Barefoot by the Sea (6 page)

“Guys,” Tessa whispered. “Do you really think I would let my pride or insecurities stand in the way of Casa Blanca’s success? Of course I’m going to work with him. I’ll do whatever I have to even if it means I have to be right next to him all day…and night.”

Lacey smiled, reached for her. “Thank you.”

“That’s really unselfish of you,” Joss added, circling her arm around Tessa’s waist.

Zoe grinned. “Way to take one for the team, kiddo.”

Tessa pointed at her. “Don’t you have a balloon you have to fly?”

Lacey’s cell phone rang and she grabbed it, reading a text. “Front desk says there’s someone here to see me about a group booking. You handle the new hire, Tess.”

“Me?”

Lacey nodded. “Finish the interview, seal the deal, and call his references for me.”

“You might have to interview him over dinner,” Jocelyn suggested.

“And overnight,” Zoe added. “You know, for the good of the resort.”

Tessa held out her hand. “Twenty dollars says you have lipstick and comb, Zoe. Hand them over.”

“Twenty dollars says you do it with him before Thanksgiving.”

Tessa laughed. Maybe she would. Until then, all bets were off.

What the hell was he thinking? That flirting with her would get him the job? From the look he got, winking was only going to get him kicked out on his ass, jobless.

Time for a new strategy. What he had to do was cook his balls off and get the job the old-fashioned way. If he didn’t find work quickly, he’d have to move on. Those were the rules he’d agreed to when Henry let him go to North America. He had to get a job, find a place to live, keep his nose clean, and watch the damn clock tick his life and hope away.

Oh, and not let anyone in the world know where or what or who he was, except John Brown, an American-born, self-taught cook.

When he walked back into the kitchen, the young kid who’d been working the line and giving him an evil eye the whole time Ian had cooked was cleaning away any trace of Ian’s work.

“What are you doing?” Ian asked as the boy—he couldn’t be a day over twenty—swiped a cloth over the stainless prep top.

“Oh, I thought you were gone.”

“You threw away the eggs Benedict?” Ian choked. “Nobody tasted them.”

“I did. Good stuff, but I got this covered, man, so thanks for coming in.”

How many damn obstacles did he have to face in one interview? Ire shot through Ian as he stared down this new enemy, all too aware that Tessa would come barreling through the door any second to end the interview.

In the meantime, Ian considered this second problem, who wasn’t nearly as unsettling as Tessa, simply annoying.

“What’s your problem, kid?” he asked.

“Kid?” He huffed out an arrogant breath. “The name’s Marcus Lowell and, at the moment, I’m the chef de cuisine in this kitchen.”

Ian huffed. “Chef de kindergarten, maybe.”

Marcus narrowed his nearly black eyes, set his jaw, and squared narrow shoulders. “Fuck you, man.”

A punch of déjà vu, harder than anything this boy could throw with his fist, slammed at Ian’s gut.

Aaron.
This kid was Aaron Shaw all over again. Something frighteningly close to hate fired through every nerve ending in his body at the thought of his young, stupid, punk of a brother-in-law. If it weren’t for Aaron Shaw, Ian wouldn’t be standing here, pretending to be someone else, desperate for a job he really didn’t even want.

Fact was, he still hated Aaron Shaw, even though the kid had died by the same hand that killed Kate. He blamed Aaron for Kate’s death. Aaron had run to his sister’s house for protection after getting mixed up with the worst of a Brixton gang. Dumb as a rock, the kid didn’t know the gang leader, Luther Vane, was one tube stop behind him, wielding a knife.

A familiar black anger spilled through Ian’s veins as he leaned closer to Marcus. Anger that had gotten his ass thrown out of Singapore. Right now, he didn’t care. “Get the hell out of my face, you little prick.”

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen, asshole.”

Tessa walked in right then, stopping short as she heard the exchange.

They backed away from each other, Marcus looking guilty, Ian fuming as he waited for the “thanks but no thanks” announcement.

“Marcus, why don’t you check the dining room and bus whatever hasn’t been done yet?”

“Bus?” His lip curled at her.

“Chef Brown needs to work alone.” She gestured toward the kitchen, giving Ian a chance to notice that she’d cleaned up a little. Fixed her hair, added some gloss to her lips.

Well, that was good news. Maybe Lacey had exerted her influence or played the “owner” card, because she’d been mightily impressed by his kitchen skills. He had to do that one more time with Tessa.

“So, what would you like me to make?”

She hesitated for a moment, looking around as a way to avoid eye contact. Finally, she met his gaze, an embarrassed smile in hers. “Well, for starters, not a baby.”

He choked a laugh, grabbing the humor with even more optimism. “Not on the menu, huh?”

She crossed her arms protectively but didn’t look away. “I want to apologize for the other night.”

He shook his head, a sudden rush of affection and appreciation warming him. That couldn’t have been easy. “No, not at all. You were honest, I presume. I’m the one who should apologize for taking off like a spooked raccoon.”

The expression made her laugh, lighting her amber eyes and revealing the gorgeous wide smile that had first attracted him. Within a heartbeat, the tension was gone.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” she admitted.

“Never say never,” he quipped, picking up an avocado. “How about I wow you with some
soupe de l’avocat avec une caviar quenelle
?”

“If I had any idea how to speak French, sure.”

He flipped the avocado like a baseball. “Don’t worry, neither do I. I made that up to impress you with my avocado soup with a dollop of caviar. But won’t it look good on the menu?”

Laughing, she nodded, her whole demeanor relaxing with each passing minute. Success. He might get this job yet.

He tightened his grip on the fruit, grateful it was perfectly ripe. “Did you grow this?”

“I sure did.”

“It’s a beauty.” Turning the avocado in front of his face, he examined the color—this was a Florida-style version of the fruit, with a smooth rind and a bigger body. Not great for guacamole-style dips, but perfect for blending into something silky smooth. “From
le jardin du
Tessa.”

“More fake French?”

“I know just enough to be dangerous.” He stepped over to the basket and picked up an onion and a lemon, his mind whirring with the recipe and the genuine desire to make the best soup she’d ever had. “Can I have a bit of caviar, or will it break the bank?”

“I’ll get it.”

He watched her walk away, drawn to the sway of her hips and the bounce in her dark hair. And really drawn to the change in her. What had Lacey said to her? Whatever, he didn’t want to question his good fortune. All he had to do was cook another dish or two, send her off to call the fake references that Henry’s team would handle, and the job was his.

Unless she wanted to take their flirtation to the next level, asking questions and trying to develop a friendship. Then he’d haul ass and fast. He couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone, ever.

He was still thinking about how to navigate those waters when she came back with a small container of caviar, leaning her hip against the stainless steel to watch him work.

“Why didn’t you mention you were a chef the other night?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Who could ask when I was so busy getting tongue-tattooed?”

He smiled at the memory. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t. Not one bit.

“’Sokay. I’m still…” She casually touched her breastbone but didn’t finish her thought.

“Recovering?” he suggested.

“Grateful I didn’t let you—uh, sweep me away and do, you know.”

He knew. He chopped some onion with a deft, quick swipe of the knife. “Why would you be grateful?”

“Because now we’re going to work together.”

“Yes,” he agreed, liking that line of thought, and not only because it meant he was getting the job. “Better to not
you know
when we’re on the payroll.” He finally looked up from the chopping block, in time to see disappointment dim her eyes.

“Of course,” she agreed, although her reply lacked true enthusiasm.

He couldn’t forget that the woman wanted way more than a chef. Was that why she was giving him a second chance?
Be careful what you say and do, Ian Browning. Your life—any and all of it—is not yours to give anymore
.

He glanced around the pantry shelves. “Don’t suppose you have any sambal?”

“For avocado soup?”

Yes, for avocado soup he’d learned to make in Singapore. Which would beg some serious questions, like, Where’d you learn to cook like this? “Never mind, don’t need it.”

He’d never admit to three years in Singapore, especially since his time there ended so badly; according to all records outside of the UK Protected Persons Service, he had “died” in a car accident on his way out of town, after being recognized as Ian Browning. Thanks to the brilliant minds in UK witness protection, his death made the papers, and he hoped that was enough to keep the bounty off his head and killers off his trail. As long as they believed Sean Bern/Ian Browning was dead, he could stay alive and wait for his chance to get his children back.

If it ever got out that he was still alive and living under yet another name in yet another country…

He didn’t want to think about the consequences. He’d bought one more life, and he knew what to do with it. Lie low, remain distant, stay uninvolved, and, for God’s sake, don’t mess around with someone who wanted to run a bloody DNA test on him.

He popped the top of a food processor and started dropping in diced avocado. “Got any dry vermouth, by any chance?”

“And here I was hoping for something made of all-garden-grown ingredients. Caviar and booze isn’t exactly farm-fresh.”

Shrugging, he squeezed lemon. “But they are organic. Your organs need vermouth.”

Smiling, she pushed away from the table and headed around the corner. “It’s back here with the wine.” After a second she returned, placing the bottle in front of him.

He nodded thanks. “If you hate my soup, I make a mean martini.”

She relaxed again, watching him work. “Speaks French, makes martinis, kisses like a trained professional. Where does this man come from?”

And, just like that, it was time to start the lies.

He didn’t answer immediately, pretending to examine the quality of the lemon leaves he’d use as a final garnish.

“I didn’t get a chance to study your resume,” she pressed.

Neither did I.
He’d barely glanced at the thing Henry had e-mailed him when he’d printed it at a local office-supply store this morning.

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

“I’ve worked in a lot of kitchens in a lot of places,” he said vaguely.

“Yes, I remember: You’re on the run.”

His head shot up with a spike of adrenaline in his veins. “Excuse me?”

“You told me in the bar you’re always running. So how do we know you’ll stay here?”

“You don’t,” he said honestly. Fact was, he was one phone call away from a disappearing act. But that phone call might take a week, a month, or…well, they didn’t have that much more time, did they? Once the kids turned four, the possibility of getting Sam and Shiloh back dropped to next to nothing. “But while I’m here, I’ll be the best damn chef you can find.”

“We need someone who’ll stick around.”

He splashed the vermouth into the processor, weighing his answer and dividing his gaze between the food and the woman in front of him. “I won’t walk out in the middle of a dinner rush, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not what I’m asking. Will you stay into next year? And beyond?”

Well, that depended on some stranger in Canada he’d never met and his government liaison’s mood and a few hundred other things he had no control over. “I’ll do my level best. How’s that?” He stabbed the food processor’s On button with a little more force than necessary.

“Do you have a short fuse, Mr. Brown?”

“I don’t have a short anything, Ms. Galloway.”

She flushed slightly. “And you can’t flirt your way through the truth.”

“I’m not flirting and I am telling the truth.” Or as much as he was able to, which was precious little. “Can I cook in peace or do you want to interrogate me some more?”

“Interrogate?” She straightened, angling her head in surprise. “I know this is some kind of game of evasion to you, but to me this is a job interview. Questioning is not interrogating.”

A game of evasion? He was torn whether to bark in anger or ask how she’d already sniffed that out.

He couldn’t do either one. All he could do was answer her questions with lies, transparencies, and clever twists of the truth. “Of course. Knock yourself out.”

“How many years have you been cooking?” she asked.

“Since I was young.”

“A non-answer. How old are you?”

He glanced up, surprised at the bluntness. “Is that legal to ask?”

“I don’t know, but why won’t you answer?”

She was right; not answering would only wave a red flag. Anyway, he’d changed his identity, not his age. “Thirty-six. How about you?”

“Sorry, you’re the interviewee, Chef.”

He ignored the warning, determined to turn the conversation back to playful banter and off his dark, dark past. “You can’t be much over thirty, if that.”

“Define much.” She settled against the counter again, giving him hope that he’d succeeded in chilling things out. “I’m thirty-four.”