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Mind games.
For a sobering second she wondered if Finn was playing one now, being nice, friendly, lulling her into complacency with words that were every bit as enticing as his good looks. She didn’t want to think so, but as Tristan had mentioned earlier, a chef could use trickery and deceit as part of his or her overall strategy.
Underhandedness made for good television. Still, Lara couldn’t see her father condoning such behavior in the person tapped to run his kitchen. Of course, Clifton wouldn’t have much of a choice—at least not for one year. She’d read the fine print in the rules. The winner was ensured employment as the head chef for that long, although he or she could be fired for cause before then.
“What made you sign on for this?” Finn asked.
Lara opted for the most obvious answer, which also saved her from having to lie. She felt like enough of a fraud already. “I want the job. You?”
“The same.” He said it quickly, a little too quickly.
They eyed one another.
“It’s a great opportunity. The chance of a lifetime.” She smiled.
“It’s also a lot of hoops to jump through to run your own kitchen.”
“It’s not just any kitchen, though. It’s the Chesterfield. Two American presidents have eaten there, as well as an assortment of state and federal lawmakers. On any given night you can find a Tony-Award-winning actor or Hollywood A-lister seated in the dining room raving about the roasted duck or—”
She broke off, becoming aware that she sounded just like her father used to when Lara or her mother had dared to complain about the amount of time he spent there.
Meanwhile, Finn didn’t appear overly awed, even when he leaned closer and added, “You forgot its Michelin rating. Three stars.”
Okay, now she was confused. “You’re not impressed?”
“Oh, I’m impressed, all right. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He was holding one of the knives, and he used it to make a sweeping motion around the studio. “Even so, I’d bet you the title that more than a few of the chefs here have a reason beyond the Chesterfield’s prestige for signing up for this show.”
Lara glanced around, considering. Perhaps Finn was right. He certainly was right about her. She had something to prove. To her father. To herself. And, okay, maybe she could perform a little bit of penance in the process.
He was saying, “It’s those reasons you have to worry about.”
Intrigued, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“That’s where passion comes from.”
Finn returned the knife to the magnetic strip, offered the same smile that he’d given her after he’d surrendered the cab and asked for that kiss. The effect was every bit as mesmerizing. Lara’s skin felt as if it had been splattered with hot grease.
With her gaze on his mouth, she almost corrected him. It wasn’t passion’s only origin.
* * *
They didn’t talk for the next several minutes as they acquainted themselves not only with their immediate stations but also the set’s overall configuration. Indeed, the kitchen was unnaturally quiet. All of the chefs were alert and on edge.
The pantry consisted of several freestanding, metal-framed shelving units. An assortment of bins and containers, contents clearly labeled in bold lettering, filled them.
“So, that’s a red onion,” the quirky-haired Kirby said.
Lara, Finn and several of the other chefs laughed.
Tristan adjusted his glasses and allowed a moment for their mirth before saying, “Obviously, the labels are intended for viewers at home. Although in the heat of battle, some of you also might find yourselves grateful for them.”
“I notice that several of these are empty, Tristan.” Flo pointed to a bin marked Bell Peppers.
“Not to worry. They’ll be full on Monday with fresh produce.”
“How fresh?” Lara wanted to know. “And where does the show do its shopping?”
“You’re the food stylist, right?” Tristan asked.
Other than her pseudonym, Lara had tried to be as truthful as possible on her application to the show. So, in addition to her education and professional background, she’d jotted down her current job title.
Ryder snickered, apparently sharing her father’s derogatory opinion of her profession.
She squared her shoulders. “That’s my current job, yes. And, as a food stylist, I know that the fresher the ingredients, the better-looking the finished product. The same, obviously, goes for taste. There is a huge difference between the flavor of a tomato allowed to ripen on the vine before it’s picked and shipped to a nearby market, and a hydroponic pretender trucked to a grocery store half a dozen states away. I don’t want that difference to cost me with the judges.”
“She makes a good point,” Finn said while several of the other chefs nodded. “I’ll be damned if I want to go home because some college intern didn’t know how to pick out decent broccoli rabe.”
Lara appreciated his solidarity.
“I can assure you, everything used on this show is carefully selected. We shop the same sources as high-end restaurants do and that includes the Chesterfield. Sometimes we shop directly from local growers. The same goes for our seafood, meat and poultry. Buyers for the show are at the seaport before dawn on weekdays picking out the best catches. Quality will not be an issue.” He eyed Finn before adding drily, “At least not the quality of the ingredients.”
Rather than being offended, Finn merely smiled. “Touché.”
It was interesting. The man could be intense, but apparently that didn’t prevent him from also having a sense of humor or poking fun at himself. Lara found it an appealing trait. God knew that neither her father nor her ex-husband had been able to laugh at themselves.
“One thing to keep in mind, chefs.” Tristan held up a finger as he revealed the troubling caveat. “Although the pantry items will be restocked after every round of competition, once they are gone during a round, they’re gone.”
“First come, first served. Sounds good to me. Get used to seeing me at the front of the line,” Ryder said to no one in particular as he folded a pair of tattooed arms over his massive chest.
Lara offered up a silent prayer that he would be the first in line for elimination, as well. Less than an hour in his presence and his unflagging superiority had grown tiresome. She really didn’t want to have to put up with it for the show’s duration.
“This is a competition intended to test your skills, Mr. Surkovski.” Ryder’s last name, Lara assumed as Tristan continued, “Sometimes even the best kitchens run out of an item and have to make adjustments on the fly. You’ve got to use your head. In other words, brain trumps brawn here. You’ll have to rely on what can be found between your earrings.”
Where Finn had taken Tristan’s teasing barbs in stride, Ryder’s skin flushed a deep scarlet and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Lara figured it was only Tristan’s position with the network that saved him from a scathing comeback. Or worse.
“The first kitchen I worked in ran out of hot dogs. It was a disaster since it was at the ballpark,” Finn quipped to no one in particular.
Lara got the feeling Finn had only said it to lighten the mood. Sure enough, Tristan and the other chefs laughed. All except for Ryder. He was stone-faced.
“You’re making an enemy,” Lara whispered as they followed Tristan to another area of the set.
“You mean Ryder?” Finn shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “It’s not like I’m here to make friends.”
Adversaries. The word rang in her head. Right.
They could be friendly, but they were competitors, each with an agenda that ran counter to the others’. Under such circumstances, true friendship or relationships of any kind weren’t likely.
So it came as a surprise when, after they finished with everything for the day, Finn turned to Lara as they headed outside and said, “Hey, do you want to go for a cup of coffee or something?”
God help her, but it was the or something that had her attention.
FOUR
Add a dash of spice
“I thought you told me you weren’t here to make friends, Finn,” Lara said, raising one eyebrow.
“I’m not.”
“But you’re willing to make an exception in my case?”
Was he?
One side of her mouth rose in a smile that had a decidedly unsettling effect on his heart rate. No, Finn wasn’t after friendship. But he couldn’t deny his interest in Lara Smith. It had been there since the get-go.
“Well, if you looked like Ryder, I wouldn’t be offering,” he replied truthfully.
“And if I looked like Angel?”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Smoky eyes and Angelina Jolie lips?” Lara pouted and batted her eyelashes for effect. “Not to mention a pair of legs that start at the chin.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your legs.” Or any other part of her anatomy, from what Finn could tell. And, yeah, he’d been looking. “Besides, she’s not my taste. Too...obvious.” His gaze lowered briefly to Lara’s mouth and more naturally proportioned lips before flicking away to gaze up at the busy street. “I prefer subtlety, complexity.”
“Are you talking about women or are you talking about food?”
“Both, I guess.” He laughed.
She nodded, as if processing that. Then, “I’m still not clear on why you want to have coffee with me.”
Why indeed? He wasn’t quite clear on that himself. So, what he went with was “Ever hear the saying, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?”
“Gee, you know how to make a girl feel special.”
He laughed at her deadpan delivery. He’d always found a good sense of humor attractive in a woman.
“Actually, I’ve got a job in this neighborhood in a couple of hours. It doesn’t make sense to go home, and I don’t feel like sitting alone while I kill time.”
“Kill time,” she repeated. He nearly winced. Had he really just said that? “That’s a lukewarm invitation, you know. You need to work on your people skills, Paper.”
She had a point. He was a little rusty when it came to flirting with women. The ink on his divorce decree might have been dry for a couple of years, but Finn hadn’t gone out much. He’d been too busy. And, yeah, too bitter.
He wasn’t feeling bitter now. Oh, no. The emotions pinging around in his head were a lot more palatable than that.
“Is that no?”
“I should go home,” she told him. “I mean, I have laundry to do.”
“Laundry?” He placed a hand over his heart. “You’re turning me down to go home and throw in a load of dirty clothes?”
A smile lurked on her lips when Lara added, “Well, my refrigerator needs to be cleaned out, too.”
“Yeah. That makes me feel better. What? No game of Candy Crush calling your name?”
“How did you know?” Her full-on grin had his heart doing a funny thu-thunk. “But I can multitask and do that while I’m waiting for my clothes to dry.”
“Who needs to work on people skills now?” he asked sardonically.
“Fine.” Her grin made a mockery of the sigh that followed. “I’ll have a cup of coffee with you.”
Finn nodded, more pleased than he wanted to be that she’d accepted his invitation.
“I know a coffee shop not far from here that makes excellent biscotti.”
“You’re not talking about Isadora’s, are you?”
“That’s the one.” He blinked in surprise. “You know it?”
“Best biscotti in all of Manhattan. And the coffee is pretty good, too.”
Together, they headed off in the direction of the café. The rain had stopped. In fact, little evidence of the earlier downpour remained except for errant puddles in places where the sidewalk dipped. He watched Lara widen her stride to step over one. Her legs weren’t as long as the aforementioned Angel’s, but they were slender, which gave them the illusion of length. And he’d bet they were toned, too, based both on the way her pants fit and the lithe grace with which she moved.
Although she was petite, she hadn’t worn dangerously high heels to compensate. Her footwear choice on this day was a sensible pair of flats whose only bow to femininity was a row of flirty ruffles that crossed the toe. They were a practical choice for the kitchen, although he’d noticed that Amazon-sized Angel had gone with spikes and even down-home Flo had opted for a wedged heel that added a couple of inches to her otherwise average height.
Lara was saying, “I’m at Isadora’s at least twice a week, although I limit my biscotto intake to one piece once a week.”
Disciplined, he thought. But what surprised him was the fact they hadn’t met before now given their affinity for both the hard Italian cookie and the place.
“I’m there most weekday mornings. I bring my laptop, clear my email, that sort of thing. I can’t believe I’ve never run into you.”
“I know. What time do you arrive? I usually show up around seven, and then I’m in and out pretty fast. I get my order to go.”
“Seven?” Finn whistled through his teeth. “That explains it. I’m still in bed at seven. In fact, I rarely throw back the covers before nine.”
She blinked as if trying to clear away an inappropriate visual. Or maybe his ego just wanted to believe that was the case.
“Night owl?” she asked.
“I didn’t used to be, but...” He shrugged. “I work as a private chef now, so I’m a night owl if my client is, and lately, she is.”
“She?” Lara’s eyebrows rose.
“I signed a confidentiality clause, so that’s about all I’m allowed to say.”
“Ah. Someone famous, then. Got it.” She nodded before asking, “Do you have a lot of freedom to plan the menu or does your client tell you what she wants and how she wants it?”
Finn couldn’t stop his laugher. He didn’t try, even when a blush stained Lara’s cheeks.
