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She felt the same way. Public displays of affection really weren’t her thing.
“Nah. The lady won the cab fair and square,” he said as he straightened.
“Good luck,” Lara told him, reaching out to give his fingers a squeeze.
“Thanks.” He studied their linked hands a moment. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to need it after all.”
Afterward, he closed the door and gave the cab’s roof a thump with the same hand that had slid along her jaw. He was no longer smiling when the car pulled away. In fact, he was shaking his head, his gaze on the pavement. But he looked more bemused than annoyed, even as the heavens opened up and Mother Nature wrung out her wash.
It was with an effort that Lara regrouped. It wouldn’t do to be distracted by hot lip-locks with even hotter strangers. She needed to be focused, fearless. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. What she looked was frazzled, flushed and a bit dazed. Her hair was mussed, her lip gloss long gone. Still, she considered the pleasure that had the corners of her mouth curving to be a pretty fair exchange for her disheveled state.
She pulled out her compact and used the drive time to touch up her makeup. Aside from lip gloss, she didn’t wear very much, but given the long hours she spent indoors, a little blush on her pale cheeks was a must. The second swipe of mascara she added to her lashes helped keep her eyes from looking tired, even though she had slept poorly the night before.
Nerves.
Today was a big day. Today she would get her first glimpse of the people who stood between her and her rightful place in the Chesterfield’s kitchen.
* * *
Luck.
The only kind Finn Westbrook had experienced since his divorce two years earlier was the bad variety. In spades. Now here he was, running late for the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d lost his ride in a stupid game of chance. Still, as he watched the cab pull away with the pretty young woman tucked inside, he couldn’t complain.
She wasn’t the sort of female who would have turned most men’s heads, especially at a mere glance. Her looks were too understated for that: small, freckle-dusted nose; arched brows that all but disappeared beneath a fringe of bangs; lips that were not quite as full as was the current fashion; wide-set green eyes that, up close, revealed flecks of gold.
But the moment their hands touched, she’d had Finn’s attention trussed up like a holiday turkey. In that moment, he’d experienced something he hadn’t felt for a woman in a very long time: attraction. The real, punch-in-the-gut kind that knocked the wind out of a guy for a split second before his breathing resumed in a white-hot rush.
Damn, if it didn’t feel good. He’d been dead inside for so long. And that kiss? Heat was still licking through his veins, threatening to consume him. He settled his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement.
Fate, bitch that she was, chose that moment to offer a swift kick where it counted. The rain that had held off during their game of Rock, Paper, Scissors gushed from the sky like water sprayed from the business end of a fire hose. Still, Finn could only smile. Maybe he should be grateful for a dousing of cold water.
TWO
Peel and chop
By the time Lara reached her destination, she’d managed to push thoughts of the sexy man to the back burner. But those nerves had her feeling as if she’d eaten bad shellfish. She paid the cabbie and, holding her purse over her head, made a dash for the building, dodging raindrops and umbrella-wielding pedestrians as she went.
At the reception desk in the lobby, she checked in, donned a visitor’s badge that bore the name Lara Smith and headed for the nearest elevator with a sigh of relief. She’d cleared the first hurdle. She’d half expected someone to recognize her, new bangs notwithstanding, and call her out on the alias.
On the fifteenth floor, the waiting room for Sylvan Studios was crowded with people. The best of the best in the industry sat in the tastefully upholstered chairs. They were an eclectic-looking bunch, but that was to be expected. Chefs came in all varieties, from the artsy and avant-garde to the down-home and downright dowdy. She knew better than to discount any of them based on appearance alone. All of them had won their preliminary round and were after the same thing as Lara: a job.
Not just any job, but one that would have been hers if she hadn’t taken her rebellion to the extreme. Leave it to her father to rub salt in the wound by publicly proclaiming the need for a “successor,” and then agreeing to let Cuisine Cable Network fill the head-chef position at his restaurant via its highly rated Executive Chef Challenge show. By the time the last of the weekly installments aired in the fall, Lara or one of eleven other über-qualified chefs from around the country would be deciding the Chesterfield’s dinner specials.
Lara had entered the competition without her father’s knowledge. Indeed, no one at the network knew about her ties to Clifton and the Chesterfield. She could only count on anonymity because the program was taped in advance. If it aired live, she would have been found out right away. If she made it to the final round, which her father would judge personally, she would be forced to come clean. Between now and then, however, she had to do some of the best and most creative cooking of her life.
She scanned the faces of the six men and four women in the waiting room. Add her and that made eleven. She frowned. Someone was missing.
She was still standing just inside the door, surreptitiously checking email on her cell phone, when she heard it open. Contestant number twelve had arrived. She turned, ready to size up the competition, and came face-to-face with...
“Paper,” she murmured in surprise and resisted the urge to touch her lips.
The gray eyes regarding her widened fractionally before his mouth softened with a grin.
“Actually, I go by Finn. Finn Westbrook.” He peeled off his drenched jacket and hung it on the coatrack just to Lara’s left. “Enjoy your ride?”
“I did. Thank you.” Even though the answer seemed obvious, she inquired, “Did you have to wait long for another taxi?”
“I gave up on waiting there. I hauled ass for three blocks before I was able to flag one down at Columbus Circle.”
A drop of water spilled down his temple. Lara resisted the temptation to wipe it away. Instead, she reached into her purse and handed him a plastic-wrapped package of tissues.
“Thanks.”
“Least I can do. I didn’t realize we both were headed to the same place or we could have shared the taxi.”
He pulled out a couple of the tissues, gave her back the packet and blotted his temple before rubbing them over his head. His short hair looked both messy and perfect afterward.
“So, you’re a chef,” he said.
“That’s right.” And although she was pretty sure she knew the answer, she said, “You?”
“One of the best.” The smile that accompanied the boast was charming enough to keep his words from sounding too cocky.
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this room can make the same claim,” she replied drily.
His smile widened as he balled up the tissues and, after little more than a cursory glance, tossed them in the direction of a wastebasket that was tucked in the corner. The soggy wad made it in. Of course. More points for him...if she were keeping score.
“I guess this means we’re adversaries,” he said.
Indeed. They both were after the same thing. The very thing for which he’d sought out a good-luck kiss. Keep your eyes on the prize, Lara, she silently admonished, since she was finding keeping her eyes on Finn a far-too-pleasing diversion.
“I guess it does.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered for a couple of heartbeats. “That’s too bad.”
Before Lara could think of a fitting response, a man stepped out from one of the offices. He was in his late thirties, suit-clad and bespectacled with a receding hairline. But what made him seem older and headmasterish was the way he clapped his hands together to gain their attention.
She recognized him from the preliminary round that she’d won a couple of weeks earlier. His name was Tristan Wembley, and he worked for the network in some sort of production capacity. She couldn’t remember his official title, but he’d made it clear in their previous dealings that if Lara had any questions or concerns, she was to contact him first.
“Welcome, everyone, to Sylvan Studios, the home of the Cuisine Cable Network and its highest-rated program, Executive Chef Challenge, which, as you know, is featuring the famed Chesterfield restaurant this season.
“Congratulations on making it this far in the competition. It’s a testament to your skill as chefs that you are standing here right now. One hundred and eighty-two other hopefuls didn’t make the cut.
“Today, you will get your first look at the kitchen studio. Tomorrow and Friday, we will spend the day taping promo spots that will be televised and also air on our website. Filming of the first round starts Monday morning. You are to report to the studio no later than 7:00 a.m. Plan on spending at least ten hours here.”
Someone gasped. “Ten hours!”
“It may be closer to twelve,” Tristan replied, unfazed.
Even though the segments would air weekly on the network, the chefs would be competing three days a week for nearly four weeks. She was in for some long days.
Tristan’s upbeat tone took an ominous turn when he said, “Take a good look around, chefs, because by this time next week, one of you already will have been sent packing and another one will be on his or her way out the door.”
Lara scanned the waiting room’s occupants, wondering whom it would be. No way was she leaving after the first round or the second. When she got to Finn, he snorted softly and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t look at me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it for the duration.”
Under other circumstances, she might have welcomed those words from a gorgeous man whose mouth should be registered as a lethal weapon. In this case...
A tremor swept up her spine. “God, I hope not.”
The corners of Finn’s mouth turned down even as his brows shot up. His tone held a slight edge when he replied, “At least you’re honest.”
If he only knew...
Tristan clapped his hands together again.
“Okay, chefs, if you’ll follow me, we can get started.”
Finn fell in step beside Lara.
“I guess you regret that kiss for luck now,” he said conversationally.
She glanced around, thankful that none of the other chefs appeared to have overheard them. Lip-locks with strangers for good luck wasn’t exactly a topic she wanted broadcasted.
“Probably as much as you’re regretting letting me have that cab,” she replied, keeping her voice so low that he leaned closer to hear her. She swore she could feel the heat wafting from his hot, moist skin.
“You won the cab.” Broad shoulders lifted and his gaze lowered to her lips again. “As for anything else, I’m not beating myself up over it. It was...nice.”
“Nice?” She replied too quickly to edit the incredulity from her tone.
“You have a better adjective for it?” His tone held a dare.
She shook her head and he went on.
“It’s a little inconvenient, though.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.
He smiled, looking as satisfied as Lara had felt after that amazing kiss. “I think you do.”
Oh, yeah. She did, all right.
He went on. “I want you to know in advance that I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Taking you down.”
The grin that stole over his face now was worthy of a plundering pirate.
“Damn, you’re arrogant.” But she said it without any heat. In fact, she couldn’t hold back her own smile.
Ahead of them, Tristan was saying, “Each of you has been randomly assigned a workstation. All of the stations are identical with identical supplies. Today, you will have one hour—no more, no less—to acquaint yourself with the space and set it up as you see fit.
“If something is missing or an appliance doesn’t work properly, it’s your responsibility to tell one of the staff before you leave today. Once filming starts on Monday, no adjustments will be made. None,” he stated firmly with a steely glance around. “You will just have to make do.”
Tristan had walked while he talked. The group now stood outside the studio. Over the double doors a red light was encased in a metal cage. It was off now, indicating that no taping was going on. Soon enough the set would be hot and filming would be under way.
As a food stylist, Lara had spent a great deal of time under bright lights and around cameras. She’d considered that good training for this competition. She’d even figured it might give her a leg up on her opponents—until Tristan pushed open the doors and they all filed inside.
The overhead lights glared off the appliances as well as the stainless-steel-topped prep stations.
Someone yelled, “Sweet!”
And she heard a few oaths, some uttered in awe, others laced with foreboding. Hers fell into the latter category.
“It looks different on television,” Finn said.
It certainly did. On TV it seemed smaller, almost intimate. It looked like a real restaurant kitchen rather than a massive set riddled with cables and camera equipment.
Ovens and prep stations lined two of the walls. The third wall boasted a pantry, an impressively stocked wine rack and a double-door refrigerator, as well as an ice-cream machine, blast chiller, anti-griddle and other specialized appliances.
The setup allowed for the contestants as well as the camera operators to move around freely. And, of course, come Monday, the show’s on-air host, Garrett St. John, would be there as well, roaming the set while he narrated the competitors’ actions and performed spontaneous on-air interviews as they worked.
On-air interviews.
Bile threatened to creep up the back of her throat at the thought. She’d scored a C-minus in public speaking in high school. Too much lip-smacking and too many ums, according to her teacher. Oh, and she talked too fast and failed to make enough eye contact with the audience.
“If anyone suffers stage fright, I suggest you get over it now,” Tristan said. “In addition to the twelve of you, this set will be crowded with several dozen other people next week. A number of them will be operating cameras trained not only on what you are making, but on your faces. You may have as many as a dozen focused on you at any given time. Every grin, every grimace, every little dot of perspiration on your forehead will be recorded.”
“Gee, that makes me feel better,” Lara murmured thickly.
Next to her, Finn grunted out what passed for a laugh.
Tristan was saying, “When the show airs, the fans will be rooting for their favorites. We want to give them as much of you as possible. That’s why a lot of what doesn’t make it into each week’s televised episode will wind up on the show’s website.”
Tristan’s cell rang. He glanced at the display.
“Sorry. I need to take this. And while I do, I need for all of you to wait here. No searching for your workstations until I return,” he added before walking out in the hallway to talk on his phone.
“Nervous?” Finn asked.
Heck, yeah, she was nervous. But she shook her head and tried to look unconcerned.
Her denial was met with one raised eyebrow. “And I thought you were honest,” he chided softly.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” she allowed. “Not about cooking for the judges or having to do it while facing down a clock, but—”
“Liar.”
