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Falling for Her Rival
Jackie Braun
You know what they sayabout playing with fire…For chef Finn Westbrook it’s time to turn up the heat. Three years ago he hit rock-bottom – now he’s ready for a comeback…starting with winning a TV competition to secure a spot running New York’s trendiest kitchen! He just hasn’t counted on his attraction to rival Lara Dunham burning a hole in his plans…Lara has worked her apron off for this opportunity, and total focus on the competition is the plan – which is difficult when all she can think about is wanting her opponent out of the kitchen and into her bed! But there can only be one winner, and sometimes to win a girl has to play dirty!
Even though she’d already made it pretty clear what she wanted he was leaving her an out, giving her a chance to change her mind.
She could pull back and put on the brakes. No harm. No foul. Or she could plough full steam ahead.
Lara didn’t feel reckless when she chose the latter. Rather, she felt right.
“Your shirt. I’ve been wondering what you would look like without it.”
Deep laughter rumbled again. With his body still pressed against hers, she felt his mirth as much as she heard it. The sensation was oddly erotic, but what had the breath backing up in her lungs was his reply.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. What do you say we both satisfy our curiosity?”
Dear Reader
I’m no gourmet chef, but I’m a pretty decent cook—especially when I’m not on a deadline for a book. My husband and kids will tell you the closer I get to turning in a manuscript, the more pizza and cereal they wind up eating for supper!
Even though my culinary skills may be mediocre, I love watching cooking programmes. I am especially addicted to competitions such as The Food Network’s Iron Chef and Chopped! So when I decided to write a book that featured a couple of talented chefs who have the hots for each other, I figured what better way to ratchet up the heat than to pit them against each other on a televised cooking contest?
Lara Durham and Finn Westbrook both have compelling reasons for wanting to win the show and the executive chef position at a New York landmark restaurant that goes with it. Those reasons become major obstacles, of course, when they start to fall in love.
Bon appétit!
Jackie Braun
Falling for
Her Rival
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE BRAUN is the author of more than two dozen romance novels. She is a three-times RITA
Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist, the winner of a Rising Star Award in traditional romantic fiction and was nominated for Series Storyteller of the Year by RT Book Reviews in 2008. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com (http://www.jackiebraun.com)
Other Modern Tempted™ titles by Jackie Braun:
AFTER THE PARTY
This and other titles by Jackie Braun are available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With much love to my husband and boys for their support.
Contents
Chapter One (#u8bb42306-34ea-5ec6-8c46-7dbc44fc81bf)
Chapter Two (#u95dc97b1-6ba2-56af-b001-61bd136f51ca)
Chapter Three (#u3f6aa90d-d017-5da0-b4f8-95835f952cdc)
Chapter Four (#u8640b07d-e288-5278-8ef8-a704f9b04464)
Chapter Five (#ucfcdaf25-0499-530e-97b4-fde82930d0e7)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
ONE
Gather ingredients
Lara Dunham moved the sprig of basil a fraction of an inch to the left on a sautéed chicken breast that sat atop a bed of risotto and asparagus tips. Afterward, she took a step back. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the food editor of Home Chef magazine, she eyed the table.
“I don’t know,” the other woman murmured. “It still doesn’t look right.”
Nor did it taste right, but Lara kept the thought to herself. She’d filched a nibble during the setup. It wasn’t merely a trick of the trade that had left her palate dissatisfied. Food used in photo shoots was often undercooked to help retain moisture. No, in this case, the rice needed more seasoning. In fact, it needed a lot more seasoning. But she bit her tongue because doctoring up the recipes wasn’t her call.
She did say, “The square plate isn’t working for me.”
Just as she’d suspected, it was giving off a decidedly Asian vibe that didn’t lend itself to the Italian-inspired dish.
The plate had been the editor’s suggestion; one Lara had taken out of expediency rather than agreement. She knew from past experience with the prickly older woman that it was easier and ultimately less time-consuming to show her that something didn’t work than to insist on something else up front.
Sure enough, the editor made a humming sound before agreeing. Lara held back a triumphant smile and turned to the college intern who was assisting her.
“Bring me the large round one with the wide rim. And let’s swap out the candles and napkin rings.” Again, they had been the older woman’s suggestion. “The silver is too formal.”
Forty-five minutes later, with the food carefully replated and the tablescape tweaked to represent Lara’s vision, the photographer got his shot. It would grace the October cover of the national publication and be seen by millions of people.
“Another fabulous shoot,” the editor gushed as the photographer gathered up his equipment and Lara prepared to leave the magazine’s offices. “I should know better than to give you suggestions. What you come up with always looks better. No one makes food look more appetizing than you do.”
Lara accepted the compliment with a nod. As a food stylist, that was her job and she was good at it. She was much sought after because of her attention to detail, a reputation that she’d earned over the course of nearly a decade.
Perhaps that was why it stung so badly that to her father, Lara remained a colossal disappointment.
Those who can, cook. Those who can’t, style food.
So sayeth the legendary restaurateur Clifton Chesterfield.
He’d paid her tuition to the top-rated culinary school in the country, after which he’d sent her abroad for two years to study cooking techniques in both Tuscany and the south of France. From the time Lara had been old enough to make a simple roux, his plan had been that she would follow in his footsteps and someday run the kitchen at the New York landmark that bore his name. The landmark where he’d spent practically every waking hour of Lara’s childhood.
Was it any wonder that she’d resented the restaurant? Was it any wonder that she’d resented him for choosing it over his family?
So, as a full-of-herself young twentysomething, she’d rebelled. And she’d done so spectacularly.
At thirty-three, Lara could look back and admit that she’d taken her revolt too far. She’d publicly dissed both her father and his beloved restaurant, and then married the only food critic in Manhattan who’d ever dared to give the Chesterfield a subpar rating.
Her marriage to Jeffrey Dunham had lasted only slightly longer than the rise on a first-year culinary student’s soufflé before she’d come to her senses. By then, however, the damage was done. Her father refused to speak to her.
Six years later, Lara was old enough and wise enough to admit that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face. Irony of ironies, she now wanted to hang up her stylist credentials and pursue a career as a chef. She also wanted her dad’s respect, if not his affection. She wanted to hear him say, “Well-done.”
But when she’d approached him a year earlier about a job, he’d broken his silence only long enough to refuse to hire her—not even to do prep work. And since he wouldn’t hire her, no credible kitchen in the city would either. Such was Clifton Chesterfield’s reach and reputation.
Well, finally, she had an opportunity to make her father see her as a serious chef, and Lara wasn’t about to blow it.
With the shoot wrapped, she stepped outside to catch a cab. Barring a traffic tie-up, she had just enough time to make it to Midtown before one o’clock. Of course, she wouldn’t have a chance to grab lunch, but since nerves had tied her stomach in knots, she wasn’t complaining.
Overhead, fat clouds the color of ripe eggplants were huddled together. Any moment, the sky was going to open up and it was going to pour, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She tried not to think of the weather as a bad omen, but she couldn’t deny its effect on her hair, which had a hard enough time holding a curl when there was no humidity. It was stick straight now, a glossy auburn curtain that fell even with her shoulders. Before raising her arm to hail a cab, she fussed with the fringe of bangs she already regretted getting at her last salon visit.
When a taxi pulled to a stop a moment later, she dashed for it. She reached for the door handle at the same time a man did. Their fingers brushed and they both stepped back.
“Oh!” Lara gasped, not only because she had competition for the ride, but because the competition in question was drop-dead gorgeous.
While most of the men on the street at this time of the day wore decked-out business attire, carrying briefcases and barking orders into cell phones, this one was wearing faded jeans and a lightweight windbreaker. He looked as if he should have a surfboard tucked under his arm and be heading out to Long Beach to catch a wave. His face was tanned. His hair was a sandy-brown with streaks of sun-bleached blond thrown in. A quarter-inch worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and framed an easygoing smile that seemed at odds with his intense gray eyes.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied, hoping the rain would continue to hold off while they played.
“On the count of three, then.”
She hiked the strap of her purse onto her shoulder to free up her hands and nodded.
“One. Two. Three,” they said in unison as they each pounded a fist into the opposite palm.
Afterward he was holding his right hand out flat. Lara, meanwhile, was mimicking a cutting motion with her index and middle fingers.
“Scissors cut paper,” she said unnecessarily.
With a shake of his head, the man said, “I had you figured for a rock.”
Hmm. How to take that?
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed.”
He held open the cab’s door for her. Before closing it, however, he leaned inside. Something in his expression had changed so that it now matched the intensity in his eyes.
“Hey, since you’re costing me my ride, can I...can I ask you for a favor?”
“I guess so,” she said slowly. It wasn’t wariness she felt exactly. More like anticipation. Like a kid on Christmas, getting ready to unwrap the last gift from beneath the tree.
But then he shook his head. “Nah. Forget it. Crazy,” she thought he muttered as he started to straighten.
She tugged him back by saying, “No. Really. Ask. It’s the least I can do.”
He hesitated only a moment. “I’m on my way to something important. It’s kind of a big deal for me. A game changer.”
“A job interview?”
“Yeah. In a manner of speaking.”
She nodded, understanding. So was she. In a manner of speaking. “So, what’s the favor?”
“Can I...?” His gaze lowered to her lips. “Can I have a kiss for luck?”
Lara’s breath whooshed out on a laugh even as parts of her body started to tingle. “I’ll give you props for creativity. That’s a line I’ve never heard before.”
The man pinched his eyes closed, looking both self-conscious and alarmingly delicious. “Yeah. Pathetic. Forget it.”
He started to straighten a second time. In another moment he would be closing the door, beyond her reach, and she would be on her way. Luck? What the heck? Lara figured she could use a little of it herself. And what would a kiss from a total stranger hurt, really? In a city that boasted more than eight million people, it wasn’t as if she would run into him again. So, before he could retreat or she could entertain second thoughts, she grabbed the front of his jacket and hauled him to her.
Their lips bumped clumsily before settling in place. His were firm, the pressure sweet. She expected him to pull back afterward. Mission accomplished. That would be that. She would be on her way. But one of his hands came up. His palm cradled her jaw. The pad of his thumb stroked her cheek. Long fingers tangled in the hair over her ear. A pair of smoky eyes closed as a sigh escaped. His breath was a feather-soft caress on her face. When his mouth dived back in for seconds, she was grateful to be seated since her world tilted on its axis.
“Hey, buddy. You gettin’ in or what?” the cabbie asked in a voice edged with impatience.
It served as a wet blanket to the unexpected bonfire that had flared inside Lara. The man eased away, his smile crooked and slightly self-conscious.
