was barely eight, the market was bustling.

Catching sight of a stand selling pastries, Cady made a quick beeline for it.

Damon came to a stop beside her. “What are you doing?”

“Breakfast,” she told him. “It’s the least I deserve after making the drive."

“Are you kidding? I’m the one who ought to be rewarded for surviving."

“Fine. You can buy us both drinks. I’ll take a Coke.”

“At eight in the morning?”

“It’s the best one of the day. What do you want here?” She gestured at the pastry and pulled out her wallet.

“A corn muffin, I guess,” Damon said, lining up before the coffee urn.

“A corn muffin and a cheese Danish,” Cady ordered.

They made their way over to a bench, exchanging booty. He watched her as she took a bite of Danish, washing it down with a swig of cola.

“You know you’ll die young eating like that?”

“That’s what people tell me,” she said, licking crumbs off her fingers with relish.

“Cream cheese and Coke. I don’t even want to think about what that combination tastes like.” He took a swallow of coffee.

“It’s not about the taste, it’s about the sugar rush, although you’d be surprised if you tried it."

He gave her a pained look. “Someone needs to educate your palate."

“My palate’s doing just fine, thank you very much. Okay—” she balled up her napkin “—let’s get going."

Damon swallowed the last of his muffin. “That didn’t count as part of the hour, by the way.” He tossed his trash into the nearby barrel. “The clock starts now."

“Then get going.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought it would be like going grocery shopping—pick and buy, pick and buy. Instead, Damon wandered down the rows aimlessly, stopping at this stand to sniff at a shiny red apple, that one to weigh a bunch of rhubarb in his hands and stare thoughtfully into space.

“You know, that’s the fourth place you’ve checked out the lettuce,” she said as he examined yet another head of brushy green stuff.

“Do you buy a car at the first place you go?” he asked, then shook his head. “Never mind, I’ve seen your truck."

Cady scowled. “What’s wrong with my truck? It got you here, didn’t it?"

He put down the head of lettuce and walked to the next stand. “Thank God for small favors."

“It’s under no obligation to get you home, you know. Speaking of home, when, exactly, are you going to start buying things? You are going to eventually, aren’t you?"

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He stopped at a vendor selling mushrooms and picked up a deformed orange thing that looked as though it had grown under someone’s back steps. Cady repressed a shudder. Her notion of cuisine ran toward pizzas and burgers, not something nasty that looked like an alien life form.

“If you’re not going to buy anything then what, exactly, are we doing here?"

“Recon.” He gave her an amused glance. “I want to see what’s out there, what I can get around here. If I can find something for tonight’s special, so much the better. Like these.” He picked up a different mushroom.

“What are they?” She stared suspiciously at the pointy, honeycombed fungus.

“Morels. Unbelievable flavor and texture.”

She watched as he sifted through the pile, hands quick, picking some mushrooms for his bag, leaving others. “I’ll take your word for it."

“What I need now are some ramps,” he said after he’d finished with the cashier. “I’ll sauté them up in a little ragout and put it over a poached haddock."

“I’m sure they’ll all come running. What are ramps, anyway?”

“Wild baby leeks that grow in the woods this time of year. They taste like a cross between onions and garlic. I can’t believe nobody’s got any here. We’ll have to hunt some down.” He started walking again.

She trailed along after him. “Not we, you. I’ve got a job, remember?"

“How about you quit and come be my forager? You grow stuff, you’d be good at it."

“I brought you to the market. Wasn’t that enough?”

“It would be if it was a real market.” He shook his head. “This is pathetic. Most of it’s from last year."

The criticism had her raising her chin. “I told you, it’s too early for fresh produce here. It won’t really get going until July."

“The green market in Manhattan had ramps and asparagus and squash blossoms last week."

“And it’s four temperature zones away from us,” she defended. “This is Maine. We have snow until April. We grow what we can. If you want more of a choice, feel free to drive down to Boston. In fact, feel free to keep going."

He studied her. “You don’t want me here, do you?”

Cady opened her mouth, closed it. “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s my parents’ business and they think you’re the right guy for the job."

“You’re evading the question.”

“Okay, how about this? I’ve seen the headlines. I know your style. You don’t fit here."

He smiled. “You don’t believe in soft-pedaling things, do you?”

“Why waste the time?”

“And you think you know all about me.”

“Given all the press you’ve generated, it’s kind of hard not to.”

“Now who’s wasting time?” he countered. “Half of those stories are exaggerations, the other half are outright lies."

She folded her arms. “So, what, you didn’t throw people out of your restaurant?"

“Okay, I might have asked one or two people to leave early on,” he admitted. “You’ve got a restaurant, you know how they can be. In fact, I’d be a little shocked if you’ve never thrown someone out yourself."

“The customer is always right,” she reminded him, not bothering to add that she’d never had the choice.

“That’s funny coming from someone whose operating assumption seems to be that everyone else in the world is wrong but them.”

Her cheeks tinted. “We’re not talking about me.”

“I am.”

“Stop changing the subject. This is about you. Maybe I didn’t see you punch your sous chef but I know you yelled at him because I saw it."

“You saw it?”

She could have bitten her tongue. “My girlfriend was watchingChef’s Challenge.” “You don’t say.”

“And I know the story of the woman in your office is true because the husband named you in the divorce proceedings."

“Well, well. You have been studying up,” he said and something flickered in the depths of his eyes.

“What, are you trying to say it didn’t happen?” she challenged.

“I think that’s between her and me.” He reached out to catch the hood strings of the jacket she wore. “The same way it would be between you and me if anything happened."

“Nothing’s going to happen with us,” Cady returned, but suddenly it was hard to catch a breath.

“Mmm, careful what you say,” Damon murmured, tugging her forward a bit. “That sounds like a dare."

She should have been smacking his hand away. She should have been turning on her heel to go. She couldn’t understand why all she was doing was looking into those eyes as he leaned closer and wondering what it would be like if—

“Hey, Cady!” A shout came from behind her, releasing her from the spell.

She did move to smack Damon’s hand away then, but he’d already released her. She turned away without another word, not trusting herself.

“Pete,” she called and crossed over to the booth where a burly man with a graying close-trimmed beard waved at her.

“Hey, good to see you. Howya doing?” he asked from behind a table covered with baskets of tomatoes.

“Good. How’s Jenny?” she asked, thinking of his neat, compact wife.

“Good, thanks.”

Damon walked up to the stand to look at the tomatoes gleaming ruby red in the sun.

“Nice.” He picked one up, nodding to Pete. “Hothouse?”

“Yep.” Pete adjusted the NAPA cap on his grizzled hair. “Early Girl beefsteaks."

Damon sniffed the tomato he held and put it down in favor of another, turning it over in his hands. “How many greenhouses?” he asked.

“Two. Careful how you handle that.”

“What’s the square footage?”

Pete’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You lookin’ to buy my tomatoes or my greenhouse?"

“Pete.” Cady stepped forward. “I want you to meet our new chef at the Sextant, Damon Hurst. Damon, meet Pete Tebeau."

“The new chef? Why didn’t you say so? Pleased to meetcha.” Damon found his hand enveloped by a hand the approximate size of an oven mitt. “Does that mean we’re not going to see you here anymore, Cady?"

“If I’ve got anything to say about it. Not that seeing you isn’t the highlight of my day, Pete.” She grinned at the guy and suddenly she looked young, mischievous and downright pretty.

And Damon kept his jaw from dropping, only just. She was flirting with the guy. This scratchy-tongued woman who had turned being a curmudgeon into a holy calling was joking around, chatting up a guy old enough to be her father.

“The highlight of your day? You’d be amazed at how many women tell me that.” Pete didn’t miss a beat.

Cady snorted. “You better hope Jenny doesn’t get wind of it.”

“She’s the one who says it most of all.”

It had all the hallmarks of an old game between them. It had all the signs of a long friendship. And he couldn’t stop watching her.

“So, how are the plans for the big weekend?” Cady asked.

Pete’s eyes gleamed. “Great, thanks to you. We’re in one of your cabins, harbor view, they said."

“I’ll make sure Lynne puts you in guesthouse two,” Cady said. “It’s got the prettiest view of the water. You can sit out on the deck in the morning with your coffee. Jenny’s going to love it."

“I hope so. I want her to be happy.”

“After twenty-five years, Pete, I think you can be pretty sure she’s happy."

“Yeah, but she’s had a rough time lately, what with losing her dad and all.” He took his cap off and turned it around in his hands. “I want to give her a special anniversary, something she’ll remember."

Like a weekend at the Compass Rose, Damon translated. “You’re coming to the inn for your anniversary?” he asked.

Tebeau nodded. “This weekend. Usually I just take her out and buy her a lobster. I figured twenty-five years deserved something more, though. This young lady helped."

The young lady in question flushed and looked away.

“Tell you what,” Damon said. “Come to the restaurant for dinner while you’re there. I’ll make you a special meal. Off the menu, I mean, just for you two. What does your wife like to eat?"

Tebeau thought a moment. “Garlic, shrimp, crab cakes. And mushrooms,” he added.

Sometimes you just had to go with your instincts. Damon picked up two baskets of tomatoes. “I know just what to make for her. You know anyone who sells ramps here?"

“Ramps?” Tebeau took the tomatoes and set them on the scale.

“Wild leeks. White flowers, green leaves about so big.” He measured. “I sauté them up with morels and asparagus and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. If I can find them. Got any ideas?"

“Maybe.” Pete took the money Damon offered. “Old Gus Cattrall next door to me, he’s got all kinda stuff growing in the woods over on his place."

“Great,” Damon said. “Does he have a stall here?”

Tebeau shook his head. “Naw. Mostly he just sells stuff out of a cart on the road. Never seen him put out—what did you call them, ramps? But if he’s got ‘em growing, I bet he’d be happy to let you pick them yourself."

“Just tell me who to call or where to go.”

Pete handed Damon his change and loaded the tomatoes into a box. “Thing is, Gus isn’t likely to cotton to strangers walking around his property. He knows you, though, Cady. You’d better come instead."

“Me?” she asked blankly. “But—”

“Sure. This guy’s got my curiosity up. Why don’t you come over to my place tomorrow morning about six? We can catch Gus before he gets working. If he’s got any of those ramps growing you can bet he’ll know where and we can just pick ‘em. Easy as pie."

“Easy as pie,” Cady said under her breath. “All right, Pete, sure. As long as you’ve got time."

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Damon—” she directed him a thunderous look “—we’d better get going."

He had better sense than to argue. Cady marched to the end of the row in silence, though he could see from the set of her shoulders that she had plenty to say. He figured he’d just wait her out.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Happy with yourself?” she demanded as soon as they were out of the square.

Now was not the time to smile, he reminded himself as he followed her down the street. “Happy why?"

“Oh, you got your trip to the market, now you’re going to get your wild onions."

“Leeks.”

“Whatever.” She stopped beside her truck. “You’re good at getting people to do what you want, aren’t you? You’re a regular puppeteer."

He couldn’t help laughing at that as he set the tomatoes and mushrooms in the truck bed. “I’m flattered that you think so much of me."

She glowered. “Oh, I think of you, all right. I think all kinds of things about you."

“Good.” In the sunlight, her hair gleamed cinnamon and copper. He could see a light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose. “You know,” he said as she opened her mouth to continue, “for someone who tries to come off so tough, that was a pretty nice thing you did for Pete."

She stared at him, momentarily disarmed. “He’s a friend,” she muttered finally. “I want them to have a nice time."

“They will, thanks to you.”

“And you,” she said, then blinked as though the thought had ambushed her.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you just said something nice to me."

The flush that spread across her cheeks made her look even more delectable. “Don’t try to distract me."

There was something that kind of delighted him about that bemused look she got on her face when she felt she was losing control of the situation. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m beginning to think distracting you could be interesting. Very interesting,” he added.

He reached out, then, to touch, running a finger across her cheek to her chin. Softer than he’d expected. She might dress and act like a tomboy but Cady McBain was all girl. Her eyes flashed with surprise, awareness, the hazel green darkening to amber. He saw the desire flicker even as he felt it himself.

All it would take was bridging that distance to find out how it would be with her. He couldn’t help wondering. And even as he told himself it wasn’t smart, he leaned in toward her.

The chirp of a horn had them both jolting apart.

Damon snapped his head around to see a blue Escort packed with a trio of what looked like college-age girls.

“Hey, you leaving?” the gum-chewing passenger called out the window.

“Definitely,” Cady answered from behind him, opening the driver’s door.

He turned to her. “Why the rush?” he asked. “We’ve done everything we need to do here.” “You think so?”

“I know so,” she said. “We’re done with this.”

“No.” Damon got in on the other side and shut the door. “That’s one thing I’m pretty sure of. We’re not done with this by a long shot."

Chapter Five

She couldn’t believe she’d let it happen. Cady pulled her truck to a stop in the employee side of the parking lot the next morning and stared at the box of ramps next to her. Bad enough that he’d manipulated her into grubbing around some forest glen looking for his wild leeks, but he’dgotten to her. One minute she’d been ready to put him in his place, which was as far from her as she could manage. The next, she was gaping at him as if she was hypnotized, as if she didn’t have a brain in her head.

He’d charmed her. Her, the one who prided herself on keeping it together, on being immune to good-looking guys. The one who was never again going to make herself vulnerable to some guy who thought the world should be at his feet.

And the worst part was that he hadn’t even had to try. All he’d had to do was to make nice to her in that voice that sent those little bubbles fizzing through her veins, look at her with those eyes and touch her.

And touch her.

Involuntarily, Cady shivered. It didn’t mean anything. It had been so long since anybody had touched her outside of family, that was all. That was why it had affected her. It wasn’t him, certainly not him.

Definitely not.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t be smart to keep her distance. While she sincerely doubted that Damon Hurst had any real interest in her, she had no plans to give him any opportunities. She checked her watch and got out of the truck with the box of greens. Best to drop off the ramps and get to work.

Her steps faltered a bit when she discovered the back door to the kitchen unlocked and the lights on. For an instant, she debated just leaving the box outside the back door. She hadn’t spent a backbreaking hour picking them only to see someone walk all over them by accident, though. Besides, she was many things but she wasn’t a wimp. She’d go inside just as she’d planned.

It was probably only Roman there, anyway. It wasn’t like Mr. Celebrity Chef was going to be up at the crack of dawn doing prep. And even if it were him, it wasn’t a problem, she told herself quickly. She’d been caught off guard at the market, that was all. This time, she was prepared for any games he might play. Everything would be fine.

And if she held her breath when she walked through the passageway into the kitchen and put the box on one of the stainless steel counters, it was nobody’s business but her own. She’d fulfilled her obligation. All she had to do was—

“Stop.” Damon’s voice sounded in her ear. Adrenaline flooded through her. Every muscle in her body tensed. She moved to turn.

“No. Close your eyes,” he ordered.

Cady bristled. “Who do you think—”

“Just do it.”

And she found herself obeying, as much out of surprise as anything. Her heart thudded in her chest. He was right in front of her; she could feel him, sense the heat from his body.

Feel his breath feathering across her face.

“Open your mouth.”

Pulse jittery, she did.

“Tell me what you think of this,” he murmured. His fingers were hard and warm against her lips and cheek. The contact sent shock rippling through her, all of her nerve endings coming to the alert. Then she stilled because he slipped a tidbit of something that smelled incredible into her mouth.

And tasted even better.

She bit down and exquisite flavor burst through her mouth. Crisp, soft, rich, savory, it was a glorious blend of taste and texture that bombarded all of her senses, occupied every taste bud. She wanted to savor, she wanted to swallow. She wanted more. She couldn’t prevent a humming moan of pleasure.

“I take it that means you approve?”

The words dragged her back to the moment. Her eyes flew open to see Damon standing there, staring at her, intent. Something skittered around in her stomach. He watched her unwaveringly, but he didn’t watch her with the gaze of a chef interested in his creations.

He watched her with the eyes of a man who’d just pleasured a woman, not with taste but with touch.

The breath backed up in her lungs. He was close, way too close in his checked trousers and whites, the apron tied around his lean hips. She swore she felt the air heat around them.

It was just the line of stoves across the room, that was all, Cady told herself unsteadily. The place was always hot. That was why he had his sleeves rolled up. Her bad luck that years of demanding kitchen work had left him with the kind of powerful, sinewy forearms that made her more aware than ever of the strength and purpose driving that rangy body.

“Was it good?” he asked. “Good?” she echoed blankly.

“The food. Did you like it?”

“Oh.” By sheer force of will she dragged herself out of the sensory overload and stepped away for her own sanity. “Good, yeah, good doesn’t begin to cover it. What was that?"

“Judging by the way you looked just now, something that belongs on the menu. It’s an appetizer,” he elaborated. “Acroustillant. Squab, fois gras, morel emulsion in brek dough."

“You’re talking to someone who eats pizza and macaroni and cheese. Translate."

“Ah. Pigeon, duck liver and mushroom sauce in pastry.”

Her brow creased. “I think I liked it better when I didn’t know."

“Sorry, I’m fresh out of cheese Danish.”

“Too bad. I’m not much for fancy food.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned against the counter. “For not being much for fancy food, you seemed pretty into it. Maybe you should spend less time worrying about what you don’t want to like and just go ahead and like it."

She had the uncomfortable feeling he was talking about more than food. She raised her chin. “Thanks for the sage advice, Yoda. I’ll keep it in mind. Here are your ramps, by the way. At least Gus thinks they’re ramps. If not, you’ve got a bunch of matching weeds."

“They look right to me,” Damon said, picking one up to inspect it.

“Great. I hope they rock your world. I’m out of here.” She headed for the door before she could start staring at his forearms again.

“Wait.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Just hang on a minute, will you?” He followed her.

“I already got up at the crack of dawn for you. What do you want now?” she asked, a tiny thread of desperation in her voice. She turned with her hand on the latch, heart hammering, to find him behind her.

“I wanted to say thanks,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to do this. It wasn’t your job and you still took the time."

She shifted uncomfortably. “I did it for Pete and his wife.”

“I like that all the more.” He took another step closer.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I should get to work.” She moistened her lips. “You should get back to work."

He looked down at her as though she was the next course on the menu. “We should do a lot of things."

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“You don’t know, you might like it.”

Something stirred again in her stomach. It was a risk she couldn’t take. “It doesn’t matter,” she reminded herself as much as him. “I know what I don’t like to like and I stick with it."

And with a turn and a step, she was out the back door.

It was a good thing, Damon told himself as he stood staring through the screen at Cady’s retreating back. He had no business kissing her, however much he’d had the urge.

And he’d been having the urge a lot in the past few days.

It made no sense. She certainly wasn’t like the women he usually went after. He already knew what she thought of him. Anyway, he didn’t need to be distracted just then by a woman, especially a permanently cranky woman who’d made it her mission to irritate him. However much it might fascinate him to see her hard shell dissolve, to watch her gaze blur and her mouth soften, she wasn’t for him.

But still he stood watching as she walked away.

Maybe if he hadn’t seen that look on her face, the complete and utter absorption in pleasure when she’d tasted thecroustillant. He’d expected her to like it. He’d never in a million years expected the reaction he’d gotten. He’d watched her face and all he could think was that this was how she’d look at climax. And he’d felt himself tighten as though he’d just brought her there.

And he was doing himself absolutely no good by thinking about it. He was working for her parents, Damon reminded himself, walking back into the kitchen. He was supposed to be changing his life, not just taking his act from Manhattan to Maine. Cady was right; they had no business doing anything about whatever it was that was suddenly simmering between them.

But as a chef he knew that the longer you left something on simmer, the stronger it became.

There was a brisk ticking noise from the kitchen. Roman, he saw, on the clock and jumping straight into work.

“You’re in early,” Damon said as the sous chef began to deftly and precisely cube the carrots that they’d use to make the stock for the lobster bisque.

Roman shrugged. “It’s gotten to be a habit.”

“It’s a good way to get ahead.” Damon reached for his knives. “How long have you been cooking, Roman?"

“Going on three years. Took a job cooking the summer after I got out of college. It stuck."

“College, huh? What was your degree in?”

“Business. Kitchen’s for me, though.” He flashed a smile. “My mom about had a stroke. All that tuition money down the drain."

“Not necessarily.” Damon started cleaning beef tenderloins, the sound of his knife against the cutting board providing a brisk counterpoint to the steady tick of Roman’s. “The business degree could come in handy if you ever decide to open your own place."

“No ifs about it, Chef. My wife’s from Rochester. We’re going to go back there in a few years and start a little place of our own. In the meantime, I’ll save money, get better in the kitchen. I figure I can learn something from you. I hear you’re supposed to be a pretty good cook.” He glanced up, humor in his eyes.

Damon looked at the pile of perfect carrot cubes. “You look like a pretty good cook yourself. Now you’ve just got to work on coming up with your own food."

“I try things at home, sometimes.”

“Not here?” Damon methodically sectioned the tenderloins into tournedos.

“Nathan liked to keep pretty tight control of his menu. Since he’s been gone, I’ve pretty much just been keeping up. Not a lot of time for specials."

“Now there is. It’s a good time of year for squash blossoms. Any growers sell them around here?"

Roman snorted. “Not until July. This is Maine.”

“So I’m told,” Damon murmured.

“You want to get them now, you’ll have to have them shipped in."

Damon shook his head. “They’re too delicate. Besides, you can always taste when something’s been shipped."

“Skip the squash blossoms and try fiddleheads,” Roman suggested. “That’s one thing you can get local. They usually have them at the market."

“I must have missed them.” Too busy getting distracted by Cady McBain, he thought, annoyed at himself. “I’ll look again on Saturday. In the meantime, we’ve got ourselves some ramps. Any ideas?"

Roman considered. “Twist a few of those babies around shrimp and give ‘em a nice sauté. Forget about the restaurant. You and me, we could have ourselves a nice dinner.” He switched to celery, his knife a blur.

“Ramp-wrapped shrimp. You ever made it?”

“A couple of years ago when I was working down in Jersey. I put it with a cilantro-lemon sauce but it was too light to stand up to the ramps. I’d probably do it again with something stronger, maybe roasted chilis or smoked paprika.”

“Try it,” Damon suggested.

The knife stopped. “What, now?”

“Sure. One of the farmers from the market is coming to dinner this Saturday with his wife. They’ve got an anniversary to celebrate. Chef’s tasting. His wife likes shrimp and garlic, by the way."

It was both opportunity and test. He watched Roman prep, first the shrimp, then the ramps. The young sous chef ran into trouble when he started to wind the green stalks around the shrimp, though.

“You need to soften them a little.” Damon spoke up. “Sauté the ramps separately and then twist them around the shrimp. Or blanch them."

“A sauté would give more flavor.”

“My thought, exactly.”

This time, Roman worked two sauté pans, one with ramps, one with the shrimp, dusting them with spices and seasoning. He picked the hot ramps out of the pan, wrapping them around the even hotter shrimp. Tough hands, Damon thought, always a good attribute in a chef.

And an ability to multitask. Even as the wrapped shrimp were in the pan for their final sizzle, Roman pulled out a plate and prepped it with a bed of salad. He set the finished shrimp on the lettuce, drizzling them with chili sauce.

“Looks good but let me show you something.” Damon picked up the shrimp pan and pulled out a second plate, this one flat and square. He didn’t bother with the salad, just drizzled a small circle of the transparent red chili pan sauce in the center of the plate and then positioned three shrimp on it with their tails together and pointing in the air like inverted commas. Using a spoon, he carefully dripped small dots of bright green cilantro oil around the plate, the colors vivid against the white porcelain.

“Keep it simple,” he said as he worked. “Go for height, contrast. The sauce goes on the plate, not the food. You get more visual impact that way."

“Yes, Chef.” Roman admired the shrimp. “That plate looks like something else."

“Looks are good, taste is better.” Damon reached out for a shrimp and swabbed it through the colored dots. He took one bite, considered. Squeezed on some lemon and took another. And another. “It’s good,” he said to Roman. “Add some lemon juice to the chili sauce, brighten it up. Plate it the way I showed you, finish it with some micro cilantro."

“We don’t have any.”

“How about the green market?”

“Not that I know of. You’ll have to get it—”

“If you say shipped in, you’re fired.”

“Yes, Chef,” Roman said.

“All right, forget about the microgreens. I’ll figure something out."

He turned back to his tenderloin tournedos, sealing them in plastic storage trays, then pulled Roman’s cutting board toward him. The sous chef stared, knife in hand.

“Well, get to work,” Damon told him. “I’ll finish this. You’ve got another hour to refine the sauce and write it all down and come up with a name."

“A name?”

“Sure. It’s got to have a name if it’s going to be our appetizer special."

Roman grinned. “Yes, Chef.”

Cady always felt calmer in her greenhouse. It wasn’t big as hothouses went, maybe twice the size of her living room, but it was her territory. There was a serenity in the ranks of greenery and the warm, humid air. Out here, shut away from the rest of the inn, she could put her hands in the earth and forget all about difficult guests, pesky clients, unreliable suppliers and other annoyances. Like Damon Hurst.

She shook her head. She wasn’t going there. She was not going to think about that moment in the kitchen when he’d leaned in close, when she’d seen in his eyes that he was going to kiss her. She wasn’t going to wonder what it would have been like. She wasn’t going to wonder how it would have felt. Nope, not going there.

You don’t know, you might like it.

That was precisely the problem. She might, and that would spell disaster. A guy like Damon Hurst wasn’t interested in someone like her. She’d seen him on the magazine covers wrapped cozily together with this model, that actress, and one thing Cady could say for sure was that she was not his type. Maybe he was bored, maybe she was a challenge, maybe seduction was a knee-jerk reaction for him. Whatever it was, she’d been down this road before. She wasn’t about to be played.

The problem was, when he got to looking at her and talking to her, she forgot all about that. All she could do was watch his mouth and wonder.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she muttered and began transplanting petunia seedlings into the hanging basket that sat on the workbench before her. This was what she needed to be focusing on. She needed to be thinking about how she was going to design the perennial beds she’d spent the morning clearing out over at the Chasan place. She didn’t need to be thinking about Damon Hurst.

Feet crunched on the gravel walk outside and, as though she’d conjured him by thinking, Damon opened the door across the room from her.

And serenity flew out the window.

“I thought I might find you out here,” he said, stepping inside. “Hiding out?"

“Working,” she said. “Lot of that going around.”

Calm had disappeared. Sanctuary was no more. She was uneasy, more than a little tongue-tied and, dammit, had butterflies. It didn’t matter that she was on the other side of the room from him. Suddenly, the greenhouse seemed very small.

Damon strolled around, still in his checks and chef’s whites. He should have looked ludicrously out of place and awkward. Instead, he seemed right at home. She was the one who was tense.

He turned to her. “Nice place.”

Cady tried to see it through his eyes: the four long wooden tables covered with flats of pansies and snapdragons or trays of potted marigolds, the hanging baskets of geraniums and petunias, still waiting for their first blossoms. On the far side stood her workbench and the tables with pots of evening primrose, forsythia, bleeding heart. The air smelled rich and green and fertile.

“What’s all this stuff?” he asked, fingering the velvety green leaf of a petunia.

“The flats are annuals—pansies, marigolds, snapdragons. The plant you’re about to take a leaf off of is a petunia,” she added. “It’s cheaper to grow them than to buy them."

He nodded and began to wander again. Having him in her territory felt strangely intimate. The walls were opaque, the door closed, the only sound the occasional drip of water. For the first time, they were truly alone. There were no distractions, just the two of them amid the green.

“These go in the ground now?” he asked, watching her as she went back to transplanting the petunias.

“I’m starting to set some of them out in the yards I’m working on. I probably shouldn’t before Mother’s Day—you never know if you’re going to get a frost up here—but I’m taking my chances."

“Cady McBain, extreme gardener.”

“I like to live life on the edge.”

“Really?” He studied her. “That’s good to know.”

Her skin warmed. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Do I look like I need one?”

No, he looked like the kind of guy who just went after what he wanted, she thought uneasily. She just couldn’t figure out why it happened to be her.

“If you plant all this, you’ll have a lot of space afterward. You could probably find a corner for a commissioned job, couldn’t you?"

And there was the answer. Her eyes narrowed. “If this is about growing ramps for you, no. My hands still smell."

“Not ramps, microgreens.”

“If they grow in the forest, I’m not interested.”

“They don’t grow in the forest.”

“I’m still not interested.”

He tapped his knuckles on one of the wooden tables. “They don’t take much room,” he offered. “Just a little dirt and water and a week or two of growing time."

“Two weeks? You know what you’re going to get from two weeks of growth? Grass. Micrograss."

“Strongly flavored micrograss. They taste phenomenal, trust me. Makes all the difference in a dish."

“Then I suggest you tap into your underground chef network and find out where you can get some. In case you haven’t noticed, this greenhouse is full, and when I’ve planted the annuals I’ll be filling it up with perennials."

“The microgreens don’t take a lot of space. And I need them,” he said simply. “The restaurant needs them."

The thing she couldn’t say no to. “What, nobody in the entire country sells them?"

“The closest supplier I could find is a guy out in the Midwest.”

“And let me guess, you want local.”

“Bingo,” he said. “A lot of other chefs do, too. You know, this wouldn’t just help the Sextant,” he added thoughtfully as he wandered away from her along one of the rows. “It could work for you, too. You could probably supply microgreens to half the restaurants in Portland, in New Hampshire, shoot, maybe even Boston. You could turn a tidy little profit. Help you pay for this nice greenhouse.” Damon glanced over at her as he rounded the end of the bench.

“What makes you think I need help?”

He tapped a hanging basket with his fingertips as he walked, setting it swinging. “I know it’s new, and judging by the look of your truck, you’re not exactly rolling in dough.” He pushed another basket so it swayed. “And for a person who’s running a business, you sure seem to spend a lot more time around here than you do on job sites."

“I didn’t realize you were paying such close attention,” she returned tartly, reaching for more petunias to transplant.

“I always pay attention.” He nudged the next basket in line to sway with the rest. “Especially to people who interest me."

“Or to people who can do things for you.”

“Or in your case, both.” He came up short in front of her. “I find myself thinking about you, Cady McBain, a lot.

Why is that?”

“You’re bored.” She would have backed up but the wood of the workbench was behind her. “You’re stuck in a small town.” “It’s not boredom.”

“And it’s not about me.” She tried for dismissive but her voice came out oddly breathless.

“Oh, I think it’s very definitely about you. I keep finding myself wondering what it would be like to kiss you. I’m cutting up fruit and I’m wondering about the way you taste, about the way you always smell like apples and cinnamon.” He rested his hands against the bench on either side of her, trapping her. “When you’ve got a job that involves sharp knives, spending a lot of time wondering isn’t very healthy.”

Any reply she might have made dried up in her throat. He stood before her, his face a study in lines and planes. The ruddy glow of the afternoon sun coming through the greenhouse walls turned his skin golden, like that of some herald in an old painting. His eyes were hot and dark on hers.

“You know this doesn’t make sense,” she said unsteadily.

“Probably not, but we’re both wondering about it.” He moved in, stepping between her feet.

“I’m not your type.”

His fingers slipped into her hair. “I’d say that’s for me to decide."

“You’re not my type.”

“I think I can change your mind,” he whispered. And then his mouth came down on hers.

If he’d been gentle, she might have been able to ward him off. Perhaps he realized that, because he gave her no chance to think, just dragged them both into the kiss.

Heat. Friction. The warmth of mouth, the slick of tongue. The pleasure burst through her in a furious blend of taste and texture until it was all she could focus on. He kissed her as though he owned her, as though he’d watched her and learned every nuance of her. She had no defense for it, no way to hold back, and even if she had she was too dazed to want to. The hand she’d pressed against his chest to stop him curled into the fabric of his tunic, because she was suddenly afraid that if she didn’t hold on, she might go spinning away into a hot madness.

Cady had kissed guys before. She’d always figured it wasn’t a big deal; she knew what it was about. She knew nothing, she realized as she tasted Damon, inhaled the scent of him, felt the brush of the stubble on his chin.

And she wanted more.

He’d kissed her because he’d been curious, because he was tired and more than a bit annoyed at having her on his mind. It stung his pride to be preoccupied with a woman who claimed to be indifferent to him. But when he heard that soft gasp of pleasure, felt her finally surrender and slide her arms around him, it wasn’t about annoyance or curiosity.

It was about desire, pure and simple.

He’d expected a quick, matter-of-fact kiss that would satisfy his curiosity. He hadn’t expected her to be soft and yielding against him. He hadn’t expected that apple-cinnamon scent of hers to wind into his senses and make him dizzy. He hadn’t expected her to give.

He hadn’t expected her to drive every other thought out of his head.

When he raised his head, it was for the sake of his own sanity.

Stunned, Cady stared back at him. Her eyes were huge and dark. Her mouth was swollen from his.

Abruptly, he felt annoyed with himself even as he wanted more. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing here. He’d come to Maine to change.

Suddenly, change didn’t seem all that appealing.

She shifted away from him, eyes clearing. Perversely, it gave him the urge to hold her tighter. Instead, he made himself release her.

She paced a few steps from him as though seeking safety. “Happy? Satisfied your curiosity?"

“Not by half.” His irritation rose a notch because he realized it was true.

“Too bad, because that’s it.” But her lips still felt hot and bruised from his. He’d kissed her as no one had ever kissed her. He’d woken up every sleeping desire she’d ever had. He’d made her yearn, and that scared the hell out of her.

Because she knew it wasn’t real.

“That’s it?” he repeated and started back toward her. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on here but you don’t start up something like this and just shut it down.”

“I wasn’t the one who started it,” she retorted.

“But you were part of it. And you kissed me back, you can’t pretend you didn’t."

Cady could feel her cheeks heat. “So you’re a good kisser, big deal. You ought to be, after all the practice you’ve had."

Her jab didn’t make him angry, as she’d hoped. His slow smile was far more dangerous. “Practice has made me good at a lot of things. Want me to show you?"

“No.” It was too quick and a little too nervous sounding. It took all she had not to move away as he stopped before her and leaned in by her ear.

“It happened,” he murmured. “You can’t make it go away. Maybe it’s not smart but you and I both know we’re going to be thinking about it until the next time."

And turning, he left her there, shaking.

Chapter Six

It was difficult, Cady discovered, to avoid thinking about someone when the person you were trying to avoid thinking about was always around. It was even worse when they popped up in your dreams. She could try all she wanted to forget; she could tell herself she wanted no part of him.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

She’d always told herself she was different, worn it like a badge of honor, but when she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, her legs got weak. And that was no way to be feeling with the leg weakener nearby.

She knelt at one of the flower beds on the back side of the inn, setting out marigolds as quickly as she could. Behind her, closer than she liked, lay the restaurant. And Damon. She’d put off planting this particular bed as long as she could. Now, she flipped a pony pack over in her hand, hurrying to finish. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into him, with that low, persuasive voice and that killer smile.

The worst part of it was that she couldn’t really blame the kiss on his smile. She could have stopped him if she’d really wanted to. She hadn’t. He’d been right that day in the greenhouse; they’d both been wondering about it. And if she’d been awash in nerves when he’d approached, she’d been awash in anticipation, too.

Making a noise of frustration, Cady picked up another pony pack. The problem was that her workdays were largely physical. Normally, that suited her to a T because she was largely physical, too. Now, though, it merely provided her with way too much time to think.

About Damon. About the kiss. And about all of the other things she was missing.

Her hands slowed. What would it be like to have him touch her, really touch her? What would it be like to have those strong, nimble hands on her skin? She’d had so little experience—kisses with a few men, a pair of memorably disappointing encounters in bed. How would it be with a man who knew about pleasure? And if he could take her so far with a kiss, what else could he do?

The back of her neck prickled and she reached back to rub it absently. Bad question to ask. It was pointless—dangerous, more like—to think about sex or anything else with Damon Hurst. Like a deer trying to have a relationship with a hunter, and she wasn’t the one wearing the camouflage vest. He was here and gone, and she needed to remember that.

Cady rubbed her neck again and shifted uneasily. The prickling hadn’t gone away. Even though it was a cloudy day, even though she was working under the shade of the tall pines that grew between inn and restaurant, the back of her neck felt hot.

Just her imagination, Cady told herself. But she couldn’t keep from glancing over her shoulder.

Only to see Damon in his apron, leaning idly against the wall by the back door. He looked tall, lean, insouciant. His teeth flashed white as he tapped the side of his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Face flaming, she turned hastily back to her marigolds.

It had been going like that all week. The more she tried to avoid him, the more he was everywhere she looked. No matter how early she dropped in to work the grounds or tend the greenhouse or get supplies for her workday, she always seemed to run into him. He’d be heading into work or coming back from the farmers’ market or taking a break from the heat of the kitchen, but he’d be there.

The fact that she’d been able to avoid talking to him so far was scant comfort. She could read it in his eyes as he nodded or winked or gave one of those half-assed salutes: he hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time.

The thought made her stomach tighten.

Enough, she thought impatiently and pressed another marigold into place, using her knuckles to tamp down the earth around each plant. She didn’t need to think about it anymore. What she needed to do was—

A thump and a curse from one of the guesthouses had her glancing over. It was her father, carrying one of the inn’s Adirondack chairs up the stairs to the guesthouse deck, and not having an easy time of it.

She frowned as he stopped halfway up, leaning on the railing, breathing hard. “Dad?” she called, rising to her feet. “You want some help?"

She didn’t wait for the answer but jogged over anyway. By the time she got there, he was standing again and waving her away. “Everything’s fine, hon. I was just catching my breath. This fool cold I’ve had just won’t go away.” He wiped his forehead.

She caught hold of the bottom of the chair and began carrying it up with him. “Don’t you have someone who can do this?” She shook her head before the words were even out.

“Okay, dumb question, never mind. But seriously, maybe you ought to give it a rest. You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m fine,” he puffed. “I just need to kick this bug.”

“You just need to stop running yourself into the ground,” she countered. “Didn’t the doctor tell you that last week?"

“The doctor’s office is probably where I got the cold. I was fine until I went to see him."

“You probably had it already, you just didn’t have symptoms.”

“That’s what your mother says.”

“And if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll never get over it,” Cady scolded.

“Your mother says that, too.”

“Lucky you, surrounded by adoring women.”

“Or women who think they’re always right.”

“That’s because we are right,” she said as they topped the stairs. “And one thing I’m right about is that you need to take a break."

“I’d better not. I’ve got to get these chairs out. Tomorrow’s Friday and we’re full up. First time all year.” He sank down on the Adirondack with a sigh. “I just need to sit down for a minute, that’s all."

“What you need is to take some ibuprofen and go to bed.” She bent over him worriedly, studying his pasty face. “I’m going to call Tucker. He and I can put the chairs out."

“Don’t bother him,” Ian protested. “He’s got the marina to worry about."

“I’ll help him push his boats around next week.” Straightening, she pulled out her cell phone.

Ring tones sounded in her ear and then there was a click. “Whadda you want?” Tucker demanded, but she could hear the grin in his voice.

“Is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?” Cady asked.

“The one who never calls me unless she wants to ask a favor? That cousin?"

“You mean the cousin who comes to every one of your gigs, no matter how many Dave Matthews songs you insist on playing?” Tucker played bass on weekends in a local bar band that featured more enthusiasm than talent.

He gave an elaborate sigh. “All right, all right. What is it this time?"

“I need your help moving some deck furniture. Dad’s not feeling so good."

“I’m feeling fine,” Ian muttered bad-temperedly.

“He’s not feeling so good,” she repeated. “There isn’t that much to move. We could probably do it in half an hour if you’ve got the time."

“Be there in five,” Tucker responded without hesitation, hanging up. Over on the docks, she could see him leaving the marina kiosk in his work shirt and jeans.

“Everything all right?” a voice called and she glanced down to see Damon at the foot of the stairs.

Any nerves she might have felt were tamped down by concern. “Just calling in reinforcements,” she told him. Behind her, Ian shifted. “Don’t you move or I’ll call Mom,” she threatened, turning to give him a stare.

“Not one of you kids gives me any respect,” Ian complained.

“I know. You’re so maltreated,” she soothed, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “Now be quiet and rest. Better yet, go back to the house and lie down."

“I can’t do that. One of the waiters called in sick. I’ve got to fill in for him tonight and there’s way too much to get done before then."

“You’re not working anybody’s shift. I’ll take it.”

Ian snorted. “You hate waiting tables more than you hate working the front desk."

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” She flashed him a grin before turning for the stairs. “Besides, I can use the tips."

Damon was waiting for her when she reached the bottom. “He okay?"

Her smile faded. “Just a cold that’s coming back,” she said. “He tries to do too much sometimes. It happens when your job description includes everything."

Damon glanced over at the array of slatted wooden chairs and snack tables outside the storage shed. “Where are all those going?"

“On the decks of the guesthouses.”

“Lotta stairs,” he observed.

“You’ve noticed that?”

“I guess maybe you could use some help.”

“Speaking of jobs, shouldn’t you be in slinging hash?”

“I get time off for good behavior,” he told her.

“I’ll skip pointing out the obvious because we need to get these chairs out,” she said. “If you’re serious about the offer, we need two chairs on each deck, plus a snack table."

“You outsourcing my job?” Tucker demanded from behind her.

Cady rolled her eyes. “In case you two haven’t met, Damon, this is my cousin Tucker McBain, who runs the marina. Tucker, this is Damon Hurst, the new chef at the restaurant."

Tucker had sun-streaked brown hair and the easy grin of a man who spent his life on the water he loved. He also had the McBain height that only Cady had somehow missed inheriting. It gave him an appearance of lankiness that was deceptive; a person who looked carefully would see the muscle and power Tucker had developed over years of running the marina and working his lines of lobster pots. A person who underestimated him would be both foolish and sorry.

“Now she’s raiding the kitchen for conscript labor.” Tucker shook hands with Damon. “She’s out of control."

“Clearly.”

“So, you in on this gig?”

“Long as we finish it before dinner service starts,” Damon said.

“We’d better finish earlier than that,” Cady told them. “I have to go change."

Tucker raised a brow. “Jeans and a T-shirt not dressy enough for planting flowers?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ve got to fill in for one of the waiters during dinner tonight."

The two men stared. “You?” Damon asked.

“What about me?”

“Well, getting let loose on the unsuspecting general public, for one."

Her brows drew down. “Hey, it’s either me or Dad and he looks to me like he needs the night off."

“Uncle Ian knows about this?” Tucker shook his head. “He must be sick if he’s agreed."

“Can we just move the chairs, please?” Cady muttered.

Tucker grabbed a chair and hoisted it with a grunt. “What the hell are these things made of, iron?"

“Teak,” Cady supplied. “It’s heavy.”

“No kidding.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll take the chairs for guesthouse one, you guys can get guesthouse two."

Tucker eyed Damon. “She likes to run things.” “So I’ve noticed.”

Ignoring them, Cady carried a chair toward the stairs of a guesthouse. She stopped at the bottom step, eyeing the treads.

“Overambitious, too,” said Tucker, stepping around her with the chair he carried.

“Yep. And permanently cranky,” Damon added, neatly lifting the Adirondack out of Cady’s hands, ignoring her squawk of protest.

“You’re a good judge of character,” Tucker approved as they began climbing the stairs.

“It doesn’t take a genius and it doesn’t take long,” Damon said.

“You can talk about me like I’m actually here, you know.” Cady’s voice was testy as she carried up the little drinks table. “And I didn’t need you to carry that chair for me."

“You hear something?” Damon asked Tucker.

“Probably the wind in the trees.” Tucker reached the deck and set down his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Wind from somewhere,” Damon added.

“Funny, guys,” Cady said, scowling. “How’d you get to be so funny?"

“Just natural talent,” Tucker said modestly.

Chapter Seven

Hauling furniture wouldn’t have been his choice of a way to spend a couple of hours, Damon thought as he fired entrées for the staff meal, but all things considered, it hadn’t been bad. Not that he was happy to see Ian McBain sick, but schlepping chairs had been a good excuse to be outside. And to spend time with Cady.

He’d kept his distance after that afternoon in the greenhouse, in part to give her space, in part to give himself time to get his head together. He was supposed to be walking the straight and narrow now, not turning around to make the same mistakes with the same kinds of people. But Cady wasn’t quite like anybody he could think of, and he wasn’t at all sure that she was a mistake.

He finished up another plate and slid it across the steel counter under the overhead shelf to the pass where waiters picked up plates. The servers were beginning to crowd around

like cats at the sound of a can opener. Even as they were filling the butter dishes for the bread baskets and topping off salt, pepper and cream containers, they could smell the food. They knew the staff meal was near.

Staff meal or family meal was traditionally a haphazard exercise in turning leftovers and scraps not fit for diners into something vaguely edible to keep floor and kitchen staff going through service. Damon had never subscribed to that approach, though. In France, Descour had always served family meal at the table, with plates and napkins and real food. Treat the staff right and they’ll treat the customers right, was his theory. A good one. And Damon had carried it out ever since.

Of course, that didn’t mean that family meal couldn’t double as the waiters’ meeting and tasting. Especially now, when he was shifting the old menu over to the new one by a half-dozen dishes a night. The servers needed to taste the new entrées and appetizers, see how to place them on the table, know the ingredients and presentation so they could answer questions, if necessary.

With a quick flick of the wrist, he drizzled brilliant green chive oil around the last plate and pushed it over to the pass. “Okay, listen up, people. We’re still in the process of changing over the menu. Tonight, we’re launching the new seafood—“

And then Cady walked in and his train of thought didn’t just derail. It went right off the damned trestle.

He’d seen her already that day, watched her in her worn jeans and T-shirt as she’d planted flowers, moved furniture. Watched her and tried not to remember how she’d felt in his arms. But the woman who walked in wearing the uniform of white tuxedo jacket and narrow black skirt bore no resemblance to that Cady at all.

Slender, he’d no idea she was so slender. Perhaps it was the formal clothing, but she looked graceful, taller somehow. The skirt was far from short, almost demure, and yet it seemed almost indecent as it revealed a pair of startlingly lovely legs. She’d drawn her hair back with combs. There was a delicacy to her face, he saw now, one he’d never fully appreciated. Her mouth looked soft and tempting beyond all sense.

She’d kissed him with those lips, kissed him and gasped against him and spun his world right around. And though he could tell himself that he shouldn’t have done it, he wasn’t a damned bit sorry. And, he realized, he had every intention of doing it again.

Regardless of the consequences.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s talk about the new entrées for tonight."

You didn’t grow up around an inn like the Compass Rose without learning every aspect of the business—whether you wanted to or not. Working in the restaurant might have been Cady’s least favorite activity, but she’d bussed and even waited tables from the time she’d been sixteen.

So she put on the white shirt and bow tie and the tuxedo jacket in preparation for her shift. If she added lipstick and actually took a few minutes to fuss with her hair, it had nothing to do with seeing Damon. She was merely being professional, she told herself, nerves roiling her stomach as she walked into the kitchen. But the little buzz of purely female satisfaction she felt when he gave her the double take had nothing to do with professionalism.

It was strictly personal.

Given her choice, Cady would have skipped family meal. Showing up two hours before the start of dinner service ate up precious time and she didn’t trust herself around Damon any more than was absolutely necessary. Her parents had insisted, though. And now, as she stood at the end of the line and stared at the plates, she understood why.

Things had changed—the menu, for one. Gone were many of the dishes that the Sextant had served for decades. Those that remained had been reinterpreted—the baked New England dinner of seafood covered in bread crumbs had morphed into pan-seared scallops with brioche minicroutons and lemon beurre blanc, for example. And to the delight of the servers, Damon was serving the plates for family meal.

Fancy plates, Cady saw, arranged like sculptures, painted with color. Pretty enough, but it was the incredible smell wafting up from them that had her mouth watering. Of course, it had the same effect on the crowd of floor staff currently digging in with forks and knives.

“Alfred, for chrissakes, that was my hand, not the veal,” complained a tall blonde named Sylvia.

“And here I was going to tell Chef that the meat wasn’t tender,” stocky Alfred returned, shoveling a bite of roasted potatoes into his mouth. “Now I understand."

Amused, Cady looked up, only to catch the eye of the chef in question.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” Damon singsonged under his breath as he walked past her to the line.

“I’m only here because I’m working,” she shot back.

“Well, if you’re going to be working, you’d better get in there and try the entrées. How else are you going to be able to answer questions?"

“No thanks,” she said, glancing over at the clutch of waiters. “I’d like to keep my fingers just the way they are."

Damon turned to the oven behind him and pulled out a ramekin. He pushed it over to Cady. “Here."

She poked at it suspiciously with a fork. “What is it?”

“Something I made special when I heard you were coming. Fresh-made penne with a truffled asiago and fontina béchamel.” His lips twitched at her blank stare. “Macaroni and cheese."

Tentatively, Cady took a forkful, and put it into her mouth. And pure bliss flooded through her. Tangy cheese, silky cream, an addictive hint of earthiness. “Oh my God,” she mumbled, reaching out for more. “This is incredible.” In the midst of taking another bite, she glanced over at Damon.

And felt a flare of heat that had nothing to do with the food.

He was watching her again with that naked hunger in his eyes. She held the fork but he was the one who looked starved—and she was the main course. He stepped closer to her, his gaze never wavering.

“You think I can make your mouth happy now,” he murmured into her ear, “just wait."

She swallowed. “Dream on.”

“Remind me to tell you what’s been happening in my dreams lately,” he said softly. “I think you’ll find it very interesting."

There were glints of gold in those dark eyes, she realized as she stared back helplessly, like sparks at midnight. And his mouth had been so soft. Nearby, the rest of the staff were oblivious, but the feeding frenzy was beginning to die down. She moistened her lips. “This isn’t the place or the time."

“Give me another place and another time, then.”

“Later,” was the best she could do. “Right now, we need to worry about dinner service."

“And later we’ll worry about something else.”

The dining room, with its broad sweep of windows looking out over Grace Harbor, had always been one of her favorite places at the inn. Antique maps of the Maine Coast dotted the pale blue walls, rugs covered the wide-planked maple floors. Atop each snowy-white tablecloth sat a glass storm lantern with a flickering candle. Outside, the sailboats in the marina bobbed on water stained gold by the last rays of the setting sun.

It had been a while since she’d waited tables. She’d forgotten just how exhausting it could be. By the end of the first hour, she’d discovered that her new black shoes pinched; by the second, she’d managed to punch a hole in her finger with the corkscrew. By the third, her arms were leaden from carrying heavy plates.

It could’ve been worse—at least the servers didn’t have to haul the meals from kitchen to table. That honor fell to the runners, who carted the heavy trays of dishes out to a station in the dining room where Cady and the other waiters delivered them to waiting diners. Not that the arrangement had kept her from burning herself on a plate that had been broiled under the salamander a little too long. All things considered, though, she’d probably gotten off easy.

“Waitress, over here.”

Or maybe not.

She turned to see a disgruntled-looking man waving at her from a table in the corner. The flesh of his neck spilled over his collar; his comb-over didn’t hide the pink shine of his scalp. The hint of embarrassment in the face of his companion across the table warned Cady that it wasn’t his incipient baldness that had made him unhappy, though.

She gave him her best smile. “How are your meals?” she asked.

“Terrible.” The man’s face was dark with displeasure.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I ordered fois gras glazed tenderloin, medium well. It’s not glazed, it’s all dried out, including the meat."

Cady glanced at the plate. “It looks right to me, sir. That’s the way the dish is made."

“Well, that’s not the way it sounds from the description. You can’t serve meat dry like this. It needs some kind of a sauce."

Perfect. Cady could just imagine walking into the kitchen and delivering that particular bit of news to Damon. She’d wind up with the plate launched at her head, if she weren’t careful. Or the customer tossed into the parking lot.

“I think it’s dry because you asked for medium well, sir. I did warn you that this cut of meat is very difficult to cook anywhere past medium. The chef recommends that if you want something more well-done, you order the rib eye.”

“If I’d wanted the rib eye, I would have ordered the rib eye,” he said peevishly. “Iordered the tenderloin."

“But, sir—”

“No buts. I want it sent back.”

“Walter.” His companion looked embarrassed.

“I want my dinner,” he returned, obstinacy in the very set of his shoulders.

Cady sighed. “I’ll take it back, sir. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

Now this, she thought, had all the makings of a disaster.

During one renovation or other, a McBain had installed a double set of sliding doors between the dining room and the kitchen, separated by a vestibule. The arrangement insulated the dining room from the racket of the kitchen. It also gave Cady brief refuge before facing Damon with the unwelcome news that a customer had had the temerity to suggest that not only had they overcooked the tenderloin but that the very concept of the dish was faulty.

She took a deep breath and walked through the second set of doors.

The unbroken hot surface of the stove was festooned with steaming kettles of soup and boiling pasta water and what looked like dozens of sauté pans of sizzling meat and fish. On a shelf above the stovetop, dozens more clean sauté pans sat waiting, flanked on either end by salamanders for warming finished plates or adding a final broil.

In the lane between the stove line and the counter stood the trio of white-aproned line chefs. At the far end, quick-handed Roman manned the grill and deep fryer; in the middle was Rosalie, on veg and pasta; and nearest Cady, on sauté, stood Damon.

During Nathan’s tenure, the scene had been one of more than a little chaos, with insults and ribald jokes flying thick and fast above the sound of speed metal from the radio. Now, the room was almost eerily quiet. Gone was the music, gone was the sense of untidy confusion. In its place was a focused calm. The only voices were those of the expediter, Andy, reading off the orders as they printed out on the machine in the corner, and Damon repeating them.

The printer chattered. “One tenderloin, one salmon, two lobster,” Andy called out.

“One tenderloin, one salmon, two lobster,” Damon echoed.

Watching the group at work was a bit like watching a ballet because for all the quiet, the line was the scene of rapid, purposeful activity so synchronized it could have been choreographed. The cooks pivoted between stove and counter, passing plates to one another, saucing and garnishing, each of them working on three and four dishes simultaneously.

And as in a ballet, there was always one who was impossible to stop watching. Damon worked the end of the line in constant motion, bending, reaching, flipping, stirring, shaking a sauté pan with one hand while seasoning an entrée with the other. And, she swore, plating up with a third. There was a precision to his movements and more than a little grace, as though he were indeed going through the moves of a dance. He seemed totally absorbed in the process, bending over every plate as he worked with a swift, silent, almost ferocious concentration.

“Two scallop, veal medium rare, rib eye well,” Andy called out.

“Two scallop, veal medium rare, rib eye dead.” Damon reached to the shelf above the stove line for a trio of sauté pans, setting them on the stove to heat.

“One rib eye dead,” echoed Roman with a grin, slapping the cut on the grill.

Grabbing a cylindrical bain-marie from its simmering water bath, Damon ladled a sauce into a fourth pan and put it on a back burner to reduce. “Where are we at on table ten?” he asked, moving a sizzling pan of what looked like tenderloin from stovetop to oven.

“Ready on the rib eye, one salmon in the salamander, one on the grill,” Roman responded.

“Risotto’s done. One minute on the lobsters,” put in Rosalie, winding pasta around a meat fork to provide a bed for one of her lobster tails.

By the time she’d finished speaking, Damon had the veal seasoned and into the pan with the shallots to sear off. “Okay, stop where you are on the last order. Let’s focus on getting this eight-top out.” Reaching into one of the ovens, he pulled out two sauté pans, each with a piece of meat that was finished cooking. Lamb loin, Cady recognized.

He flipped the meat onto the cutting board and deftly sliced each loin into medallions, leaving them together like a sideways stack of poker chips. Even as he reached out, Rosalie passed him a pair of plates with mashed potatoes piled in one corner. He pulled a bubbling sauté pan of what looked like wine sauce from the stove and drizzled a circle onto each plate, then used his knife to lay the stack of medallions in the middle, pressing them gently over so that the perfect rounds of lamb lay against one another in the ring of red.

“Veg, Rosalie,” he said, sliding over the two plates so she could add the tiniest zucchini and yellow squash Cady had ever seen. Meanwhile, Rosalie had traded him her two lobster plates. With a squeeze bottle, he added a few precise dots of lemon butter sauce around the edges of each, adhering to some vision that only he could see.

Meanwhile, Andy the expediter was madly sprinkling sliver-thin parsley chiffonade over the lamb and risotto and sticking what looked suspiciously like fancy potato chips into the top of the mashed potatoes. He and Damon slid the plates across the counter to the pass.

Less than a minute had elapsed.

“All right, table ten up,” Damon called. “Let’s go, people. Hands on hot food.” He clapped his hands. The runners swarmed in.

Cady cleared her throat. “Chef?” she said.

Damon turned from adding knobs of butter to two of his sauté pans. He started to flash a smile. Until he saw the plate in her hands. “What’s that?"

“Fois gras glazed tenderloin from table four.”

“I can see that.” He flipped the veal. “The question is what is it doing back in the kitchen?"

This was the delicate part, she thought. Little was more irritating to a chef than having to interrupt the complicated dance of getting orders out the door to redo a plate he’d thought was safely gone. And when that chef was Damon Hurst, almost anything could happen.

“The customer isn’t happy. He says it’s too dry. He wants a sauce."

Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Table four, that was medium well, right?”

Cady nodded.

“Well, yeah, it’s dry. It’s been cooked to death.”

“I tried to suggest the rib eye, but he didn’t want to hear it.”

“Roman, toss this one in the Frialator,” Damon directed, slapping a new piece of tenderloin onto a sizzle platter and sliding it down the counter as if he were playing kitchen shuffleboard. “Set phasers for medium well."

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Roman grinned.

Damon turned back to the stove to get the veal in the oven and add scallops to the other two sauté pans. “Now what’s his sauce issue?"

“He says when he saw glazed, he wasn’t expecting a crust,” Cady said.

“Did you tell him that’s how the dish is made?”

“He didn’t want to listen to me.” “Maybe he’ll listen to me,” Damon said with an edge to his voice.

The printer chattered. “Three lobster, one scallop, two tenderloin medium, one lamb rare,” Andy read. “I don’t really think—”

“I’ve got to get some entrées plated,” Damon interrupted.

“But what do I tell him?” Cady asked desperately.

“Leave it to me. I know how to handle these kinds of idiots. Now go take care of your tables.” He turned away, hands already moving in a blur.

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