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

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

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

With much love to my husband and boys for their support.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

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.

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.”

She ignored him and continued. “But about the entertainment component. I’m a chef, not an actor.” She gestured around her. “I think we’re all nervous about working in front of the cameras.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Are you telling me you’re not the least bit anxious?”

“I can’t afford to be if I want to win. And I want to win.”

“Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”

The smile her word elicited was illicit. He leaned closer, and his tone was matter-of-fact when he clarified, “I’m going to win.”

Another time she might have found such self-assuredness sexy, especially when paired with smoky eyes and a devilish grin. Since it ran counter to her own plans, however, she told him, “In your dreams, Paper.”

Finn chuckled. “I was right about figuring you for a rock. But the only thing I’m dreaming about right now—” His gaze flicked to her lips and he hesitated before clarifying, “The only thing I can afford to dream about is being the last chef standing in this kitchen.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Try a dozen of us,” scoffed the young man standing to Lara’s right.

She’d forgotten about him—she’d forgotten about all of them—as she and Finn had engaged in a quiet battle of words that carried an undertone of flirting.

Kirby Something-or-other. From where she stood, she wasn’t able to make out the last name on his badge. She pegged him to be in his early twenties. His shaggy hair stuck out at odd angles and gave the overall appearance of having been hacked off with a meat cleaver.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t all be friendly, y’all.” The speaker this time was a middle-aged blonde whose waist was as thick as her Southern accent. Her badge read Flo Gimball.

“That’s right. We can be friendly. Course, it won’t change anything. I’m going to win,” boasted a gravelly-voiced man who sported a shaved head, gauged ears and a five-inch-long goatee.

Thanks to two full sleeves of tattoos, he would have looked right at home in a biker bar. Rebel that he was, he wasn’t wearing the name tag he’d received from the security desk in the lobby, but the Gothic lettering on the side of his neck spelled out Ryder. Lara assumed it was his name—whether first, last or otherwise, she couldn’t be sure.

“Right,” she muttered half under her breath.

Sorry, but she couldn’t see Ryder in her father’s kitchen. For starters, Clifton wasn’t a fan of body art, which was probably why she had gotten a yin-yang symbol the size of a half-dollar inked on her lower back as soon as she’d turned eighteen. Her dad had been livid when he found out. She’d been smug and secretly pleased to have gotten his attention. Now, every time she wore a bathing suit, she just felt stupid.

“You got something to say?” Ryder asked in a voice as gritty as cornmeal.

The guy easily stood six-six and carried his fillet knife in a sheath attached to his belt. Fish and prime cuts of meat probably weren’t the only things he used it on. Lara gulped, a purely reflexive action that she regretted immediately when the huge man grinned as if he could smell her fear.

“Down, boy.” Finn surprised her by stepping between them. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Ryder’s laughter chewed through the silence that followed Finn’s valiant admonition like the rusty blade of a chain saw.

“I musta missed the memo that said we’re competing in pairs. What, pretty boy? Are you gonna be her sous-chef?” Ryder taunted.

The barb earned snickers from some of the other competitors.

Lara appreciated Finn’s gesture, but she couldn’t afford to be perceived as weak. Stepping around him, she told Ryder, “Actually, I do have something to say, but I’ll let my food do the talking on Monday.”

For that matter, she hoped that whatever she prepared in the allotted time would speak volumes to the trio of judges, which would include a different celebrity chef each week.

“Should be pretty quiet, then,” said a statuesque brunette whose name badge read Angel Horvath.

Her overinflated lips curved into a smile that was too menacing to be perceived as friendly, and Lara was left with the impression that it wouldn’t be smart to turn her back on the woman—or any of her fellow competitors, for that matter.

That included Finn, their kiss in the cab and his recent act of gallantry notwithstanding. They all had the same objective: winning. As Finn already had pointed out, that made them adversaries.

Tristan had returned for part of the exchange. He clapped his hands together again in a gesture that Lara was already starting to find annoying.

“Hey, chefs. I have no problem with trash talk. In fact, undermining another contestant’s confidence can be a good strategy. But save it for the cameras, please. We have too much to do over the next couple of days to waste time on your egos.”

Lara cast a sideways glance at Finn. The easygoing smile he’d sported was gone, replaced by an expression more in keeping with the intensity she’d spied earlier in his gaze. His game face, she thought, and experienced a flicker of disappointment that they hadn’t met under other circumstances.

THREE

Mix well

The competitors had one hour, not a minute more, to familiarize themselves with their surroundings. Finn had to restrain himself to a brisk walk when Tristan finally released them to go find their workstations. He wanted to run like a couple of the other chefs were doing, but he knew better. Haste in a kitchen was often met with disaster. So he moved quickly, but safely as he searched for his name on the white placards affixed to the stainless-steel vent hoods.

Finn had spent his entire adult life in and around professional kitchens—some of them better equipped and better run than others. For a while, he’d presided over his own in a restaurant dubbed Rascal’s, which he’d owned with his wife and best friend. Ex-wife now. And former best friend.

He was at home amid pots, pans and appliances, but he wasn’t exactly in his element here.

Finn hadn’t admitted it before, but he shared Lara’s trepidation about cooking in front of a slew of cameras for a television audience that ultimately would not taste his creations. He had no problem preparing his signature dishes in a crowded restaurant kitchen where well-ordered chaos reigned, but this was different. So much in the Cuisine Cable Network’s kitchen was unknown, unaccounted for and just plain beyond his control.

It came down to a hand of cards. Literally. At the start of each competition the host would deal three oversize cards. One specified the amount of time the chefs had to cook. Another gave the course they had to prepare—appetizer, entrée or dessert. The final card revealed the identity of the celebrity judge.

And then there was the plainspoken and pretty Lara Smith.

If the first blow of attraction had landed like a sucker punch, the second, when he’d stumbled upon her in the waiting room, had delivered the knockout.

Wouldn’t it just figure that the first woman to arouse his interest—and then some—since Sheryl had buried a knife in his back would be one he was competing against for the chance of a lifetime?

Priorities, Westbrook, priorities, he silently admonished.

Sex and his social life rated lower on the list than getting back what he’d lost. And thanks to Sheryl and Cole, he’d lost everything.

Of course, all of the chefs here were determined to win. But it was different for Finn. For him, it went deeper than bragging rights and securing a coveted position with a paycheck to match. Being crowned the Chesterfield’s executive chef wouldn’t be a stop as much as a stepping-stone. He needed it to launch his comeback.

Nothing and no one would stand in his way.

He found his station and smothered a bemused laugh. So much for putting distance between himself and Lara Smith. They would be working side by side.

At the moment, however, it wasn’t her side that had Finn’s attention. She was bent at the waist, inspecting the oven. It was all he could do to hold back a groan at his first unrestricted view of her butt. Overall, she was too slender to be considered voluptuous, but her rear had a definite curve that filled out her fitted pants nicely. If she liked to sample her cooking, as chefs were wont to do, she worked off the extra calories later. When his libido started to fantasize about exactly how, he swallowed hard and reeled it in.

She glanced over as she straightened, and smiled.

“We meet again,” he said in a lame attempt to cover his embarrassment over being caught ogling her butt.

The bright lights teased streaks of copper from her otherwise auburn hair, and idly he wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared.

“That reminds me. I never properly introduced myself.” She rubbed the palm of her right hand on the thigh of her pants before holding it out. “I’m—”

“No need.” A handshake? Really? They’d already kissed. “Besides, I know who you are.”

“Y-you know?” Her eyes rounded at that and her face paled to the point he thought she might pass out.

It was a curious reaction. She didn’t only sound surprised but, well, guilty.

“You’re wearing a badge with your name on it,” he pointed out.

“I... A badge. Right. I’m wearing a badge.” She laughed awkwardly as she patted the rectangular sticker affixed to a chest that, in his estimation, was neither too large nor too small, but just the right size. She motioned to the prep table that they would be sharing. “It looks like we’re going to be working together.”

The idea, like the woman, was way too appealing for his peace of mind, so he clarified, “We won’t be working together, Lara. We’ll be competing against each other.”

“Adversaries,” she said, parroting what he had said earlier.

“Yep. And as I already told you, I intend to win.”

She notched up her chin, not appearing to be cowed in the least by his bravado.

He found her arrogance a surprising turn-on when she replied in a haughty voice, “You keep telling yourself that, Paper. You just keep telling yourself that.”

* * *

Smooth.

Lara patted the badge even as she wanted to give her forehead a slap. She supposed the fact that she was so lousy at lying was a testament to how rarely she did it. Deceit did not come naturally to her. No, that would be her mother.

Even with her father—especially with him—Lara had always been truthful. Blunt and tactless, yes, but truthful all the same.

At least Finn was no longer staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was going about his business, as should she, since they had only an hour in the kitchen studio.

Satisfied that the oven and stove-top burners worked, Lara turned her attention to the prep table. While all of the contestants had their own ovens, the tables, which ran parallel to them, were ten feet long and intended to accommodate two chefs. All of her preparations, including plating the finished product, would take place on that single length of stainless-steel real estate, and she was going to have to share it with the handsome man who had her mind wandering to other uses for a handy horizontal surface.

“Something wrong?” He stopped what he was doing and looked over at her.

Lara felt a flush creep over her cheeks, one of the curses of having a redhead’s fair skin.

“No. Nothing’s...wrong.” She forced her gaze from him to the prep top, where a couple of containers filled with spatulas, slotted spoons and the like, and some bottles of oil were all that delineated one chef’s side from the other. “It’s just not a lot of space for two people.”

“Worried I’ll take advantage of you?”

She felt her face flame anew as a couple of more inappropriate thoughts threatened to storm the gates of propriety. Worried? More like wishing.

“I just hope you’re not one of those chefs who like to spread out.”

“I’ll keep all of my stuff on my side if you’ll do the same.” To illustrate his point, Finn moved a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to his section.

“Actually, I think we’re supposed to share the oil.”

He glanced at the trio of bottles, which were filled with different varieties, some of which were intended for cooking, others for adding flavor afterward.

“Ah. So I see.” He moved the bottle back to the dividing line. “Are we good?”

“That depends.” She canted her leg out to one side and settled a hand on her hip. She was only half kidding when she said, “When you’re cooking, are you neat? Some chefs aren’t and it’s a pet peeve of mine.”

Indeed, it was one of the rare points on which Lara and her father actually saw eye to eye.

“As a pin. What about you?”

“A place for everything and everything in its place.”

“Then I’d say the two of us will get along fine.”

“Yes, we’re...” Her gaze homed in on his mouth as she recalled their kiss. “We’re very...”

Finn’s smirk told her he knew exactly where her mind had wandered.

“Compatible? Is that the word you’re looking for?”

Oh, she had a feeling they would be that and then some.

She looked away and blurted out the first thing she could think of. “The knives aren’t bad.”

Five of the most essential blades clung to magnetic strips that were mounted on the wall behind each contestant’s stove. Even at a glance, she could gauge the quality. The network had spared no expense.

“Will you be using them?” he asked.

“Please.” She snorted at that. More so than any other utensil in a chef’s kitchen, knives were personal, their weight and balance suited to the user. As such, they were the one item the contestants were allowed to bring with them from home. “Are you kidding?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to get a feel for what kind of chef you are.”

She was the kind who deserved to be heading up the Chesterfield’s kitchen, a job she was going to do her damnedest to earn.

Tristan, apparently having overheard their conversation, said, “Remember, chefs. You’re limited to seven.” He’d been making the rounds in the studio, hands clasped behind his back, his expression reminiscent of a warden’s. “Are you finding everything to be in working order at your stations?”

“So far so good,” Finn said.

She nodded in agreement.

Once Tristan had moved on, Finn said, “I wonder if Ryder will show up next week wearing all of his knives on his belt. The guy’s a trip.”

The visual nearly had her smiling.

“I was going to say scary. Thanks for earlier, by the way.”

She might not have needed Finn’s interference, but she’d appreciated the gesture.

“He was just trying to psych you out.”

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.

“You make me sound like a gigolo,” he responded once he’d managed to catch his breath. “I know food can be a sensual experience, but...”

“Sorry. I—”

He shook his head and waved off the apology. Then Lara did it again, put her foot right back in that very appealing mouth of hers.

“It must pay pretty well. Otherwise, why would you...? I mean, obviously, you’d rather run a restaurant kitchen.” She squinted through one eye. “That came out wrong.”

“That’s all right.” Hell, sometimes Finn felt as if he’d sold out, but a guy had to make a living and at least he was still able to do so with his cooking. “To answer your first poorly phrased question—” He laughed again. “I plan the menus, but sometimes she makes a request. And she likes to have dinner parties, so...”

“Late nights.”

“Exactly. Tonight included. I’ll be lucky to plant my face in my pillow by three.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Yeah. Welcome to the life of the idle rich.”

Isadora’s was just ahead on the other side of the street. Finn swore he could already smell the coffee on the stale afternoon breeze. They stopped at the curb. While they waited for the light to change, he asked, “What kind of coffee do you drink?” He tipped his head to one side. “You’re not one of those half-caf-with-skim-milk women, are you?”

“And if I say yes?”

“I’d have to turn you on to the beauty of a plain old cup of freshly brewed French roast.”

Her brows notched up.

Now who was guilty of poor phrasing? Finn thought. But she didn’t call him on it.

Instead, she agreed, “Simplicity is underrated.”

“Yep. Everyone wants to complicate things, thinking that somehow makes the end result better.”

Finn wasn’t only talking about coffee now, but the direction his kitchen—and he still considered Rascal’s kitchen his—had gone under Sheryl’s and Cole’s leadership. Rascal’s, named for the classic Our Gang reruns he’d watched as a kid, had featured traditional food with fun, funky twists. These days the menu was more classical than classic, heavy with French influences that ran counter to the eclectic decor and irreverent name.

“Personally, I like Colombian and I look for organic beans harvested and sold under Fair Trade. Does that make me high maintenance or too trendy?” she wanted to know.

“Even if it did, at least it would be for a good cause.”

“So, it’s okay to be picky or demanding if you’re doing it for a good cause?”

Finn laughed. “Something like that.”

They arrived at the shop and he held open the door for her. At this hour of the day, the place wasn’t very busy. Most people already had reached their daily caffeine quota. A few professional types in business suits stood in line at the take-out window. In the dining room, trendily dressed girls whom he guessed to be high school age sat laughing at one table. Two other tables were taken by preoccupied twentysomethings tapping away on their laptop keyboards.

“Counter or table?” she asked.

“Your choice.”

Lara turned and started toward a table that was wedged against the window. It was the one he often sat at so he could watch the foot traffic file past. As he sat down, he could hear the slight buzzing of the neon Open sign overhead. A waitress was over almost immediately to take their orders.

Lara went with Colombian. He went with French roast. They both took their coffee black. Another reason to like her, he decided. Food required seasoning. But a good cup of coffee didn’t need to be doctored up with cream, whether flavored or plain. Nor did it need sweetener of any sort. Especially if one was going to be dunking cookies in it.

“I’ll have the macadamia-nut-and-dried-cranberry biscotto,” she told the waitress.

“Make that two.” It was what he always ordered, as well.

After the waitress left, Lara quipped, “We made her job easy.”

“We can always send the biscotti back and complain about the coffee to test her patience and make her earn the tip we leave.”

“I’m sure she’s already waited on more than a couple people like that today. I’ve worked in enough kitchens to know that some people make special requests or send back food just to be a pain in the rear.”

He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I thought you were a food stylist.”

Lara pointed at his mouth. “Did you know that your lip curled when you said that?”

“It did not.”

She nodded. “Afraid so.”

“Okay, maybe a little. It just seems like a poor use of your talent.” And obviously she had talent or she wouldn’t have made it on to the show.

Tone dry as dust, she replied, “Says the man who pimps out his cooking to the highest bidder. What’s the story behind that?”

“We’re talking about you right now. We’ll get to my story later.” He wasn’t sure what he would share with her. But right now he wanted to know more about her, so he asked, “Do you enjoy styling other people’s food?”

“I’m very good at it.”

“But that’s not what I asked.”

The waitress returned with their coffees and biscotti. Lara picked up one of the hard Italian cookies and dunked it into her cup. Stalling?

Finn prompted, “Well?”

“Sure. I enjoy it. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. Appearances are important.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” he shot back.

That was true both in the case of a roasted turkey that had been brushed with oil to make it look moist and a fresh-faced woman with secrets brimming in her eyes.

“Yes. And no. I’m willing to go out on a limb and bet that Ryder does not sing in a church choir.”

But did Ryder have something to hide? Finn didn’t think so. He was an in-your-face kind of guy. Lara Smith? The way she sometimes acted, Finn wondered.

“All right, I’ll come clean,” she said only to end with, “I like cooking more.”

Not exactly a revelation, but it was a start.

“Where did you go to culinary school?”

She named off the very institution that he had attended, although he’d graduated a few years ahead of her. When she mentioned training abroad under a couple of world-renowned chefs, Finn was duly impressed and whistled through his teeth.

“How did you manage that? As far as I know, neither of those guys hires anything but seasoned veterans to work in their kitchens. Even their prep chefs and line cooks have been around the block a time or two.”

Yet Lara had scored an internship.

“My father’s doing.”

“Your father?”

Rather than answer right away, she bit into the biscotto, leaving Finn with the impression that she was using the time it took to chew and swallow to formulate a response.

“He knows both men. I guess you could say he traded on friendship.”

“Lucky you.”

She glanced out the window. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

Now he was really curious. But he asked, “How did a chef with a degree from one of the best culinary schools in the country and who trained under a couple of Europe’s finest chefs wind up making food look pretty on a plate for the camera?”

Her gaze snapped back to his. Her tone was mild, but her eyes held a bit of heat when she told him, “That’s rather derogatory.”

“The phrasing might be a little harsh,” he allowed and took a sip of his coffee. “But it’s a fact.”

She was quiet a moment. Insulted? He didn’t think so. But he’d definitely struck a nerve.

“Okaaay,” she said slowly, drawing out the a as well as the suspense. He leaned forward slightly in his seat, drawn in and all but drowning in those green eyes. “Short answer?”

Finn found himself far more interested in the long version, but he nodded. He’d settle for that...for now.

“I sort of fell into it.” She picked up her coffee.

That was it?

“You weren’t kidding about offering a short answer.” He took a sip from his mug before continuing, “I feel a little cheated. Come on. You can share more than that.”

She made a humming noise. “I don’t know that I should.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather be an enigma. A bit of mystery is good for...competition.”

Funny, but competition was barely a blip on Finn’s personal radar at the moment. He leaned forward. The neon sign wasn’t the only thing buzzing right now.

“I have a proposition,” he told her.

“Oh?” She appeared aloof, sitting there with her elbows on the table, both hands holding the coffee cup, which obscured his view of her mouth. But she leaned forward, too, bringing with her the appealing scent of vanilla and sweetness that he wasn’t sure could be attributed to the hard Italian cookie. “What kind of a proposition?”

“The kind that involves physical contact,” he replied. One of her elbows slipped off the tabletop, causing coffee to slosh over the rim of her mug. His ego fully stroked, he added, “I’m challenging you to another game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Are you up for it?”

She sat back on a laugh. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On?”

“What exactly does the winner get this time?”

Finn knew what he wanted, and it had nothing to do with spilling secrets or speaking at all. It did, however, involve her mouth. He swallowed.

“The long version.” He coughed for effect. “I’m referring to answers.”

“Gee, glad you clarified that.” She grinned and looked away. “But I’m not sure what’s in it for me, other than I get to keep a little of my mystique.”

“You get to ask me a question of your choosing.”

“Any question?”

Her eyes narrowed in a way he found worrisome. But Finn nodded. Being an enigma wasn’t all that important to him. His name already had been dragged through the mud publicly. If she hadn’t put it together yet, she would. Eventually.

“Sure. Any question. Well?”

“Deal.” She clinked her coffee mug against his before setting it aside. Then she put out her hands. “On the count of three?”

This time when they finished, her fingers were curled in a fist for a rock. He’d gone with paper. Again. This time, he’d won.

“Paper covers rock.” He cupped his palm over her fist, kept it there. The contact was warm, inviting.

“What do you want to know?” she asked quietly.

Finn thought about the questions he would like to have answered, including the one that she’d already evaded.

But what he asked was, “Are you seeing anyone?”

* * *

Are you seeing anyone?

That was what he wanted to know?

Was she flattered by Finn’s interest? Check.

Turned on by it? Ditto.

Worried? Ding! Ding! Ding!

Concern topped the list, which was why she replied with a mood-killing “This...isn’t a good time.”

“For what?” he persisted. “I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. If you’re seeing someone...” He put up his hands as he slouched back in his chair.

It was more for her own benefit than his that she told him, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“How so?” He looked genuinely confused, genuinely contrite. “Have I done or said anything to offend you?”

“No. Nothing.”

In the very short time they’d known one another, Finn had done everything right, coming as close to perfect as any man ever had when measured against Lara’s exacting post-divorce standards. And that made him dangerous. Especially right now.

“Here’s the thing, Finn. I know where I stand with Ryder and Angel and the rest of the chefs in the competition. They’d poach my liver if they thought it would help their cause. But you...”

“My motives are suspect.”

“No! Yes. I don’t know.” And she couldn’t afford to find out.

“Well, at least you’re sure.” His accompanying grin took the sting out of his otherwise sarcastic reply.

She sighed. “I’m not making sense.”

“It’s okay. I think I know what you mean, Lara. The timing is wrong.”

The timing was definitely wrong. How could she start a relationship with a man when she couldn’t even be truthful with him about her last name?

She tried a second time to put into words what she herself barely understood.

“I really need to win.”

“I know. I need it myself.” He swallowed. “Nothing can...nothing will stand in the way.”

They were on the same page, quoting practically the same verse. Leave it at that. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

“I’m not seeing anyone, Finn. I haven’t been seriously involved with anyone since... Well, in a long time. And I’d be lying if I claimed I don’t find you attractive. But...let’s just skip ahead to the bottom line.”

Lara’s fingers squeezed the ceramic mug until she wondered that it didn’t shatter into tiny pieces. “I think it would be best if we stopped whatever is going on between us before it starts.”

With her gaze glued to her half-eaten biscotto, she waited for him to argue with her. In fact, she found herself hoping he would.

But what Finn said was “You’re right. Too much is at stake.”

“Yes. For both of us.”

After reaching that conclusion, they spent the next fifteen minutes awkwardly tripping over the elephant in the room as they attempted polite conversation and finished their coffees.

Finn picked up the tab. Lara plunked down a tip. Outside the shop, they stood in the muggy late-afternoon heat while she waited for a cab. When one finally sidled to the curb, they both reached for the handle. It was déjà vu, except for Finn’s expression. His smile held no humor or bemusement. Only regret as oppressive as the humidity.

“Let me get the door for you,” he said.

After she slid onto the seat, he didn’t kiss her, but he did lean inside. “Rain check?”

“What?”

“If...when one of us is eliminated... What do you say? Rain check?”

“I... Okay.” Holding back her grin, she added, “I’ll take you out for drinks to commiserate when you’ve been voted off the show.”

FIVE

Let marinate

“How did the other night go with your client?”

It was Friday and nearly time to knock off after a second long day of taping interviews that would air both on the television program and the show’s website. Other than a couple of hellos, these were the first words Lara had said to him since coffee on Wednesday.

Finn didn’t think she was ignoring him. The contestants had been kept extremely busy the past couple of days. And some of the taping they’d done had taken them away from the studio for several hours with their own camera crews.

Besides, after that bit of awkwardness at the coffee shop two days before, they’d left things on a friendly, flirty note.

He still wanted to give his forehead a thump over the question he’d asked her. Of all the things he could have had her clarify for him, her single status had topped the list?

Way to be subtle and smooth, Westbrook.

He wouldn’t claim to be recovered from his divorce, even if he had moved on personally and was trying to do the same professionally. He doubted a person got over a betrayal like the one Sheryl and Cole had dealt him, first with their affair and later by cheating him out of his business.

But Finn felt good, relieved even, knowing he could feel again. Even so, he remained a little off-kilter over his attraction for Lara.

She was wearing her hair back today, pulled into a neat ponytail at the base of her neck. The look could have made her appear no-nonsense or girlish even. But sexy? It was just Finn’s bad luck that was how she struck him. He’d had a hard time concentrating whenever he’d caught a glimpse of her in the studio.

He’d always been a butt man, with legs coming a close second in terms of the body parts that drew his eye on a woman. In Lara’s case, he liked everything, even her neck, which was long, slender, graceful and, thanks to the hairdo, accessible, as well.

“Finn?”

He realized he was staring. “Um, dinner. It went well. She had me prepare lamb chops for her guests.”

“How many were there this time?”

“Seventeen. It was an intimate gathering for a change,” he added wryly.

“Perhaps you should have gone into catering.”

“Watch it, Scissors.”

“I was a rock last time,” she reminded him.

Finn shrugged. “Either way, you’re getting nasty now.”

But they both were smiling. Their gazes lingered as the silence turned conspicuous. She broke eye contact first.

“So, what are your plans for the weekend? And just so you know, I’m asking out of idle curiosity only. If I were standing next to Angel or Flo right now, I’d hit them with the same question.”

“And if you were standing next to Ryder? What would you hit him with?”

“Funny. So?”

“Nothing too exciting. I’ll probably just hang out in my apartment, watch a few movies, maybe catch up on episodes of my favorite sitcom on my DVR.” She paused and cast Finn a sideways smile. “Oh, and cook amazing dishes under ridiculously tight timelines to get prepared for Monday. You?”

That streak of sass would be his undoing.

“The same. Except for the entertainment. Sitcoms are too fluffy for my taste. I’m more of a crime-drama guy. As for cooking, I have a job Saturday night.”

“Oh? Is your client having another dinner party?”

“Actually, this is for someone else.”

“Moonlighting, hmm?” Her brows lifted, disappearing into her bangs. Finn was sorely tempted to brush the hair aside. Her face was so pretty, he wanted to see all of it.

“I’m allowed.”

“Yeah?” She made a humming sound. “That’s interesting.”

“How so?”

“I would have thought the setup with your Sugar Mommy was monogamous.” Her lips twitched.

He chuckled, enjoying himself. “It’s an open relationship. We’re free to see other people.”

The silence was back. This time it was more potent than moonshine.

“Chefs!” Tristan called as he came onto the soundstage where they’d been taping their interviews.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The sound of his palms slapping together shattered the mood as effectively as fingernails down a chalkboard.

“How many times has he done that today?” Finn asked quietly.

“I think that makes six.”

“Feels more like sixty.”

“And every time he does it, he makes me feel like I’m about eight,” she murmured.

“Before you leave today, don’t forget to turn in your chef coats,” Tristan reminded them. “They will be here, pressed and waiting for you, first thing Monday morning.”

All of the contestants had received identical crisp white jackets with their names embroidered in black thread on the left side of the chest. Finn noticed that Lara kept running her fingers over the stitching. In fact, she was doing it now. The gesture seemed born of nerves, which made sense. But there was something else going on, an undercurrent that he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Well, I guess this is it.”

“The last bit of peace before a full-fledged war breaks out?”

He meant it to be teasing, but she didn’t smile. “Finn, no matter what happens, I—”

He stepped closer and stopped her words by laying a finger over her lips.

“See you next week. Bring your A game. You’re going to need it.”

* * *

The contestants who arrived at Sylvan Studios early Monday morning seemed different from the ones Finn had said goodbye to the previous Friday. As they huddled in the greenroom they were quieter, more introspective. Even Ryder was keeping his head down and his caustic comments to himself.

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