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“Apparently that didn’t go well?”
He shook his head. “Either they were starstruck, with ambitions of working at world-famous restaurants in New York, or their specialties leaned toward froufrou and artsy.”
“Not on the same wavelength?” she asked, adding a dollop of understanding to her tone.
“That’s putting it mildly.” He leaned forward and folded his hands, resting them on his desk.
She tried, but couldn’t summon sincere sympathy. Not when she wanted this job so much. She couldn’t help feeling grateful that he was having a difficult time filling the position. It boded better for her.
“I hate to say this, but it sounds like you don’t have a lot of choices left,” she said.
“You noticed.” He sighed as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Look, Fran, I worked through lunch and I’m starving. What would you say to an early dinner? The very first Marchetti’s Restaurant my father opened is across the street. Would you care to join me?”
Part of her wanted to say, “Lead me to the linguine.” The other part said her presence here at all was the main ingredient in a recipe for trouble. But she needed a job. And this assignment was leaps and bounds better than grill and taco bar positions. Her only concern was Alex Marchetti. He didn’t seem like the type who would turn the project over to even the most experienced chef, which she was not. That meant he would be a hands-on employer. Shivering at the thought, she reminded herself his hands wouldn’t be on her. This was work, not personal. The business of cooking had been personal once and she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t ever let it be again.
This instant and powerful attraction to a man had never happened to her before. She was guessing, but felt it had something to do with the fact that Alex had dropped by without warning last night. She hadn’t had time to erect her defenses. He’d slipped past her fortifications before she could arm herself against his arsenal of looks, laughs and loads of sex appeal.
But she couldn’t let a little thing like that stop her. If she was the type to run from confrontation, she would be a teacher today instead of a chef.
“A business dinner would be fine, Alex. I’d like very much to check out Marchetti’s menu.”
“You’ve never been to one of our restaurants?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He stood up. “It’s time we rectified that.”
“Hi, Abby.” Alex gave his newest sister-in-law a kiss on the cheek.
He and Fran had just entered the restaurant. As assistant manager, Abby happened to be filling in for the hostess. He didn’t miss the look on Fran’s face. Her expression registered surprise, disapproval and a distinct “Do I really want to work for a guy who kisses his employees?”
“A table for two, Alex?” Abby asked, smiling politely at Fran. Her blue eyes glittered with curiosity.
Alex had always thought the penchant for meddling was an inherited Marchetti trait. Apparently it was passed on through marriage, he realized as his blond sister-in-law gave Fran a thorough once-over. But in all fairness, Abby wasn’t accustomed to seeing him with a woman. And there was something about Fran—a sparkle, a sense of fun humming through her, a subtle sexiness.
He cleared his throat. “A quiet table please, Ab. We have business to discuss,” he added quickly. Squash the rumors before they got started. No sense fueling the family gossip mill. The meddling Marchettis needed no challenge or encouragement.
“I have the perfect table,” Abby answered.
He looked at Fran, the doubtful expression in her eyes reminding him he hadn’t made introductions. “Fran Carlino, I’d like you to meet Abby Marchetti. She and Nick have been married…” He stopped to think how long it had been.
“Six months, and we’re still on our honeymoon,” Abby stated with stars in her eyes. “But who’s counting? It’s nice to meet you, Fran.”
“My pleasure,” Fran said, visibly relaxing.
“I’ve got a corner booth, quiet and secluded.” Abby led the way through the romantically lit, almost empty restaurant. “You picked a good time to come in, Alex. The dinner rush hasn’t started yet.”
“Good.”
His sister-in-law seated them. “I’ll send the waiter over. Enjoy your dinner. Good to see you, Alex,” she said, then she was gone.
He knew she’d wanted to say, “Good to see you with a woman.” He wished his family would get over worrying about him being alone. They would have a field day if he told them that visions of Fran kept popping into his mind. Followed quickly by a nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong. He pushed that thought away. He wished his caring but misguided relatives would find another charity case. He’d been taking care of himself—alone—for a while now. And he’d been doing a pretty good job of it if he did say so himself. That reminded him of something Fran had said that he’d wondered about.
Alex looked at her across the table. “Before we talk business, would you mind explaining the remark you made last night? About being able to take care of yourself?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity. You were a shade defensive.” He shrugged. “I just wondered why you would feel you couldn’t count on your family.”
“I can count on them. I just choose not to. Because I would hear about how if I was married, I wouldn’t have to ask them for help because I’d have a man to take care of me.”
“And you don’t want a man in your life?”
“That’s oversimplifying.”
“How?”
She clasped her hands together and rested her forearms on the table. “My family is big on following in footsteps. My four brothers followed my father into the construction business. A lot like your family. The difference is yours seems to accept Rosie’s decision to be an independent businesswoman.”
“Your family hasn’t accepted your career?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think my father knows what to do with me. He’s never gotten over the fact that I wasn’t a boy. Plus girls can’t work construction. I was supposed to do what my mother did—marry and have babies. He wants me to find a man so he won’t have to worry about me anymore. I feel a lot like the Olympic torch, getting handed off to become someone else’s responsibility.” She sighed. “He would want me in a nunnery if he knew about the jerk in cooking school. But that’s a sad, boring story,” she said, looking as if she would like to call back those words.
Alex laughed. “What’s wrong with allowing someone the privilege of looking after you?”
“I’m not a responsibility. I can take care of myself. A man would quadruple the home-front workload. My career would suffer.”
“And your career is important to you?”
“You bet your corporate office it is. I love what I do. A good thing, since culinary school was no picnic for a woman. I didn’t go through that so I could play second fiddle to a guy and his laundry.”
“So a job with Marchetti’s is important to you?”
She nodded. “You said it yourself. I don’t have experience with entrées. This job would give me that and, with a little luck, put me on a course closer to my ultimate goal.”
“Which is?”
“A restaurant of my own.” She met his gaze. “You’re wondering why I’ve taken a detour from that.”
“Yeah.” She’d read his mind. He hoped she couldn’t read the rest of his thoughts as easily. Or she would know how interested he was in her mouth and how it would feel and taste. He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
“I’m sure you’re aware that there’s a certain prejudice against women in this business.”
“I’ve seen some,” he admitted.
“School was tough, but I was naive and thought when I finished it would be behind me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a position I wanted in the restaurant field. When I was offered a consulting job, I took it, even though it veered away from my objective.”
“So you want me to hire and train my competition?”
She laughed. “When you put it like that, it wouldn’t be very smart. But realistically, my goal is quite a way down the road. And it doesn’t matter what my future plans are. You need someone now. And I’m the best person for the job.”
“You certainly are cocky.”
“That implies you don’t think I can do what I say.”
He shook his head. “Let’s just call me skeptical.”
“So give me a chance to prove myself.”
“That’s tempting.”
She frowned. “Let me ask you something now.”
“Okay.”
“Would your reluctance to hire me have anything to do with the fact that I’m a woman?”
Yes, he admitted to himself. But not for the reason she thought. There was something about Fran. She’d made him notice her. And he didn’t want to notice any woman. But he was as dedicated to his career as she was to hers. He wasn’t going to just turn this project over to her. He intended to oversee it. That meant he would see her—a lot. What would it be like to work closely with her?
But, as she’d pointed out, he was out of options. “No,” he lied. “The fact that you’re a woman in no way impacts my decision about whether or not to offer you the job.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You’re inexperienced. I don’t want to say no out of hand. But I’m not sure what my next step should be.”
“I’ll cook for you,” she offered. “Let me put my money where my mouth is.”
He’d like to put his mouth where her mouth was. That thought took him by surprise again. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t surprised. He’d been semi-obsessed with her mouth since he’d met her almost twenty-four hours ago. And that was the main reason he hesitated to hire her.
“I thought your father didn’t want you cooking for strange men,” he said.
“Strangers,” she clarified. “Besides, he doesn’t get a vote. And I really want this job.”
“Something to prove to your family?”
“Maybe. As I said, it would look great on my résumé. And the bottom line is you haven’t found anyone yet. Time’s awasting. I’m good at my job and I’d like the opportunity to prove it to you.”
“Fair enough. When and where?”
“Tomorrow night. My apartment.”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter Three
This time Fran was ready for him. And getting ready for a man like Alex Marchetti was no small feat.
She didn’t just mean ready as in food preparation and presentation, either. Although she had to admit she’d done herself proud. Surveying her modest circular oak table with the four surrounding ladder-back chairs, she nodded with satisfaction. A white linen cloth covered the small round surface. Her grandmother’s flatware was arranged to leave space for her supermarket-special dishes. In her dollar-store water goblet, the cloth napkin fanned out, exotically folded the way she’d so painstakingly learned. And there was extra glassware on the table just to show that she knew how it should look.
In the center of everything was a vase filled with flowers from the grocery store hothouse. Rust-colored mums, yellow carnations, baby’s breath and greens mingled their perfume with the aroma of her two favorite entrées. Presentation was as important as taste, and she’d done the very best she could with what she had for maximum visual appeal. Now her culinary skills had to stand on their own. For reasons she could neither understand nor explain, she wanted to impress Alex Marchetti. And, unfortunately, getting hired for the job wasn’t her only motivation.
But dazzling Alex Marchetti with food and atmosphere wasn’t the only thing she was ready for. Resisting his electric effect on her senses was going to be touchier than getting a soufflé to stand at attention. If she was right, and she was sure she was, he’d wowed her with the element of surprise.
She had told herself repeatedly that good looks and a physique that made her palms tingle to touch him were just his presentation. She had no intention of digging deeper to find out if his ingredients—looks, charm and temptation—blended into a dish with substance. He was dishy, all right, but she was on a restricted diet. Once burned, twice shy. So bring on his sex appeal, animal magnetism and magazine-cover backside. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even tempted. She wasn’t going to let anything, especially a good-looking man, come between her and the job she wanted.
She glanced at the clock on the stove. He was due at seven. It was six fifty-five. Her palms started to sweat and her stomach dropped as if she were in the first car on a roller coaster headed down the world’s longest drop.
The doorbell sounded, making her jump. She took a deep breath and let it out as she surveyed her table one last time. She was grateful that he was punctual; she didn’t think she could handle clock watching. Her nerves were already stretched as tight as the skin on a stuffed and trussed Thanksgiving turkey.
I am so ready, she said to herself as she walked through her living room toward the door, where she called, “Who is it?”
“Alex. Remember me? Your friendly, neighborhood serial killer.”
She couldn’t help laughing, in spite of the fact that his deep voice raised tingles that chased each other up and down her back. She took the chain off and opened the door. One look at Alex’s worn, button-fly jeans and white shirt, sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, told her she was not ready.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “Come in.”
“Hi,” he answered, walking through the door with a bottle cradled in each arm. “I brought some wine. One white, one red. I wasn’t sure what you’d be serving.”
“Thanks. But you didn’t have to do that. This is a job interview.” She grabbed the doorknob to steady herself when he grinned.
“I know. But it isn’t like any interview I’ve ever conducted,” he said.
“Preparing food isn’t like any other job. You get results on the spot. Or not,” she added.
“True.” He sniffed. “Your results smell pretty good.”
“I hope so. Let me show you to your table.” She took the lead, then glanced over her shoulder. “This way, please.”
They walked the short distance into her kitchen. She took the two bottles of wine from him and set them on the bar while he surveyed her efforts. Then he looked down at her, a slight frown marring his forehead just above the rims of his glasses.
“There’s only one place setting. You’re not joining me?”
“Every chef strives to imprint his or her own style,” she said. “I’m going for the mystique. Joining the diner would shatter the atmosphere.”
And component number one in her recipe for success in working for Alex was to keep her distance. Pretend she was head chef of her own restaurant, where she could make policy. In this case: stay as far from Alex Marchetti as she could. And she had to admit it was a good rule, because already this felt too much like an awkward first date.
“When I was growing up, there was an unspoken law—never let anyone eat alone.” He rested his hands on lean, jean-clad hips as he met her gaze. “Or maybe you have another strategy. You’re going to poison me and put me out of my second-son syndrome misery.”
“Right. And I could kiss my cooking career goodbye.”
“Or me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You could kiss me.” He looked as if he would like to take the words back. Shaking his head, he said, “Bad joke. But I’m serious about this. I think we should eat together.”
“Haven’t got time,” she said. “You have to be judge, jury and executioner. While I’m hostess, wait staff and chef. Please take a seat. Course number one is coming up. I hope you’re hungry.”
