Cowboy in the Kitchen (2 page)

Gillian shook her head.

“I have no doubt your friend Alma would make an excellent addition to the kitchen staff. But until my first choice becomes available, I have a substitute in mind. An executive chef with a name and reputation that will draw clients to Moore House like flies to honey. A chef who inherited the ability to do things in a big way. An attractive man who can charm a female diner’s eye as well as her palate.”

Hunt checked his watch. “So, what time does Jamie Oliver get here?”

Gillian grinned at the idea of the English cooking superstar ordering the staff about in what would soon be her state-of-the-art kitchen.

“I had somebody closer to home in mind.” She tipped her head in Hunt’s direction.

His gray eyes widened. A shaft of sunshine shot highlights across his hair as the notion lit his brain. He lifted his right hand, touched his index finger to his chest.

“Me?” Hunt’s one-word question was incredulous. She couldn’t tell whether he was shocked, flattered or offended.

“What do you say, Chef?” Gillian tried to sound self-assured. “How about hanging around Kilgore for a while to help me get Moore House up and running?”

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
WOMAN
STOOD
there grinning, obviously pleased with her insulting suggestion. Hunt wondered how on earth she could believe he’d even consider jumping at the bone she’d tossed in the air like a treat for a desperate dog.

Gillian Moore was giving him the opportunity to cook in what should rightfully be his own kitchen,
bless her heart.

And as second choice, for crying out loud! But even then it was only until the chef she
really
wanted was available.

Hunt’s head began to throb as if a plunger had just pushed the Columbian espresso he’d been drinking straight into his brain. He had to shake the caffeine buzz, clear his mind and concentrate. Somehow he had to turn this situation to his advantage, but that wouldn’t happen if he reacted by giving words to the bitter taste in his mouth.

When his family had first learned of the sale, his brother Mac had said it was time to accept what was over and done with because they couldn’t change it. The facts were that their grandfather’s shady deals had cost him fifteen years of freedom in a Texas prison, his wildcatter’s fortune, his home and his relationship with his only son, Hunt’s father.

Hunt couldn’t change the shame that had been left to them as a family legacy, but he could still make a difference in the present and salvage his own name. That is,
if
he kept a cool head, not exactly the strong suit of the men in the Temple family.

Gillian continued to smile, waiting on his answer.

“Well?” She had the nerve to sound perky.

How was it that rich folks seemed to have a knack for morphing somebody else’s pain into their gain?

He settled down again on the patio step. She evidently took it as an encouraging sign, because she did the same.

“Say something. What’s your gut reaction?” The infernal woman was expecting a positive response.

He held in the rude scoff that threatened to spew. His gut reaction, as she’d put it, was to end this ridiculous conversation, get into his old Jeep and drive away.

And then what?

There was no way to reverse the clock. She’d be the new owner of Temple Territory, no matter how he and his three brothers felt about it. And, as Mac had said, her hotel was better than having the acres leveled for big box stores. And as the eldest brother, Mac had the ultimate say.

Hunt had no choice but to roll with the punches, and that included returning to his hometown, and once again without a place of his own.

“You’re always welcome to bunk with me,” Cullen had mentioned the night before. “But how long do you reckon you might be hanging around?”

That was an odd question coming from Hunt’s identical twin. Weren’t they supposed to have some weird compunction to be together? That was the conventional wisdom, but even as boys the two had had little in common. Things were no different today between him and his book-nerd twin. Cullen was perpetually over at the university working on another degree or traveling somewhere to lecture to his fellow history geeks. They wouldn’t see much of one another if Hunt stayed with him for a while, so that was a plus. But at thirty-two years old, he couldn’t move in with his brother indefinitely.

Gillian tapped the edge of her cup with the tip of one short nail, reminding him she expected a response. She was a decisive woman who’d made a multimillion-dollar purchase after a few hours of consideration. He was nothing more than a speed bump in the parking lot of her plans. He had to make up his mind before she moved on to a third choice. There were excellent chefs in Dallas and Houston who would jump at the chance to get out of the city.

Hunt leaned forward, an elbow on each knee, one hand gripping the other to brace himself for the counterproposal he was about to offer.

“I hate to fly. I’d rather have a root canal. Once during a flight from Greece to Costa Rica, I got vertigo. Those were the longest and most miserable hours of my life.” Hunt closed his eyes for a moment against the recollection. “There was nothing I could do but let the world spin around me while the plane thumped through one pocket of turbulence after another. Once the aircraft landed in San José, I still had to suffer a wild ride with a Nigerian taxi driver to the nearest
clinica.
When I finally got enough medication in me to calm the vertigo, I prayed I’d never be in such a vulnerable position again.”

Gillian listened with her sandy blond brows pulled together in concern, a “what’s your point?” question in her all-business eyes and a not-so-surreptitious glance at her wristwatch.

“I know.” He bobbed his head in respect for her busy schedule. “But I told you that story so I could tell you this story. When I sat down with my three brothers yesterday morning, and McCarthy gave us the news that Temple Territory had been purchased, it was like being on that awful flight. For the past twenty-four hours, the world has been spinning out of control.” Hunt smiled. He needed to appear and sound sincere. “I guess, in a way, you’ve given me some hope, and for that I should be grateful.”

Her shoulders relaxed and a glimmer of relief appeared on the face that he had to admit was Katherine Heigl beautiful.

“So, you’ll accept my offer?”

There was cautious expectation in her voice. Maybe she didn’t have a third option up her sleeve after all.

“It’s more complicated than that.” He squinted and pressed his molars together, trying to seem stressed, as if he had a big decision to make. “You’re not the only person who’s aware I’ve left the Four Seasons. I have several other opportunities on the table already, so staying here even temporarily could cost me a much bigger deal.”

It might have been true. There was no offer at the moment, but his agent was working on it. He’d had a steady stream of offers since winning a reality cooking show that had given him the nickname “the Cowboy Chef.” Something would come along soon. Sadly, that something would likely take him far away from his hometown. And this is where he needed to be, if he was ever to become as close to his brothers as he’d once been.

“I’ll make it worth your while financially.”

He held a palm outward and shook his head.

“If I hang around, it won’t be because of the money, it’ll be for my family’s sake. Dad would want one of his sons to keep an eye on what you’re doin’ with Pap’s place.”

Gillian crossed her arms, and lowered her pointed chin a bit, causing long strands of blond hair to fall across her shoulders. “You do understand you’d have no vote in my plans, correct?”

“I didn’t ask for a vote, just a voice. An astute businesswoman should be open-minded, willing to listen to another opinion.”

She nodded, seemed to accept his logic. “So, do we have an agreement?”

“Not yet. I do have one condition, and it’s a deal breaker.”

“Let me guess. You want an offer in writing.”

“Yeah, but I want the offer in writing to Alma and Felix. You make them part of your staff for as long as you own the property, and I’ll stick around for a while. Between the three of us, we can teach you the history of our neck of the woods.”

* * *

F
INALLY
. T
HE
MAN
got to the bottom line.

Fair enough. Gillian appreciated a rousing negotiation and admired his family loyalty. She’d benefit from Hunt’s ability to help her design a state-of-the-art kitchen, then cook fabulous food and charm her well-heeled patrons with his Cowboy Chef persona for as long as she could afford him. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the man’s opinions, and she definitely hadn’t asked for his historical mentoring.

“As I’ve mentioned, I do my homework, and I’m pretty confident that I’m up to speed on Texas history.” She lifted her cup and took another sip.

“Is that a fact? So you’ve heard all about the monster sea snake that lives in Lake Cherokee, have you?”

Gillian sloshed a few drops from her cup. The dark brew splashed on her scarlet bag, a treasure from her favorite resale shop in Old Town Alexandria.

“And you’re aware that this very parcel of land was farmed for hundreds of years by members of the Caddo Nation?” He pointed toward the ground beneath their feet. “What’s left of the Caddo tribe regularly tries to lay claim to Temple Territory, pointing to the well their ancestors dug as proof of their rights. Pap built the mansion around the well out of respect for the spirits they believe still abide here.”

She shook her head, wondering if she should speak to her lawyer concerning this nonsense about that nasty old well in the courtyard.

“And, of course, you’ve heard Temple Territory is cursed, right? In all these years, no honest business would touch it because my Pap was branded as a thief who made his fortune stealing a few hundred million barrels from a major oil company.”

“No, I wasn’t aware of any of that,” she admitted. This was all fresh news.

It was true she’d been reading about East Texas in general but hadn’t yet found the hours to dig into local folklore. He was right. She could definitely use area experts and storytellers who’d share the fantasies as well as the facts of the place. Like Hunt himself, some of it could become part of the new ambience she’d use to entice and entertain the guests at Moore House.

Gillian pulled a tissue from inside her bag and swiped at the drizzling droplets of coffee atop it while she considered the appeal of Alma’s homemade pastries, made fresh each day. A smart hotelier offered her guests an experience they could not have elsewhere. What was the use in having the Cowboy Chef in her kitchen even short-term if she didn’t have the tall Texas tales to go along with him?

“Say something. What’s your gut reaction?” Hunt mocked her earlier question.

She shifted her attention from the coffee stain on her favorite purse to the alluring face of the youngest Temple brother. She’d never considered she could attract the reality television celebrity, but that was before her real estate agent had insisted Gillian get on the next flight for a visit to Temple Territory. Finding the perfect property that just happened to be connected to Hunt Temple couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than providence.

Gillian recognized her equal in the man beside her. He’d turned a problem to his advantage, just as she’d have done. Another item on the list of critical information she’d keep to herself.

Hunt still had the body of an athlete, was slap-your-sister hot and possessed a cache of local secrets. He was well traveled in spite of his fear of flying, and probably spoke a few phrases in several languages. So she steamrolled ahead with her plan, just as her father would do in her shoes.

“My gut tells me to meet your condition—if you promise to stay for as long as I require your help.” That would help her rush a grand opening during the holiday season and establish her no-nonsense reputation. Maybe she’d even convince him to stick around longer. Or not.

“I’ll have the agreement drawn up by my lawyer, and he’ll be in touch with you later today.”

She offered her hand to make it official. “Deal?”

He took her fingers gently in his, raised them to his face and kissed the backside of them lightly.

“Deal,” he murmured.

A shiver ran from her knuckles to the pleasure center of her brain. She gave a nod to acknowledge the gesture, and then slipped her hand away from his touch.

Needing a distraction from the warmth of his lips still on her flesh, she glanced down at the paper sack and then reached in for a homemade sopaipilla.

The crispy pastry melted on her tongue, leaving a hint of honey and earthy sweetness.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No,” she mumbled, savoring another bite.

“My brother Cullen’s place is only a couple miles from here. If Alma’s there, she’ll be happy to whip up some killer huevos rancheros. Her tortillas are always made from scratch.” His eyes sparked at the mention of the Mexican favorites.

“Maybe another morning. Today I’m in the mood for something French prepared by my new executive chef.”

“Does an omelet
au fromage
appeal to you?”

“Does Limburger cheese stink?”

“Well, then, let’s go.” Without hesitation he stood and offered his hand to help her to her feet, then swept his palm toward the side drive where both their vehicles were parked. She stepped toward her rental car with his footsteps a respectful distance behind.

“I’ll follow you in my car.”

He was being suspiciously agreeable. Over the course of their brief negotiation, the man had morphed from righteous indignation to effusive gratitude. Somewhere in that pendulum swing of emotion was the real Hunt Temple, and given long enough she might be able to sift through the chaff and find the grain. If not, that was okay, too.

She’d come to Texas to realize her dream, not analyze a man.

* * *

A
SHORT
WHILE
LATER
, Gillian stepped across the threshold of Cullen’s home and followed his lead straight to the kitchen. The hacienda-style room was cozy and welcoming. Hunt pulled a tall hand-tooled stool away from the mosaic-tile counter and held the chair while she stepped up onto it and settled in to watch him work. He took a knee-length white apron from a drawer and secured it around his waist. Then he reached for a skillet, sprinkled it with oil and positioned it on a lit burner.

He grabbed two eggs from the fridge and cracked them against the side of a clear mixing bowl. A shard of white shell fell atop the golden yellow yolks.

“Glad I’ve already got the job,” he said as he fished out the fragment.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“In a way,” he admitted, above the fury of his whisk. “It’s a bit unusual to be hired before you ever serve a meal to the boss.”

“Oh, you’ve served me before.”

Hunt turned puzzled eyes her way, the brows above his slate-colored irises raised in question.

“I was checking out the small hotels in Cancun last summer. I had the opportunity to eat in your restaurant on an evening when you were expediting the kitchen.”