Deliciously Sinful (2 page)

He dropped the nugget into one palm and stared at it. “All right, then.” He glanced up and that brow cocked at her again. There was a little scar on the very edge of his eyebrow, and she wanted to know where it came from.

One of his bosses probably whopped him in the head with a frying pan.

“And it’s here why? Brownie fight?” he said, his accent dissolving the sarcasm she knew cannoned the sentence. “Is that considered a spectator sport, or more participatory?”

He started juggling the brownie again and she marched over and caught it mid-toss. “Just trying out a new recipe.” She wasn’t sure why she lied, but for some reason she didn’t want to seem anything less than one hundred percent capable of doing anything. Including making brownies.

She turned toward Jesse. “So, I think that new organic butter we used must have been bad.”

Jesse looked confused, so Phoebe widened her eyes and tried to convey a secret signal that would get her niece to go along with Phoebe’s ploy.

Finally Jesse nodded. And furrowed her brow. And crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Yes. The butter. Definitely bad. Very, very, um…bad.”

Oh, God. This wasn’t going well. Phoebe threw the brownie into the garbage. Time to change the subject. “Nick, this is my niece, Jesse. She works here.”

“Wow. Isn’t this just a sweet little family endeavor?”

Phoebe looked him straight in the eyes. “Yes. It is.”

He paused, and she barely caught the look of surprise that flashed across his face. Did he think she wouldn’t talk back to him? That she’d put up with his snide remarks?

Well, ha, ha, ha. Boy, was he wrong.

Obviously, she was going to have to establish herself as the boss from the get-go.

Fine. She was fine with that. She could do this.

Even if something about him made her nerves buzz with nervous energy. Even if his direct stare was unnerving. Even if, for some reason, she felt herself responding to Nick as a woman, when she should be reacting like his superior.

Get a grip. You can do this.

“Now. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you around the café.”

His smile dripped sugar as he made a sweeping hand gesture. “After you, Miss Mayle.”

S
o what do the kids call this kind of music, anyway? Death by synthesizer?” Phoebe asked.

Pausing, Nick Avalon clenched the wooden spoon in his hand. He was caramelizing onions for a quiche. Not a vegan one, not a vegetarian one. A real quiche, with ham and cheese and eggs and butter. Lots of rich, creamy, calorific butter. Butter he’d procured from a British import store an hour north of where he currently resided. Which was exactly nowhere.

Eleven more months
, he told himself. Eleven months, three weeks, and—he glanced at the clock—seven hours until he could return from exile. It was a time frame he’d set for himself, one he’d decided on before he’d accepted this job. Not that he’d ever mentioned to his boss the fact that he didn’t plan on staying in Hippieville longer than one year. If he could last that long.

The decor of the café was hideous. Rustic tables that looked as if they’d been collected at various yard sales made up the dining area. The wooden floor was scratched up and needed a good refinishing. In fact, the floor should be replaced with stained concrete. And the random assortment of chairs needed to be traded for something more modern. And something that actually matched.

“This music is called house trance, and I like it,” he said through gritted teeth. And he did. It had a beat, something he could feel hard and deep in his soul. Unlike that slow, uninspiring, outdated crap that his manager always snuck onto the sound system.

“House trance? Do they play that at the raves you go to?”

Pausing, he closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t call them raves.” In fact, he tended to listen to music alone, so he could be free to feel the beat of something and lose himself, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why listen to music without words?”

“It takes me away from distraction.” Hoping she’d get the point, he returned to his onions. He wasn’t about to explain himself; he preferred music without words. Words sidetracked him. He needed a rhythm that blended. He needed to feel the pulse in his soul, his gut. Nick could tenderize a piece of meat to perfection. All he needed was a mallet and a thumping bass line.

Today he’d managed to slip his own CD, burned by a DJ back in West Hollywood, into the stereo. And listening to the music, for just a few minutes, he’d been able to nearly forget he was working in a café in Butt-Fuck, Nowhere.

His boss, Ms. Phoebe Mayle, had actually left him alone long enough to think about what he was doing. Cooking.

Now she put an unpolished fingertip to her lip. “Oh, I’m sure you love this type of music. I hear it’s quite popular with the hip, cool twenty-somethings. How old are you again?”

She knew damn well he was thirty-five. He gave her his best scowl. He was notorious for that look, a look that had been known to make sous-chefs recoil in fear. A look that could send any waitstaffer running to the restroom in tears. Nick’s stare was intimidating, menacing—scary.

Well, it had been back in Los Angeles.

Here in Redbolt, California, a million miles away from civilization, no one seemed to comprehend the fact that he was
Nick Avalon
, one of the country’s most
recognized
chefs. Hell, before he’d been “let go,” there’d even been talk about his getting his own TV show.

That seemed a lifetime ago, even though only a few days had passed since he’d moved. Now here he was, working for a woman who was currently gazing at him with a snotty look, as if he were some sort of factory-line cook at a chain restaurant. But he wasn’t about to give her, or anyone else, their own way.

Food was his art. His expression. His love. Anyone who thought otherwise could fuck off.

“Pardon me,” he said after a deep breath. “Go ahead and put on that hippie crap everyone around here seems to prefer.”

She smirked. He hated it when she did that. Her little nose got all scrunched up, and the pale skin around her big green eyes got all crinkly. As if she didn’t give a crap that he actually knew what he was doing. And she didn’t know this music helped him cook. Helped him forget.

She shrugged. “Well, I suppose this music suits you. It’s so…
trendy
and
cool
.”

He just stared at her and let the acerbic tone of her voice drip off him like melted butter.

Of course, she went on. “But you’re not in some hip nightclub right now. You’re in the Green Leaf Café. And we have a slightly more relaxed atmosphere than those fancy Los Angeles places you’re used to.”

He clenched the wooden spoon in his hand. Like he could ever forget where he was. He was used to running kitchens that turned out more than two hundred plates per night. Last month, he’d been known for his escargot. Now, a quiche Lorraine was not only some sort of exotic specialty, but also it was practically forbidden, what with the egg and cream and
ham
and all.

Casually, Phoebe reached into his sauté pan, plucked out an amber-colored onion, and popped it into her mouth. She grimaced.

He shouldn’t care. Why should he be concerned about what she thought? She had inherited a café from her aunt and uncle, and they obviously hadn’t passed on any of their “gourmet” knowledge to their niece. Granted, she appeared to have a decent palate, but she was utterly devoid of skill at actually creating cuisine of any sort.

Basically, the woman couldn’t boil a pot of water if her life depended on it.

Still, he couldn’t deny she knew how to grow some amazingly tasty produce. At least she had that going for her.

And so he waited for her reaction. Hating the fact that he had a flashback to Paris, heartbeat racing, waiting for a response, just like back in culinary school waiting for his instructor’s reaction.

“It’s good,” she said. Finally. After swallowing.

Good?
This recipe had been featured on the cover of
Gourmet
magazine, and all she could say was that it was good?

Tearing his gaze away from her throat, Nick leaned against the counter. “Thanks, love. So glad you liked it.” He heard the sarcasm dripping from his voice. Again, he reminded himself that her opinion didn’t matter to him. He’d gone to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, for fuck’s sake. She’d probably never left Humboldt County.

“Sorry, it was hot. But good. Really good. Different, but good.”

“Good. Yes, you said that. Repeatedly.”

“It’s true.” Her eyes were wide as she said it, and he may have caught a flash of actual appreciation. Okay, so maybe he was being overly sensitive. “You’re a hard woman to please, aren’t you?”

Her green eyes widened in surprise. “No, I don’t think so.” She paused and then said, “Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “Just an observation.”
Whatever.

“Right,” he continued. “Well, you just took it right out of the pan. Things that are cooked at high temperatures tend to be hot.” Why was he going on like a defensive idiot?

She shrugged. “Sorry. It’s just the things you cook smell so…”

“Yeah?” he said nonchalantly. And then, “They smell so
what
?”

“Delicious.”

He grunted and looked away. “Well, what did you expect?”

Grinning, she plucked out another onion. “Just because something smells good doesn’t mean it tastes good.”

“Really? You grow broccoli. Broccoli doesn’t exactly smell like roses. It smells like gas.”

“Right! When it’s growing it doesn’t smell very nice. But when you cook it correctly—like the way it should be prepared for our veggie tofu stir-fry—the scent can certainly be lovely.”

Whenever she talked about her farm, her entire demeanor changed. Carrots made her passionate. When she went on about her honeybees, her eyes sparkled. And now she was radiating as she preached about the attributes of broccoli.

As if he didn’t know about vegetables. “I know how to cook broccoli.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Was she humoring him? “I
can
,” he bit out.

“
I said
, I believe you. But can you make it without smothering it in some fancy, heavy sauce?”

“Yes.” He quirked his head to the side. “But why would I?”

“Exactly.”

She made his brain hurt. “Listen. I know what I’m doing.”

Her expression softened, just a bit. “I know you know what you’re doing. I know we are lucky to have you.”

He barked a laugh at her sentiment.

“I mean it. We are lucky to have someone like you in our kitchen. I just think, maybe, you could think about the fact that you’re not in L.A. anymore. This community is a bit more simple.”

“Trust me. That’s one thing I have no doubt about.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re not sophisticated. So maybe you can just learn to change a little. Adapt to what we do here, which is to try to live with a few less complications. I mean, I’ve seen
Satan’s Pantry
. I know how intense it must be.”

He ground his teeth so hard his inner ear cringed.
Satan’s Pantry.
He hated that show.

So close. He’d been so close to being chosen as the host of the now insanely popular reality television series that takes place in a restaurant known for its celebrity drop-ins.

So close to having everything he’d wanted.

And he’d fucked it up.

For some unfathomable reason, she reached out and touched his shoulder. Warily, he met her gaze. “What?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You just looked like you needed…”

“I don’t need anything.” He shook her hand off his shoulder. “I
know
what I’m
doing
.” How many times did he need to hammer it into her frizzy little head? He hadn’t been the best chef in London, Chicago, and then Los Angeles for nothing. He’d worked hard. He was good at what he did. He rarely fucked up.

Yeah, you never fuck up. That’s why you’re here, idiot.

Whatever. Being fired from the best restaurant in L.A. had absolutely nothing to do with his skill as a chef. Nope. Getting fired from his job had to do with lame bullshit. How was he supposed to know that chick he’d taken home from some club was actually the daughter of
Satan’s Pantry
’s producer?

Whatever. He was an amazing chef. And, more important, he knew how to run a kitchen.

And yet this Phoebe person didn’t seem to care. At all. Sure, she could try to pretend to be all open and caring and helpful, but he’d seen that temper of hers enough times to know it was all an act. The woman was a control freak
extraordinaire
.

She crossed her arms over her chest. He couldn’t help it. His gaze dropped to the two perky mounds of her breasts. Real ones. It wasn’t normal for a woman to have such amazing, natural breasts. And Nick should know. He’d sampled a smorgasbord of silicone back home.

She snapped her fingers in front of his face, and his gaze shot back up.

“All I’m saying is, this isn’t the big city. People around here like simple food.”

Simple.
If he heard that bloody word one more time, he thought he’d poke himself in the ear with a metal skewer.

As if he didn’t know everything about this fucking town was
simple
. In fact, it could just be called Simple Town, and maybe no one would feel the urge to constantly hammer the concept into the head of everyone who happened to pass through.

However, her breasts were anything but simple.

Damn it.

Don’t look down; don’t look down.
Anyway, he really didn’t need to. He knew she wore a brownish T-shirt that was not low-cut enough, a long skirt, and practical sandals.

And her body rocked the plain outfit.

He shook his head. “
I get it.
You can stop saying that now. And you think quiche is so fancy? It’s one of the first things you learn in cooking school.”

“Did I say I thought it was fancy?”

“No, but—”

“But what?” She had a wide, annoying mouth that quirked a lot, usually morphing into a smug grin. “You’re the one who keeps going on about quiche. Not me.”

He watched as she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Do you have some sort of egg fetish I should know about?” She nodded, trying to look dead serious, but he saw her eyes were twinkling. “Because we treat our chicken products with respect around here. Just so you know.”

Nick was rarely speechless, but now—now he just stared at this woman. This woman with her frizzy, kinky deep-brown hair, her clean face, and her freckles. Yes, freckles. She had them. Scattered all over her face, like he might sprinkle shaved chocolate across a meringue tart.

“Are you actually joking with me?”

She pulled back. “Yes. Why?”

“I’ve just never seen it. Your sense of humor, that is.”

She looked affronted. “I have a perfectly good sense of humor.”

“When you’re not telling me off with that temper of yours.”

“I do not have a temper.”

“Right. Of course you don’t. That’s why you threw an onion at me when I accidentally used heavy cream in the vegan mushroom soufflé.”

“Nick Avalon, I do not for one second think that was an accident! You’re smart enough to know exactly what ingredients you’re using!”

After flashing a scowl in his direction, she turned on one sandal and walked away. He watched her walk. If he were to think about it, he’d wonder if she had a nice ass under that long, full skirt. He’d think her waist was sweetly small beneath the orange tank top she wore tucked into that skirt. He’d think that belt made of rope she wore low on her hips accentuated the curve of her waist.

He’d think he’d like to twist his fingers into that obnoxiously out-of-control hair and tug until she gasped—

But he wasn’t going to think or wonder about any of that. He was going to think about the fact that he was here for one year. And in one year, he’d be back in Southern California where he belonged. Where his objective wasn’t satisfying a small community of people who preferred vegan brownies and tofu nut loaf over
gâteau chocolat
and foi gras
en tourrine
. He’d think about when he could return from exile, and when he could make real food again. Cuisine he’d spent years perfecting and that had helped him earn a reputation as one of the best in the business.