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“Sort of. But it’s more in the category of a double whammy,” he said, without batting an eye.
“Double. As in two. I’m intrigued. What’s whammy number one?” she asked.
“I’m looking for just the right person to oversee my latest research and development plan for Marchetti’s Inc. Rosie tells me you’re an excellent chef.”
“I went to culinary school,” Fran said. “Right now I’m doing freelance work. But you already know that.”
He nodded. “I need a food consultant to develop a line of frozen foods. I want to take the Marchetti’s menu into as many homes across America as possible.”
The teakettle shrilled and she lifted it off the stove, then poured steaming water into her cup. Fran looked at him. “That’s an exciting proposition,” she said.
He nodded. “I intend to carve a niche in frozen foods for the company. Are you aware that it’s a four-billion-dollar-a-year industry?”
No, but she was aware of how incredibly good-looking he was when he turned earnest and intense. “That’s a lot of frozen peas and carrots,” she conceded.
“Exactly. I think the time is optimum to branch out into another venue with the right product. Our father started the first Marchetti’s Restaurant. When he retired, my older brother, Nick, took over the company and expanded it, creating the present restaurant chain. I plan to do the same, just in a different direction.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter between them and rested her chin in her hand. “Second-son syndrome.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re suffering from second-son syndrome. In the Middle Ages, the first son inherited the castle and son number two played second fiddle, twiddling his thumbs because he had nothing to do. Nick took Marchetti’s into the fast lane and you’re saying, ‘Hey, notice me, too.”’
Alex frowned. “There’s only one thing wrong with that theory.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m the third son.”
“Ah. Any sons after one and two get paid to do nothing. That makes the syndrome twice as acute.”
Why did she feel this absurd desire to tease him? Maybe because he was so serious. A side effect of the glasses. But mostly because she found her almost instant attraction to him disconcerting. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t resist the urge to loosen him up a little.
“Did you say I’m twice as cute?”
Mission accomplished, she thought, watching him struggle to hold back a grin. “No. I said the syndrome is acute times two for son number three. You’re competing with two brothers for approval, affection and your rightful place in the castle dynamics.”
Alex watched as she dunked her tea bag. She wouldn’t blame him if he grabbed it away and stuffed it somewhere. Like in her mouth. This wasn’t the first time her mouth had gotten her into hot water. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last, either.
She put her soggy tea bag on her saucer. Then she stirred some sugar into the steaming liquid while she waited for him to respond to her last verbal barb.
“I think your theory is interesting,” he finally said. “And there may be a grain of truth to it.”
“Really?” she asked. She’d expected him to bristle and get angry. Not to semi-agree with her.
“If second-son syndrome means that I want my parents and brothers to be as proud of me as I am of them, then I’m guilty as charged.”
“Hmm.” She could relate to that. She felt the same way. Only in her case it wasn’t likely to happen. She wrapped her hands around her mug and blew into the steam to cool off the liquid. “Good luck with your goal,” she said.
“Do you have siblings, Fran?”
“Do I have siblings?” She laughed. “Do four older brothers qualify?”
The corners of his very attractive mouth turned up. “No wonder you and Rosie hit it off.”
She nodded. “We did bond over the trials and tribulations of having a father and four stand-in bodyguards.”
“So you’ve been able to observe second-son syndrome firsthand,” he commented.
“Among other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like marriage and kids. For women, it’s not much evolved from a feudal society.”
“How do you figure?”
She sipped her tea, then said, “Think about it. The woman works her fingers to the bone fetching for her husband and sons, and all she gets is a place to live, food and clothes.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” he asked. “My mother and sister seem to find family, especially motherhood, very rewarding.”
“I’m exaggerating a little. But from my firsthand observations, it seems more servitude than satisfying. I keep after my mother to get a life, but she insists that she has one, thank you very much. But I don’t see that she’s receiving enough personal fulfillment for me to follow in her footsteps. Much to my father’s annoyance.”
“Why annoyance?”
“He believes a woman’s place is in the home. Her fulfillment is taking care of a husband and children. He even wanted me to be a teacher.”
A shadow crossed Alex’s face, and she wondered what she’d said to put it there.
“Why teaching?” he asked, the sad look chasing away the warmth in his dark eyes.
“Good career for a mom, because when you’re finished with work, your children get out of school. Same vacations.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“For starters, it was his idea, not mine. And—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “This sounds like a long, yet interesting story. Would you mind if we sat down?” he asked.
“Of course not. How thoughtless of me.”
She wasn’t usually so rude. But apparently her brain was on overload, filled as it was with good-looking Alex Marchetti. After that, there wasn’t a whole lot of room left over for rational thought, not to mention manners. Then she’d climbed on her soapbox, something that usually followed when the subject of her family came up. Everything else went out the window. Including courtesy.
She waved her hand toward the living room. “Please.”
He turned away and she couldn’t help peeking at him from the rear. For a while now, Fran had wondered about the hoopla, hype and hyperbole associated with men’s backsides. Movies, magazines and other media were full of it. And she didn’t get it. At least she hadn’t until this very moment. It was sort of comforting to know she wasn’t immune.
He filled out a pair of slacks in the best possible way. She would bet he was something of a phenomenon in a pair of worn jeans. Alex Marchetti probably sat behind a desk all day, and it wasn’t fair that he showed not a single hint of secretary spread. More proof that God was a man.
He sighed as he settled his very attractive rear end in her big, overstuffed chair. Her want ads still rested on the ottoman in front of him. “This is comfortable,” he said.
“I think so, too. It was my grandmother’s.” Fran sat on the sofa at a right angle to him. “She died a couple years ago.” She smiled sadly.
“I guess she was very special to you.”
Fran nodded. “My father’s mother. She visited all the time. We were very close. She financed my rebellion.”
“Rebellion?”
“Culinary school. My father refused to pay for it. He said that if I liked to cook, I should get married and prepare meals for one man instead of a bunch of strangers.”
“Hmm,” was his only comment. “Where did you go to school?”
“San Francisco.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Chalk one up for your grandmother. And you still miss her.”
“Every day,” Fran agreed. “But that’s why I love that chair. It’s nice to have something to remind me of her.”
“Do you want me to give you my amateur psychological take on that?”
“Nope. And I won’t practice armchair psychology if you won’t.”
“You already have,” he said wryly.
“Okay. No more cracks about second-son syndrome.”
He held out his hand. “Deal.”
“Done,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.
A tingle of awareness skittered through her. If she had foreseen the magnitude of disturbance caused by the warmth of his large hand, she would have kept hers to herself.
She removed her fingers from his, hoping he didn’t notice her abruptness. It smacked of attraction. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Nothing personal. But after her disaster, she wasn’t interested in a flirtation or anything more serious with any man. Especially one in the food service industry. If only Alex didn’t look so darn cute sitting in her grandmother’s chair. What in the world had possessed her to look through that peephole in the first place? Curiosity.
Which reminded her. She was still curious about the second reason he’d dropped by. He’d admitted he was looking for a chef, but he didn’t seem terribly impressed with her verbal credentials. There wasn’t much chance he would offer her the job. Too bad. It was a wonderful opportunity.
But he’d said he was here for two reasons, and he’d only accounted for one. “So what’s the second whammy?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You said you’re here because of a double whammy. Chef search is number one. What’s number two?”
“Matchmaking.”
Chapter Two
“Why would you assume Rosie was matchmaking?” Fran asked. “Because I’m a female chef?”
“Yes.”
Alex didn’t miss the defensive note in her voice or the way her gaze narrowed at his response. He’d been around the restaurant business long enough to know that women who decided on this career had a tough time. Attitudes were changing, but males still dominated the kitchens in a lot of four star restaurants.
He couldn’t resist adding, “If you were a guy, it would have been the single whammy.”
“Huh?”
“Chef search. No matchmaking.”
She nodded slowly as the corners of her mouth curved in a knowing smile. “Okay. But why would your sister try to fix you up?”
“Because she’s a hopeless romantic.”
“I wouldn’t think a guy who looks like you would have trouble finding a woman on his own.”
She offered the observation without embarrassment or evasiveness. A woman on the make wouldn’t be so straightforward. He found her refreshing.
And more, he thought. Sweat broke out on his forehead as she touched a finger to her full bottom lip. He wondered how it would taste. That thought came out of nowhere. He’d never felt such a strong attraction. Not since Beth, he amended. Guilt hit him hard and fast. Followed by the pain—dull now, but still there, every time he thought about her and what they’d lost. Love like that happened only once in a lifetime. And fate, karma or whatever you wanted to call it had dumped on him in a big way. He’d found the perfect woman, but chance had stolen from him the part where they would grow old together. Fate wouldn’t get another chance to kick him in the teeth.
“I’m not looking for a woman,” he said. With luck, in addition to being direct, Fran wasn’t inquisitive. This subject was off-limits. There was no point in discussing it.
Her eyes glittered, as if she wanted to ask more. But all she said was, “Then that’s why Rosie is trying to fix you up. It’s a delicious challenge. I just don’t understand why she would think I was matchmaking material.”
“There was that cute-as-a-button remark. Rosie said it, not me,” he stated, raising his hands in surrender.
He had to admit Rosie had been right about that. Funny, he could see buttons as cute, but not sexy. And Fran Carlino had sex appeal in spades. Especially her mouth. Straight white teeth showed to perfection when she smiled, which she did often. She had full soft lips. Kissable lips.
“I would prefer stunning or drop-dead gorgeous to cute, but at least she didn’t tell you I need to wear a bag over my head in public.”
He blinked and forced himself to switch his focus from her mouth to the words coming out of it. “Actually, she was right about you. You’re very attractive, Fran.”
“Be still my heart,” she said, touching a hand to her chest. “Now there’s a line to turn a woman’s head. You really are out of practice. You’re not kidding, are you—about not looking for a woman?”
“No.” It wasn’t even a matter of looking. He’d had his shot. It hadn’t worked out. End of story.
“Then if you suspected Rosie was matchmaking, but you’re not interested in participating, why are you here?”
“She said I couldn’t get you. And if I wanted to know why, I had to ask you myself.”
“Ah,” Fran said, with one emphatic nod that said she understood completely. “I get it. Brilliant strategy. And it worked like a charm.”
“What worked?”
“Reverse psychology.”
“What happened to no more amateur analyzing?” he asked.
“I forgot,” she admitted. “But this is too classic, too characteristic of reverse psychology.”
