Cowboy in the Kitchen (11 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I
S
THERE
ANY
chance you were informed and simply neglected to share the news that your wedding couple would be paying us a visit at noon today?” Hunt wheezed, winded after the sprint inside from the parking lot.

“What does that mean?” Gillian’s blond brows tipped together in confusion.

“It means a black stretch Hummer pulled up right beside me just now.” He pointed in the direction where the limo waited. “It was all I could do not to whip out a black felt tip and ask the folks in the passenger seat to autograph the hood of my Jeep.”

The long-legged model and spike-haired rocker were as stunning in person as they were in the tabloids since they had first appeared together two decades ago.

“And you just ran in here and left them alone?” Gillian’s voice crescendoed as she prepared to take off toward the terrace.

“Of course not.” Hunt grabbed her arm. He had hightailed it out of there but not before spotting James heading toward the limo, very official and in control. “Your dad and their driver are giving them the royal treatment.”

“What are they doing here?” Gillian ran her hands through her hair and then down the front of her red cable-knit sweater, checking to make sure it was pulled below the hipline of her slim-fitting jeans.

“Maybe it’s a trial run. Moore House is still a work in progress. You don’t even have the new sign out front yet, and they’ve taken you at your word that you’ll give them the wedding of a lifetime. Can you blame them for showing up without notice?”

“You’re right, Hunt. I should have invited them down so there was no reason for this reconnaissance mission.”

“Sweetie?” Meredith called from the staircase. Her furry dark shadow was on a leash by her side. “I see we have guests, and even with
my
dismal knowledge of pop culture, I’d recognize those two anywhere. That pair of no-neck monsters are probably their bodyguards.”

“No-neck monsters?” Hunt questioned.

“
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?
Tennessee Williams?”

He shook his head.

“I really am a pop culture dinosaur.”

Hunt patted Meredith on the shoulder. “You’re in good company. If a celebrity hasn’t been featured on the Food Network, I’m not likely to know who they are, either. Now, let’s make the best of this surprise and show our guests some Southern hospitality.”

“I’m with you, Hunt. They came all the way from New York City, so let’s give them their money’s worth.” Gillian rose to the occasion. “Mom, you’re the expert on the layout and character of each suite, so I’ll trust you to give the tour upstairs.”

“I’m on it,” she assured her daughter, as she stroked Cooper’s soft head to reward his quiet restraint.

“I’ll do the honors on the main floor, and I’m sure Dad’s out there right now sharing everything he’s learned about the property and probably making up some more as he goes.”

“I’ve told James all my best stories, so he’ll do the history proud.”

Gillian stepped closer to Hunt, seemingly not caring that her mother was watching. For a moment he expected her to lean against him for a hug of reassurance, but instead she took his hand in both of hers, as eyes the color of winter pansies met his.

“You know those cooking shows where the contestants are challenged to prepare dishes with mystery ingredients in a short amount of time?”

“I sure do. Some of my best friends are the stars on those shows.”

“Well, here’s your challenge. My guess is they took a private plane into East Texas Regional Airport and then caught that limo straight here. So they haven’t had anything to eat. See what delectable morsels you can whip up in forty-five minutes.”

“You got it,” he agreed, excited to be part of Gillian’s plan.

“And would you call Cullen and ask if he can get over here to be our server?”

“Great idea.” His brother Cullen might be Forrest Gump when it came to setting a table, but he was Will Rogers when storytelling was in order. Hunt pulled his cell from his pocket and headed for the kitchen to raid the cooler.

* * *

G
ILLIAN
’
S
KNEES
WERE
a little less weak than they had been moments ago. She’d always been certain she could count on her folks, and Hunt had proven time and again that he belonged on the short list of people in her corner. Very soon she’d find out if she could also number Hunt’s twin among the few who would be dependable in the clutch.

“And this is the proprietor of Moore House, Miss Gillian Moore,” her father was saying.

The former swimsuit model, numbered by
People
magazine as one of the year’s ten most beautiful women, was walking with her hand outstretched, a smile on her famous face.

“We’ve heard such good things about you from your events booking agent,” the beauty enthused in her Australian-by-way-of-N.Y.C. accent. She took Gillian’s hand and pulled her just close enough for an air kiss. “I hope you don’t mind that we’ve dropped by unannounced. I realize it’s rude, but we were on the way to L.A., and I couldn’t resist stopping for a short while to catch a glimpse of our wedding site.”

“Since nobody was expecting us, I had to agree that we just might get away with it.” The raspy voice of the sixtysomething English rocker took Gillian’s breath away. Was it possible that these two members of red-carpet royalty were standing at the threshold to her humble little boutique hotel?

“We can’t stay long, so would you mind if we get a tour, Miss Moore?”

“Of course!” Gillian pushed past her shock and put on her most professional smile. “And please, call me Gillian.”

“And you can call me Rachel,” the famous beauty offered. “Of course the whole world calls that rascal Buzz, so please feel free to do the same yourselves.”

Rachel gestured toward Buzz, but he’d already wandered toward the bar where Gillian’s father, bless his heart, was dropping ice cubes into a cocktail shaker.

Rachel shrugged. “Well, now that the old goat is occupied, why don’t we have a look ’round? I’m mostly interested in the suites. The wedding will be shock enough for our guests. Don’t want any surprises with the accommodations.”

The men took their post at the bar that Mason Dixon Temple had reportedly won in a poker game in an old saloon in the Texas Hill Country. Upstairs the ladies enthused over antique armoires and vintage curtains in the lavishly appointed guest suites. Conversation among the women centered around stories of world travels and the difficulty of finding the privacy that Moore House offered.

“It’s perfect!” Rachel enthused to her fiancé when they returned. She rubbed her hands, excited over the secretive plan. “Our friends will never suspect a wedding ceremony is about to take place when our charter to the West Coast has to make an
emergency
stop in Texas, of all places.”

“That’s because you’ve called it off on at least a dozen occasions, and even your own mum says you’ll never go through with it.”

“Don’t be cheeky. Just see that you behave yourself between now and then.” She lifted the olive garnish from the rim of his glass and popped it into her mouth.

“You do the same.” He swatted playfully on her backside. “Our kids want me to make an honest woman out of you before they give us grandchildren.”

“What is that amazing aroma?” Rachel’s attention shifted as the scent of roasted garlic wafted into the room.

“I asked Chef to whip up an impromptu luncheon for us. The dining room is all set, if you can stay a bit longer.”

“I own the bloody plane,” the Brit announced in his thick London accent. “And it’s goin’ nowhere without me.”

Gillian motioned for her parents to lead the way. Rachel took Buzz by the arm and followed close behind. Gillian fell into step with her guests, hoping against hope that Hunt had pulled off something spectacular.

The gentlemen seated the ladies at a table already set with a pear salad and, on the side, a cheesy biscuit brushed with melted butter. Rachel broke off a piece of the fluffy delight and popped it into her mouth.

“Mmm, so this is the garlic I was smelling. Heavenly.”

“If you’re a fan of garlic, you’re in for a treat, since there’s more to come.”

Heads turned toward the source of the comment as Cullen entered the dining room. He wore his usual ratty jeans and boots in need of polish. But over his flannel shirt he’d buttoned up one of Hunt’s starched white chef coats, which lent him an official air. He smiled at Gillian, gave her a conspiratorial wink, and stopped just short of a pirouette so she could fully appreciate his attire.

“Please enjoy,” he instructed, repeating what he’d heard Hunt say hundreds of times, as he placed a basket containing more biscuits in the center of their table.

Rachel’s eyes widened as she stared up at Cullen.

“You’re him,” she gestured with her biscuit. “The Cowboy Chef! And you’re every bit as spectacular in person as you are on those cooking shows,” she gushed, a cross between a giddy girl and a cat on the prowl.

The woman was mistaken, of course. Cullen was a dead ringer for his twin, though anyone who saw them side by side would spot the differences in a moment, but Rachel wasn’t wise to the situation.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cullen accepted the compliment without correcting her. “Life in the kitchen is hard on a man, but I do what I can to keep the eye candy in good shape.”

“Very funny,” Hunt drawled as he appeared beside Cullen. “Please forgive this moron. He doesn’t get out much.”

“A man with an IQ of 110 hardly deserves such an insult, even from his brother.”

“Isn’t there an old saying about the fine line between genius and insanity?”

“Now, that’s different, and under those terms, I may well qualify.”

“May I introduce our executive chef, Hunt Temple, and his brother Cullen,” Gillian interrupted the brotherly banter. “Cullen graciously agreed to help out on the fly today.” She mouthed a sincere
thank you.

Rachel was busy staring from one to the other, her biscuit forgotten for the moment, clearly smitten with the handsome pair.

“Have you gentlemen ever considered modeling?”

They reacted in twin fashion with the double snort Gillian had come to expect from the two. “That would cause too many technical difficulties, ma’am,” Hunt drawled.

“How’s that?” Rachel asked.

“When I get a guest spot on a cooking show, I’m lucky to walk past a TV camera without tripping over a cable or my own feet. This ugly goon here—” Hunt elbowed his brother “—would shatter a lens.”

“I’m quite serious. The two of you would be a huge hit in Milan and Paris.”

“Extraordinary cities,” Cullen agreed.

“Have you been there for fashion week?”

“No, for sabbatical. I always seem to require a break right before defending a dissertation.”

“Pardon me?”

“His brain is so big that he has to rest it before each PhD. It’s the same with his ego.” Hunt tugged at the sleeves of Cullen’s chef’s jacket where he’d rolled the cuffs up to expose red flannel shirtsleeves.

“Excuse these two, Rachel. This goes on constantly. They couldn’t make it in modeling, because they never give the chatter a rest.”

“Wait till you meet our older brothers. We’re just the warm-up act,” Cullen joked.

“How many of you are there?” Rachel continued to gaze back and forth, as if finding their likeness difficult to believe.

“Four.”

“Are they as handsome as the two of you—and are any of you single?”

“Not quite, and yes, ma’am,” Cullen confirmed.

Rachel bestowed her cover-girl smile on Gillian. “I certainly hope you’ll invite them to the reception. We’ll have some unattached women in our party, and I’m sure they’d love to meet some real Texas cowboys.”

“These two are going to be real dead cowboys if they don’t get into the kitchen,” Alma announced. She was doing her best to remain out of sight of the guests as she peeked around the corner. “Forgive me for interrupting, Señorita Gillian, but if you want the meal served while it’s still hot, I need some help and
pronto.
”

Cullen glanced to the heavens for help but then hurried from the room to do as he was instructed. Gillian’s heart surged with love at the way the Temple men respected and responded to their surrogate mother.

“I can’t imagine what ever made me believe being executive chef meant I was in charge,” Hunt grumbled.

“Hey, you’re the one who insisted on Alma being part of your deal,” Gillian reminded him.

“That’s absolutely true. That little woman is the rubber band that holds the Temple brothers together,” Hunt explained to the guests. “Or cuts off our circulation, depending on the circumstances.”

He bowed slightly and then excused himself in the direction Alma and Cullen had disappeared.

“I wasn’t aware that Hunt Temple worked for you!” Rachel enthused.

“Seriously?” Gillian was stunned the news hadn’t reached Rachel. “Didn’t our booking agent say he was on staff?”

“No. She just said we were in for a gourmet feast and that there would be an extra special surprise at the end of the meal.”

“Well, I expect you’ve just met the surprise.”

“And he’s quite a hot one at that.”

“Hello. I’m sitting right here,” Buzz reminded Rachel who patted his hand condescendingly.

“Kindly remember this the next time you and your chums are drooling over my Victoria’s Secret friends. Anyway—” Rachel turned her eyes to Gillian “—I must say, from what I’ve experienced so far, you’ve done an amazing job renovating this old place. It’s a manor house that’s been brought into the new millennium, a romantic alliance of European country and no-nonsense Texas. My friends will adore it for a brief getaway.”

Gillian processed Rachel’s compliment, thrilled with the clear evidence that Moore House would stand on its own appeal. She didn’t necessarily require the allure of a celebrity chef to draw high-end clientele. Maybe she really could land on her feet if Hunt took that job. As much as it encouraged her to believe that might be true, her soul ached at the possibility.